The next day was a bustle of boring activity. Aside from his morning routine, Eric was assaulted with constant culture lessons. Etiquette was also a central focus. It was both boring and stressful, because he had to keep hiding the knowledge he had already—acting like someone who hadn’t lived on Elyndor for fifteen years was hard. Changing second-nature and instinct was a monumental hurdle.

  Thankfully, his trainer did not seem to notice the occasional slips. Either that, or the man was taking mental notes and planned on using them to his own ends. Eric wasn’t too concerned about the man blackmailing him in any way that would be meaningful, though, so he didn’t give too much thought to that possibility.

  In the evening of the second day, the Summoned gathered in Peter’s room and Eric gave him the full run-down, just as they had with Shannon, under the shield of the Silence Node.

  After Eric had concluded, and Naomi had added her thoughts, Peter held his head in his hands. “What the fuck, man?” His voice was tense. “We just met you, and you’re dropping this bomb on us now?”

  “I’m sorry,” Eric replied. “I’m telling you the truth now because I want us to all be friends, working toward a common goal.” Eric put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, but pulled back as Peter recoiled. “Just . . . I’m sorry. You needed to know. We have to stick together now. It’s our only chance to keep the everyone alive.”

  I need us all to stick together, he added mentally. I can’t save the world on my own. I need you all . . . Don’t pull away like last time.

  Peter sighed and dragged his hands away from his face. He looked tired, ragged, and run-down. “I . . . I understand. I wish we could tell other people, though.”

  Shannon replied. “Eric talked about those factions. We don’t know who is in what faction. Letting people know what’s going on might cause things to escalate and speed up. It’s better to let criminals think they’re getting away with crimes undetected, because if they think you’re onto them, they get reckless and people get hurt.”

  Naomi whistled slightly. “You did say you worked with unsavory people, but damn, Shannon.”

  “What?” Shannon turned to Naomi and put her hands on her hips. “I worked for them doing regular-people work. Waiting tables, delivering packages, innocent stuff. But I saw a lot.”

  Peter chuckled and then sighed again. “Alright. Thanks for telling me.” He lay back on the bed and sighed. “Fuck me.”

  Shannon giggled. “I can go get Benson if you want.”

  Peter shot up and his eyes went wide in fear. “How’d—”

  Shannon sat on the bed next to him, kicking her legs back and forth excitedly. “It’s fine, quit stressing.” She put a hand on his knee and squeezed. “I had you figured out ever since we got dressed back in the castle.”

  “Technically it’s a citadel,” Naomi corrected.

  Peter’s face went red out of embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away, nor did he sound angry as he said, “I never . . . Hiding it back home was so hard. But they don’t care here.” He looked at Eric, and his voice took a harder edge. “You knew, didn’t you. That’s why you asked Seraphine what you did.”

  “From my last timeline?” Eric asked. “Yes. And I may have told Benson that you were into him as well. I’m hoping this keeps you from wanting to go dive-crazy like in the last timeline.”

  Peter grimaced, but nodded resolutely. “I . . . thanks, I guess. I’ll try not to go dive-crazy . . . No clue what that is, though.”

  “I hope you never find out,” Eric replied firmly.

  Shannon squeezed his knee. “You both make such a cute couple. The big, strong man and his little slip of a Butler—”

  “That’s enough of that,” Naomi said as she stood up from the chair she had been sitting on.

  Peter kept looking at Eric, seeming to realize something. “You were pulling the older-brother routine with Shannon, weren’t you?” He stood up and towered over him. “Was that part of your whole scheme?”

  Eric swallowed, and nodded. “I thought it was the best thing, given the circumstances at the time. Like I said already, Shannon is the person I know the least amongst all of us. I had to use what I was aware of.”

  Peter’s scowl could cut through stone. “That’s fucked. Why the fuck should we ever trust you—”

  Naomi sighed and rubbed her temples. “Come on, just . . . think logically, and lose the fucking emotions, alright? Put yourself in Eric’s situation. He’s the only person who knows about the end of the world, with intimate knowledge about his allies.” She stared at Peter, who was now looking at her. “Imagine you knew the events that are going to happen in the future, and what you could do to do to ensure the optimal outcome. Would you use that knowledge and manipulate people to ensure the best result? Of course you would!”

  “Not if it meant breaking my morals,” Peter countered.

  Naomi’s glare could pierce through metal. “Even if it doomed the world? If your morals caused the deaths of billions? Trillions?” She glanced at Eric. “I don’t know the world’s population.”

  “Neither do I, actually,” Eric replied. “But it’s well above hundreds of millions, since Trok alone has over that.”

  Peter’s mouth remained fixed in his scowl, but Shannon stood up and grabbed his arm. “Peter . . . I get it. Really, I do.” She looked past Peter and met Eric’s eyes, and that flare of resolve behind her gaze blazed to life: the same resolve Eric saw in survivors from war-torn battlefields. “We need to do what Naomi is asking if we don’t want the world to blow up.”

  Peter’s demeanor softened. “I . . .” He looked at Naomi, then back at Shannon. Finally, down at the ground. After a few seconds, he brought his gaze back up to meet Eric’s. “Promise me. Right here, right now. On God, or whatever fucking thing you value the most in life: no lying to us. No using our secrets to control us.”

  Eric answered without hesitation: “I swear it on the Ley Lines below, The Paths both within and without, and the creator wherever he may be.”

  Peter frowned. “Weird things to swear by.”

  Eric shrugged. “Guess I went native after living here so long.”

  Naomi let out a sigh of relief. “Now that all that drama is concluded for now, how is everyone’s culture training coming along?” She cast her gaze across the others.

  “Good,” Eric replied. “Keeping years of memorized behaviors from coming to the forefront is a bit of a challenge. But I’m managing.”

  Shannon nodded. “It’s weird, some of the ways they eat and do introductions. But it’s easy to pick up.”

  Peter’s spoke last. “I’m struggling with the weird dance we’ll be expected to do. But otherwise? Seems pretty straightforward.” He cracked a tiny smile. “I’m so used to playing a part, man, and just acting a certain way. I can fake things pretty well.” He sighed with relief. “But still, I don’t have to hide who I am anymore. Thank fuck. I can just be me.” The grin plastered across his face alleviated all tension in the room. “No more putting up the front that everyone expects. That was suffocating.”

  Naomi nodded. “Excellent. Now, Eric put together a target list of people we need to speak with . . .”

  The next few hours were spent in Peter’s room, planning while the Silence Node remained active, bathing the room in the black-and-white of Eric’s mana. Thankfully, the drain on his repository was hardly noticeable. They determined who would talk to whom, the main people they would strive to encounter and engage with. After that, they built out a lesser priority list of individuals to speak to if they had the extra time. The goal was to foster as many important connections as possible.

  “The old-blood families are of most importance,” Eric said. “We need to get them on our sides. I know that you all are you, and political marriage is something that you wouldn’t have imagined in your wildest dreams, but you need to seriously think on it. I won’t say you have to marry into these old-blood families, but it would be worthwhile.”

  Naomi nodded curtly at that, seeming to understand the necessity, but Peter paled a little, and Shannon covered her face in embarrassment. Peter broke the short silence and said, “Seriously?”

  Eric nodded. “Yes. Marriage amongst the political and noble elite moves quickly, within days or weeks at the most. We can push it off with the excuse that we’re from Earth and things don’t go as quickly there. Just give it some thought, okay?”

  Shannon nodded and peered over her hands, her face flush red. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Remember,” Eric added, “they all want something from us. The gifts they give are going to come freely, but they are meant to persuade us to work with, for, or alongside them. We can accept all the stuff they give us, but if we do not visit them and make a good-faith effort to meet their desires, they might plot against us. Summoned are always a threat to the status quo.”

  Peter nodded. With deathly seriousness, he said, “It’s like talking to all the college recruiters. They would take us to fancy restaurants, front-row seats to their games, and do giant campus tours. But if you didn’t select them, they were pissed and tried to undermine your deals with other colleges.”

  “Right,” Naomi said. “I’ve experienced it as well.” She looked at Shannon, as Peter turned to the True Stalker as well. “You haven’t had that type of experience, right?”

  Shannon shook her head, and her voice got a bit quieter as she said, “No . . . I wasn’t someone that everyone wanted.” She pulled her feet up onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her knees. “No one really wanted me.”

  Eric felt his heart break. He’d never known just how broken of a background Shannon had come from, or how shitty her situation had been back on Earth, but her words told him all he needed to know. He felt a kinship with her at that moment—a real one, not the affected big-brother one he’d put on. He was going to stand up and give her a hug, but Peter beat him to it.

  “It’s alright,” Peter said softly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder; she didn’t shy away from it like Eric was sure she would from him. “You’re going to be so important here. You got a near-perfect number for that whole Twilight Depths scorecard.”

  Shannon nodded and mumbled out, “Thanks.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Naomi looked at Eric and glanced at the door. He got the message and retrieved the Silence Node. He stopped fueling it with his mana, and the hue coating the room dispersed. After standing, he opened the door, walked out of the room with Naomi, who shut the door behind her.

  “Just give them a little time,” Naomi said.

  Eric shook his head as the two paced toward their rooms, though they stopped in the hallway a few steps later. “I can’t believe I never knew that about her.”

  “Just let Peter help her through it. They’ve got a connection.” She walked to Eric’s door and turned around in the door frame.

  Eric gestured for her to enter all the way and followed her in. Once inside, he poured himself a lukewarm cup of tea and took a sip before turning to face her. He then re-activated the Silence Node in his pocket, washing the room in black and white.

  “Ironically, you lost some trust points with both of them from using this information to get closer to them," Naomi added.

  Eric felt a twinge of regret at losing ground in what he was trying to build: an authentic connection. “I did what I had to do and thought was the best play. I’m happy with the outcomes. Peter’s got a connection to keep him grounded, Shannon has someone who cares about her to keep her around. The pieces are set on the board.”

  Naomi smirked. “You’re playing this like a game of chess?”

  “I’m winging it, to be honest—it’s an outline of a plan. I’m just hoping that my new friend can do what he said he would.”

  “Who is he?”

  “One of the best Mages of all time. Definitely of this era. Well, he hyped himself up as that, at least. Darius is level nine-hundred and fifty-three.”

  Naomi frowned. “I recently learned that asking someone about their level was frowned upon. Did you press him for that?”

  “He offered the knowledge freely in that other timeline. A retired hero, living out his life in a hole in the ground.” Eric chuckled and sipped the tea, savoring the hint of nutmeg at the end. “Anyways, he’s on the case.”

  “Gotcha.” She tapped her foot a few times then asked, “He must be powerful if he’s that high of level. What’s the average person’s level?”

  Eric chuckled. “Honestly? It really varies. Dungeon divers are as a rule much higher than the rest of the population, but they also kind of live their own lives. If you’re thinking of a traditional Pathfinder campaign, they’re the adventurers of the world. Sure, they interact with everyone else, but they live a high-risk, high-reward lifestyle. So I won’t count them in.”

  He took a sip of the tea and continued. “Now, average citizens: ten-year-olds are level one, and they generally get a few levels a year from doing activities related to their assigned Class. A good way to think about it is that every five years of life, a person will gain about twenty-five levels. The average end-life span is around one-hundred years old, so at the higher end, people will hit level four-hundred-fifty-one.”

  Naomi grinned. “So we’re going way faster.”

  “Like I said,” Eric replied, “high-risk, high-reward. Dungeon diving does that.”

  “Thanks for the information,” Naomi replied. “Well, goodnight. Big day soon.” She opened the door for a moment, and the black and white faded as the Silence Node’s effect was broken. She shut the door behind her.

  Eric finished his cup of tea, got changed, laid down, and began circulating his mana. Once his channels were undulating on their own, he quickly fell asleep.

  The next morning brought another iteration of Eric’s workout routine; freestyle-sprint swim, pushups to failure, sit-ups to failure, plank to failure, and repeat until he couldn’t anymore.

  This time, however, he noticed something slightly different. His mana channels were not nearly as tense—a significant physical sign that his mana reservoir was increasing. The nightly mana channeling and massage work was doing wonders.

  His muscles, on the other hand, were sore. He was improving in that department, but he knew physical development would take a lot longer for him. Mentally, he reasoned that it was partially because he was a Mage Class, so his mana capabilities were developing quickly in comparison to his body’s improvement.

  Peter, surprisingly enough, joined him toward the latter half of the morning at the hot-spring pool on the side of the manor. “Oh, man. You’re doing those push-ups all wrong. Here, let me show you.” He quickly corrected Eric’s form, and even showed him variations that left Eric shaking. “Now that I think about it, we need to get a full set of workout equipment.”

  Eric took a breather, gasping in air as water and sweat dripped off of him from his freestyle lap and then subsequent set of out of water push-ups. “You . . . enjoy this?”

  Peter nodded as he finished his set of push-ups with ease. “Oh yeah.” He let out a laugh and flexed his legs, then abs, striking a few poses. “This makes it all worth it. Don’t you agree?”

  “Nope . . . I’m just doing it . . . to get stronger.” He let out an exhausted chuckle. “I’ll admit . . . I am doing it . . . for the looks, too.”

  “Yeah, bro. This is totally worth it.”

  “Did you try . . . that mana exercise I mentioned?”

  “Yeah, that was easy.” Peter grinned. “I’ve always been in touch with my body. Finding the channels was no problem. It felt weird, though, and I don’t think I got them to move on their own like you said they would.”

  Eric saw a face in the window past Peter, and stared for a second before he made out that it was the Butler. “Looks like you have an admirer,” Eric commented, finally back to breathing normally.

  When Peter glanced over, the face quickly vanished from sight. “I’m used to being watched on the field. Cheerleaders all over me—you know how it is.” He stood up and stretched. “It hits differently here. I don’t have to worry about what people think about that part of me.” He held up his arm and flexed his bicep. “I do like people thinking I’m hot though. I’m a fucking stud.”

  Eric stood up, having recovered enough to keep going. “Want to race?” he asked, pointing at the warm-water pool. “I might suck at pushups, but I’m a great swimmer.”

  Peter’s reply was light-hearted. “Pfff. You won’t stand a chance. You’re on.”

  After a few quick laps, Eric was recovering while clinging to the side of the pool. Peter was standing with his arms behind his head, getting his breathing back to normal. He looked down at Eric. “I forgive you, by the way, for acting how you were acting toward Shannon, and not telling us from the get-go. It just took a bit to process the fact that, you know, you’re you from there.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said. “I was hoping you’d come around after thinking on it.”

  “You better keep your promise.” Peter’s voice had a hard edge to it. “Especially with Shannon.”

  “I intend to.”

  The rest of the day passed with even more culture training, but after dinner they did not have free time. Instead, Benson instructed them all to wait in their rooms. He and his sister showed the Summoned how to put on their outfits for the soirée, and explained each piece including how it would restrict movement. Thankfully, that had been covered in the cultural training, and the movements of the nobility took the restrictions into account.

  Peter offered to go last among the boys, and Eric was fine with that. At the moment, Benson was instructing Eric on how to properly put on the complicated garments that had far too many buttons and odd bits of fabric that looped in an entirely unintuitive fashion. The best comparison Eric was able to come up with was that he was some French noble in the Renaissance.

  It also made going to the bathroom a bitch, because of the layers that would need to be dealt with.

  Thankfully, there were some changes from Class-type to type. Class identity was paramount on Elyndor, and the clothes people wore reflected that. Fashion was not just part of how one wanted to dress; it was a means of rapid identification as to who could do what in a general sense. Eric, as a Reaper, would be expected to wear lighter garments with more mobility and a general ominous flair than someone like Peter as a Vanguard, who would have heavier, stiffer clothing to resemble armor.

  “Do you like being a Butler?” Eric asked, wanting to get to know Benson a bit more than the last timeline. He was aware that the man was a spy for the Spymaster, and trying to engage in some conversation beyond polite words might help him learn more about the effeminate individual. He could then feed what he wanted to feed to the intelligence-gathering wing of the kingdom.

  “Oh, yes. It’s very fulfilling.” Benson finished folding back one of the sashes and wrapped it around Eric’s waist, his deft hands moving with precise elegance. “It was not my first Class, though.”

  “Your sister mentioned that you had a rougher upbringing. Do you want to talk about it?” Eric asked.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Benson replied. “I offered the first ten years of my life in service of the king’s court, in exchange for Class retraining. I’ve always wanted to help people, but I’m not cut out for violent, bloody affairs. This fits me perfectly.”

  “Ah, a trash Class to start with. My condolences.”

  Trash Classes were those that did not have much room for making a living, such as Street-Sweeper or Gravedigger. People still did those jobs, but they did not always have the Class that lined up with the task. In kingdoms like Trok, certain Classes were by default in a different social strata, designated as ‘trash.’

  Hence, the military and service training programs to help people re-Class.

  Benson mumbled, “Indeed. A darker time of my life I do not want to dwell on, if you don’t mind.”

  “Understood. I won’t pry. How about your sister? Is Mari happy being a Maid?”

  “Just as happy as I am as a Butler. Fortunately, we get to work together. I think that's important, especially after our mother died of the pox and our father drank himself into an early grave.”

  Eric felt a pang of sympathy for the man, as his mom back on Earth had died to cancer. It was one of the reasons he wanted to pursue medicine before coming to Elyndor. “Once more, my condolences.”

  Benson shrugged. “It is life. People live, people die. I am doing what I love, and god willing, I’ll have a nice retirement fund.”

  “You’re religious?”

  “A bit. I worship the creator, but only a few days each season. Life keeps me busy. I don’t have one of those Classes that obtains numerous milestones from religious activities.”

  Eric vividly recalled the Classes Benson was referring to: a common Warden Class was known as a Cleric, and a common Vanguard was the War Priest. Both were prominent in Flescion, given that realm’s strong religious identity; merely worshipping could give them levels, so a devout culture had arisen that venerated their version of the creator, which was a female form of the deity supposedly responsible for Elyndor’s forming.

  Well, Indedroma confirmed that the creator does exist, Eric thought, since she mentioned he had visited three-thousand years go to impose restrictions upon her.

  “I can understand that,” Eric replied. “I only get stronger by burning things, I think. Not sure if that applies to only the living, or if it can be inanimate as well.”

  And there’s the first little bit of intelligence you can take away to your handlers.

  Benson pulled away and instructed Eric to turn around by twirling his fingers. “Looks good.” Eric finished his spin and Benson crossed his arms. “You asked about my sister. You wouldn’t happen to be . . . romantically interested in her, would you?”

  Eric shook his head.

  “Ah, True Stalker Murphy, then?”

  “No,” Eric replied. “Shannon is an ally, and I do not want to muddy the waters with romance. Seraphine informed me that there are going to be many eligible bachelorettes at the soirée. Many from what she called ‘old blood’ families. I believe that I would be best off pursuing matches among them.” He cast a sidelong glance, and saw a look of relief flick across Benson’s face. “No offense to your sister or you intended.”

  “None taken,” Benson replied, that relief echoed in his tone.

  Eric looked at himself in the full-length mirror, admiring and hating his attire at the same time. It was gorgeous and elegant but also far more restrictive than what he was used to. “I think this looks good. But can we make a little adjustment here?” Eric held up the sleeves, which were just a bit longer than his fingertips. “I don’t like the idea of having to constantly move these out of the way.”

  “Are you sure? That is the look right now.”

  “I am sure.”

  “Yes. I can make that alteration myself.”

  “Tomorrow,” Eric replied, waving him off. “I’ll take it off when I’m ready. Thanks. You may go. I’m sure Peter is absolutely at his wits-end waiting for you to come see him.”

  The Butler cracked a grin, bowed, and left the room with more haste than duty demanded.

  Eric turned in place, looking at himself in the mirror. He was wearing clothes that would make some of the richest nobles jealous. Seraphine had gone all-out, and probably at significant personal expense. He spotted actual spun-gold threads, and the black that went along with the gold echoed back to his first timeline, where he had been clad in white and gold.

  He decided the black looked better on him.

  It’s almost time to put the plans into motion. Connections, free money, Components, gear, and Body Enhancements . . . everything I need for success going forward.

  Eric chuckled. And practiced a few moves to the traditional waltz he knew would be expected of him in the opening moments of festivities. He envisioned dancing with a partner, imagining the outline of a female form as he whisked across the room in phantom footsteps.

  This timeline I have many more options, he thought. I am going to court many fine young ladies, and hopefully one catches my fancy. It would be nice to find a partner who I actually fall for, now that I know what that authentic connection feels like.

  There was a lingering trace of regret as he thought that, but he pushed it aside.

  I can't put all my chips on Luciana falling for me in two seasons' time. If there is someone who I fall for, then I should court them appropriately. I’ll ensure to elongate the courtship to actually make sure that it is something real.

  Eric didn’t just want a political marriage. He wanted—no, he felt that if he was going to save the kingdom, and then the world, he deserved to have a partner that he actually loved, cared for, and who cared equally for him. He knew what love felt like thanks to Luciana in the now-extinct future timeline, and thanks to the Admiral’s manipulations, he knew what false romance and lust felt like, and how to differentiate all of those different emotions.

  He continued his imaginary-partner practice-dance, as the next day they would be performing the exact same waltz as one of the first events, and after a few more steps to get used to the movements in the more restrictive outfit, he stopped, disrobed, and got under the covers.

  Tomorrow, we shall see what decisions I make, and how that changes the timeline.