“Come again?” Peregrine asked. He knew he’d heard The Morrigan correctly, but it was still a shock to his ears. A trial to decide whether or not he dies again? The Morrigan had come off as friendly, or at least neutral, but this was a special twist.

  A hand shot out from the dirt of a nearby grave. The skin was a grayish color and covered in scabs and sores. The fingers flexed and moved while the arm swayed.

  “What the shit?!” Peregrine’s hands shot up instinctively to protect his face.

  “The time is Nigh.” The Morrigan lifted off the ground and floated to the grave with the nightmarish arm pushing dirt away from itself. “Soon, a zombie will rise up and attack you. I will advise you on how to use the tools you will soon possess to defend yourself and defeat the threat. If you are victorious, I will know you are worthy of the class I am bestowing upon you. If you fail, then I must begin my search again.”

  This is completely diabolical, Peregrine thought. This being snatched me from a better existence to pit me against a real-life zombie?! He stood his ground before The Morrigan. “There’s no way I’m fighting to the death. I’m leaving.”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice. If you leave, I will find you and bring you back here. Or I will place you in another trial … one far worse than this.”

  The zombie’s head and shoulders were now visible. It was grotesque. Just like the arm, the head was covered in open sores and wounds that had yellow and green liquids seeping from them.

  How was Peregrine supposed to fight a zombie? With his fists? It would end with two zombies, one with bloody stumps for hands.

  As soon as the wonderful imagery filled his head, a wooden box appeared a few feet away from him. It was about the size of a foot locker, but was shaped like a pirate's treasure chest. A padlock kept the lid sealed tight.

  [Class Assignment]

  [Creative Level 1]

  You have officially been given a class. It's just like those video games you used to waste your entire day playing. But it paid off, because you are already familiar with classes in role playing games, and it operates in a similar fashion in the Irenic Realm. I am the System that will assist you.

  The words booming in his head caught him off guard. It would take some adjusting to get used to a random voice piping in whenever it wanted. This System was correct, he did know what classes were in RPGs. He was low level, as one would expect to be at the beginning, but level 1 was bottom of the barrel. Creative class sounded confusing, as he’d never seen it in any of the games he’d played before. He wondered if he could get any more info, so he focused his thoughts on the class. Seemingly reading his mind, the voice returned.

  Creative Class types are rare, and would be known as magic users back on Earth. People with this class ooze creativity from their pores. Their imaginations, and ability to create from nothing, allow them to tap into surrounding invisible resources to perform magical feats. In your case, these magic spells can be used as offensive and defensive skills. No wonder The Morrigan chose you! Be proud of her decision.

  Peregrine sensed that the System liked The Morrigan a little too much. One thing for sure was that he didn’t share the same sentiment toward the all powerful being. The information the System provided was at least useful in giving him an understanding of what to expect.

  How in the world do I use this magic?

  “Open the chest, Peregrine.” The Morrigan eyed him with a sense of urgency etched on her face. “Inside are tools for harnessing your creative abilities and casting them.”

  The System and The Morrigan had both told him that he was creative. And it was logical, given that he made up storylines and characters. He sometimes considered himself the type, depending on how good of a day he was having. Although, the “creating” he did was more of a burden, and a job, that had led him to a dead end in life—both figuratively and literally.

  Timidly, Peregrine walked toward the chest. The small amount of trust he had in The Morrigan was gone after the stunt she had just pulled. What would happen? Would there actually be something beneficial inside or, once opened, would he discover that the box had teeth as it bit his arms off? Either way, he didn’t have much choice but to do what he was told. So he did.

  When he touched the padlock, it shimmered and then disintegrated, the flakes disappearing into the grass below. He wasn't sure what to expect when he opened the lid. A golden light, perhaps. Maybe victorious music of some sort—fingers crossed it wasn’t sharp teeth. But none of those things happened. It was … lackluster. Inside, the chest was like a dark cave, which made him hesitant to blindly shove his hands in. He looked to The Morrigan, who gave him an approving nod in return. Taking a deep breath, he went for it.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  What did he pull out? Well, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. It was lightweight. There was a rectangular piece of wood with a notch dug out that ran down the length of the center. On each end of the wooden block was a faded leather strap, covered in sweat stains, and held in place by rusted rivets. The two straps each had a buckle for attaching like a belt. Peregrine brought the mystery item closer to his face to study it, and his nose crinkled at the musty stench. He quickly recoiled, and kept it at a distance, because he might hurl if he held it too close for too long.

  “Strap it to your arm,” The Morrigan said with an animated voice.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Peregrine mumbled. She wanted that nasty thing attached to his body? Now he knew he’d be barfing. But he did as told, fumbling with his non-dominant hand to push the pin through the hole on the straps. After the awkward struggle, he finally got the … bracer—or whatever the rank thing was—cinched tight to his forearm. Thankfully, the System was right on time again.

  [In Memoriam Acquired]

  This time, the System provided some information that hovered above the In Memoriam object on his arm.

  You are in possession of In Memoriam, a basic starting container that can house a single quill at a time. This tool is filled with the memories of those that came before. +1 is added to your casting power. No other attributes are associated with this beginner device. Attaches to your forearm, much like a bracer.

  “Ok,” Peregrine said. “I guess I know what this is. But why does it hold quills? And what is the purpose of needing a quill? Am I penning love letters? At this rate, I’m gonna have a ton more questions than answers.”

  The System made itself useful once more as Peregrine saw words floating inside the chest. He reached in with both hands, not worried about any potential dangers like he had before.

  In one hand, he held a bird quill. It was long and covered in white feathers, except for a spot near the end where they had been stripped away. The tip was cut at an angle and hollowed out, presumably to be used in conjunction with the item he held in his other hand, which was a small, glass bottle of yellow ink with a wooden cork jammed in the top.

  [Quill of Beginnings Acquired]

  You hold in your hand a quill that represents the start of a journey. Quills grant you the ability to cast creatives. These quills fit snug inside the notch of the wooden container on your arm. To cast a creative, you must first dip the quill in ink, and then insert the quill into the wooden container. The Quill of Beginnings is capable of casting four creatives from each dip. When the four spells have been exhausted, you will need to dip the quill into the ink again to cast more.

  [Holy Ink Acquired]

  You have a jar of ink. More specifically, a jar of Holy ink. Holy is best defined as goodness and light, and this ink is what results when those two are combined. It’s bright and yellow, and if you stare at it too long your eyes will get that funny feeling like when you did the same thing to the Sun as a kid. This ink is detrimental to enemies who are weak against Holy. A good example of this is zombies, the undead. Dip your quill in and give it a go. Or don’t, and join their ranks. This jar contains four quill dips before running dry.

  Snarkiness aside, the System was at least useful. It felt like The Morrigan was hanging him out to dry while this disembodied voice, and floating words, was genuinely assisting him. But now he had encountered his next problem—his hands were full with an ink jar and a quill. How was he supposed to pop the cork, dip the quill, shove the cork back on, and put the quill in the bracer? And where would he put the ink jar when he was done?

  Peregrine wondered if The Morrigan sensed his frustration with her. Then she drifted closer to him, blue waves emanating from her hand, and blasted him in the forehead like she had earlier. The force dropped him to one knee, but didn’t come with the same splitting headache this time. He managed to hold on to his materials.

  “I grant you another glimpse of The All.” The Morrigan’s feet touched the ground. “This sight is similar to what you call a menu back on Earth. You can access information about yourself, weapons, and enemies. You can also store your items and materials in the menu, pulling them out whenever needed. All you have to do is think it, and it will be done.”

  The words “Stats,” “Weapons,” “Creatives,” and “Inventory,” floated in Peregrine’s view. He stole a quick glance at the zombie that was now out up to its waist, pushing against the dirt with a lot of might, rising farther and farther with every effort. Exploring the menus would have to wait until … if he survived the fight. He shook the thought out of his head and turned his focus to the other task at hand.

  After using his teeth to pop the cork on the jar, he dipped the end of the quill in the ink, causing a momentary shimmering effect on both objects before the feathers on the quill turned from white to yellow. Then, using The Morrigan’s instructions, he thought about putting the jar into his inventory. The jar disappeared from his hand. As soon as it was gone, he mentally clicked on Inventory in his menu and saw the jar of Holy Ink in there, complete with cork.

  “Ok. That's cool,” Peregrine said. “How much storage space do I get? Is it by weight? Or number of items?”

  “Infinite,” The Morrigan responded, matter-of-factly.

  He felt the weirdness, the anxiety, the confusion melting away. This was familiar to him. It felt like home. He'd played the Final Fantasy series, the Personas, and Yakuza. Hell, he'd dabbled in so many RPGs he couldn't remember them all if he tried. But how many had he saw through until the end? He looked at the zombie, nearly out of its grave, and gulped. This was one RPG he needed to complete—because his life depended on it.

  The urgency overtook his comfort and he jammed the Quill of Beginnings into the slot on the In Memoriam. The clicking sound of snapping into place was satisfying. A strange energy coursed through his veins. He couldn't explain it, but it made him feel more powerful … and creative, if that made any sense.

  “Your weaponry is complete,” The Morrigan announced. “Now we find out if you are the one. Or if you die.”