Chương 1: Vol 1: 1. The Beginning

The world was broken. The boundary between worlds cracked—not slowly, not gradually, but snapped, like old glass struck by a sudden blow. In an instant. Without warning. Without any chance to prepare. And into our world poured everything humanity had only been able to guess at through its fairy tales, legends, and nightmares. And some things—things it could not even imagine in its wildest fantasies. Elves. Dwarves. Beings without names, without equivalents, without a place in human classification.

Along with them came dungeons—vast, living, breathing labyrinths filled with traps, monsters, treasures, and trials that froze the blood in one moment and made it boil with excitement the next. Every creature brought a gift with it. Every new world—knowledge. Human life became richer, brighter, more dangerous, and far more interesting. It felt as if a new era had begun for Earth. A golden age.

When the barrier between worlds cracked, it opened up possibilities, knowledge, wealth, and hope—everything one could ever dream of. And very quickly, organizations began to emerge around this new world, trying to take advantage of it. Guilds. Those who united people capable of descending into dungeons. Those who trained beginners, sent teams on missions, bought up loot, and organized expeditions into the most dangerous zones. Players. Those who are not afraid to seek adventure.

For whom the most dangerous dungeon is the best thing that can happen in life. Those for whom scars are just decoration, and death is nothing more than another line in a stats table. But first and foremost—they are people. Or inhabitants of other worlds. Those who once chose to earn their living in dungeons and never turned back.

"And here we are—the best guild for you, our beloved novice Players. If you have reached level one—that is, if you have become a Player—welcome to our Guild. We accept all newcomers, we do not judge you. And if you don't know how to climb the ladder and achieve new accomplishments, feats, and levels—we are happy to help in any way we can. Just dial the number you see on the screen, or visit the address…" The advertisement playing on the television ended.

The waiting room smelled of chlorine, stale air and something unmistakably institutional — that specific smell found only in hospitals, the kind that permanently seeps into your clothes if you sit there long enough. Fluorescent lamps on the ceiling hummed barely audibly, but monotonously — a steady, drawn-out sound that you only begin to notice when you desperately want it to stop.

One of the fixtures in the far corner blinked with lazy regularity — every few seconds, as if unable to decide whether to stay on or not. Nobody, it seemed, was in any hurry to fix it. Posters hung on the walls. Faded, with worn edges — about hygiene rules, about preventing Viral infection, about who to call at the first signs of symptoms. On one of them, someone's hand had long ago drawn little horns on one of the illustrated characters with a ballpoint pen. A small, old act of mischief.

Nobody had bothered to replace it. Plastic chairs lined the wall — grey, with worn upholstery, fastened together in long rows the way they are in airports and government offices. Several seats were taken. An older man in a coat dozed with his head drooped to his chest. A young woman with a child on her lap stared at her phone, mechanically stroking his back. The child was asleep.

They had all, it seemed, long since learned to ignore the humming lamps, the smell of chlorine, and the fact that time moved differently here — slower and thicker than outside. In the background — the familiar hospital noise. Muffled voices of doctors and patients from somewhere deep in the corridors. The distant clinking of medicine bottles. The squeak of wheelchair wheels. Someone's quick footsteps fading around a corner.

All of it merged into one continuous background hum, steady and featureless, like white noise. Watching the strange advertisement on the small old television mounted to the wall near the ceiling was a teenager. Sixteen, by the look of him, no more. He sat in the corner chair by the window and watched the screen with an expression of light, almost lazy scepticism — not angry, just tired.

The kind of tiredness that doesn't accumulate in a single day, but gradually, visit by visit, week by week, until it simply becomes the backdrop — as familiar as the hum of the lamps overhead. Red trainers. Black tracksuit bottoms. A white t-shirt, clean despite the late hour. A black zip-up hoodie hanging open — a purple brand logo on the back, half worn away from frequent washing. Dark hair slightly dishevelled — not intentionally, it had just ended up that way over the course of the day.

Faint shadows under the eyes, the kind that come from either sleeping poorly or thinking too much. Most likely both. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. When the advertisement ended and the screen switched to the news, the teenager quietly snorted to himself.

"Hah. Well, there you go. A cheap ad for a cheap guild. They didn't even bother to say its name." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"More than a hundred years have passed. The whole world changed — twice, if you're counting honestly. Dungeons, Players, guilds... And people are still exactly what they've always been. Same cheap tricks, same chasing after easy money. Can't say I'm surprised." He shifted his gaze to the window. Outside, the dusk was already thickening — the sky slowly turning from grey to deep blue, and the first street lamps had come on, casting dull yellow patches on the wet asphalt.

Lloyd watched this for a few seconds, then stared back up at the ceiling.

"A little longer — and I can go home." He didn't want to become a Player out of any calling. Not out of a thirst for adventure, and not out of any desire to save the world. It was simpler than that, and more honest: money. Dungeons paid well — very well, if you knew what you were doing and where you were going. Lloyd didn't yet know either. But he intended to find out. From the bright corridor appeared a woman — heavyset, around fifty, in a crumpled medical coat over a dark blouse.

She was walking toward Lloyd, flipping through a stack of papers as she went — quickly, habitually, with the manner of someone who does this several times a day and stopped noticing the procedure long ago. Glasses on a chain dangled at her chest and clinked softly with each step. The soles of her shoes squeaked faintly against the linoleum — steadily, in rhythm with her stride. Lloyd shifted his gaze to her. The nurse stopped in front of him, still rifling through the papers with a concentrated furrow in her brow.

A few seconds of silence — only the rustle of pages and the distant hospital hum. Then she let out a quiet sound — the particular kind that means "found it." — Mister Lloyd, here's yours. — She held out the sheet without lifting her eyes from the rest of the papers. — I think we won't be needing you anymore. Everything looks fine with you. You can rest easy. Lloyd took the paper. Scanned the lines — a standard form, standard marks, all clear. He already knew what it would say before he'd even taken the sheet.

He read it carefully anyway, all the way to the last line. Habit. Then he looked up at the nurse. — Sorry for only asking now. — His voice was level, without inflection — not rude, just tired. — But was it really necessary for me to come here this many times? I'm not the only person who came out of the Veil. But I'm clearly the most frequent visitor. I've been coming here for a year. The nurse frowned.

Not offended — more thoughtful, like someone who has been asked a question they know the answer to but can't quite find the right words for. — Yes, you're right. You're far from the only one who came out of the Veil. — She paused briefly, clearly weighing her phrasing. — But the situation that developed with your family... let's say it's rather unusual. It occurs extremely rarely. We were required to monitor you regularly — it's protocol, and in your case we couldn't deviate from it. Lloyd nodded silently.

He didn't say that he'd heard something similar a few months ago. And before that too. That "unusual situation" was putting it mildly. That "extremely rarely" in medical language meant roughly: nobody really knows what to do with this, and everyone is just following protocol and hoping it resolves itself. He didn't say any of it. There was no point. — But that's all in the past now, — the nurse continued, and something resembling genuine relief appeared in her voice. — No symptoms detected.

Your family can rest easy. She tucked the papers under her arm and turned to go, clearly intending to take her leave and attend to her many other duties. But halfway around she stopped sharply and slapped her side with her free hand. — Almost forgot. Your sister needs one more session. The last one. After that you're completely free. Lloyd nodded — briefly, calmly. — Of course. I'll let her know. The nurse nodded in return and headed back down the corridor, already absorbed in her papers again.

— Goodbye, Mister Lloyd. — Goodbye. Her footsteps faded around the corner. The squeak of her soles dissolved into the general hum of the hospital. Lloyd sat still for a few more seconds — looking at the form in his hands, then carefully folded it in half and tucked it into the inner pocket of his hoodie. He stood up. Stretched — his shoulders cracked softly, stiff from the long sit in the uncomfortable chair.

"Last session. Good." He didn't allow himself to think about it any longer than necessary. Just noted it — and let it go. Lloyd stepped out of the hospital. Outside it was already dusk — that brief grey strip between day and night, when the sky isn't quite dark yet but the street lamps have already switched on and cast long yellow patches across the asphalt. The air was fresh — slightly damp, with the faint smell of leaves and rain that had fallen somewhere nearby not long ago.

After the hospital chlorine, it felt almost like a luxury. Lloyd stopped on the steps. He raised his head and looked up at the sky. It was almost clear — only a few ragged clouds stretched from the west, lit from below by the last of the sunset. Somewhere between them a first star blinked. Or maybe a satellite — hard to tell from here. He breathed out slowly. A long, complete exhale — the way people breathe out when they've been holding something in all day and finally allow themselves to relax a little.

"Another day nearly done. Thank God." He came down the steps and set off along the road home. It was about twenty minutes' walk — he knew the route by heart, could have walked it with his eyes closed. Over the course of a year he'd memorised every crack in the pavement, every lamppost, every intersection. The city in the evening went about its life — indifferent, habitual, almost mechanical.

Somewhere in the distance above the rooftops, a faint bluish glow shimmered barely visibly — the remnant of some dungeon that had opened in the industrial district the week before. People said it had already been closed. People said a lot of things. Lloyd didn't follow it closely. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and listened to the quiet scuff of his red trainers against the wet asphalt. The world around him was vast, broken and completely uninterested in one particular sixteen-year-old boy.

Fair enough. The feeling was mutual.