"You're late," Marta's words echoed painfully.

  I squinted at her, the head chef of the Ram's Horn, trying to formulate a reply. The drums hammering my skull from Leo’s drunken birthday bash didn’t help.

  "At least I showed up?" was all I had.

  There was no anger in Marta’s stare. It just lingered, heavy and still, letting me know she expected better.

  Meanwhile, I was busy trying to limit sensory inputs, focusing on the worn white tiles of the kitchen instead of the smells of dinner. I put my stomach into a mental death grip to prevent a further escalation of how I'd spent the first half of my day.

  Marta was a master of her craft. Guilt bubbled as she continued to frown at me. I owed her. She’d been very patient over the last year with my fumbling attempts to become a real chef.

  "You're on dishwasher duty today. I can't afford anyone seeing you cooking and looking like this after last week."

  Wincing, I bobbed my head in agreement. Dishwasher duty was my least favorite role at the tavern, but the one I received the most.

  Last week, I was on onion duty for our signature caramelized onion soup, and I rubbed my eye. Cue bloodshot tears, snot, and a knife slip just as Marta walked in with a regional food critic. Suffice it to say, no one was pinning his review on the wall.

  Welcome to my life.

  "Yes, ma'am," I muttered, heading to the rear exit of the tavern. I rubbed the new skin on my left hand. A healing salve had taken care of the injury, even if my pride was still in tatters.

  "And Cole?" Marta's warm hand slapped against my shoulder, stopping me. "Drink and eat, it'll make you feel better." She put a mug that smelled of ginger and honey in one hand and a small bowl of cinnamon-spiced gruel in the other.

  And that's why I loved Marta—she cared. Sure, she could make you feel like an ant when you screwed up, but she was also the first to offer you a hand up.

  I took a sip of the warm beverage and almost gagged at the contrast between the sourness in my mouth and the soft bite of ginger.

  The dish station sat behind the tavern on a covered porch. It was always too hot or cold, but it was easier to heat the water out here, and the compost didn’t stink up the kitchen.

  One of the other kitchen assistants had already prepped the station. The sink was full of warm, sudsy water. A fresh dishcloth sat neatly folded, ready for action. Flies buzzed over the compost bin.

  Whoever'd gotten the station set up hadn't bothered to empty the bin. I didn't blame the poor sod who had covered for me. I was also irritated with myself.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried activating one of my meditation skills, [Monotonous Calm].

  Nothing happened. Damn hangover.

  I took another long sip of the ginger tea. At least I didn’t accidentally trigger my [Self Critic] skill.

  Before diving in, I drained my cup of tea. The ginger had already begun working on my stomach. The gruel still took an iron will to attempt to eat, even though I knew it’d be for the better. When Marta handed you food, it was generally worth eating.

  On the fourth spoonful, my headache receded enough to work. I still wasn’t feeling great, but I could function.

  Mica, one of the waiters, popped out with a stack of dishes. He gave a friendly head bob before ducking back into the tavern. The early dinner crowd was starting to finish their meals. If I didn’t start moving, the teetering pile of dishes would reach a catastrophic size.

  I threw the dishrag into the water, watching it defy expectation and float for a moment. Then, just like my life, it succumbed and slowly sank to the bottom of the sink.

  Leo had been the last of our little trio to get the quarter-mark of mediocrity. We'd had such dreams as kids. We were going to travel the world and slay monsters.

  I reached into the water, grabbing the rag and the first plate.

  Growing up, none of us imagined being stuck in Woodsten, relegated to scraping half-eaten congealed food off plates. The naivety of youth didn’t include a reality of broken builds, dungeon breaks, and a slowly eroding frontier.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The thought sparked a dim memory, a fleeting glimpse into yesterday’s celebratory day drinking.

  Leo was grinning like a fool as he swung his axe wildly, taking out imaginary enemies. Tandy's face, flushed with drink, egging him on. Her auburn hair was curly and unbraided, shining in the sunlight. I was elated, happy, floating on a sea of grog.

  I gripped the sink’s rim, the memory throwing me on the cusp of understanding. What had we done?

  My gut quivered. I dropped the plate I’d been scrubbing into the sink. My mind warred with itself, needing to know what we'd done but terrified of the hints my mind provided.

  I began walking through the day from the beginning. We started the celebration early, each securing a rare day off from work. Even Tandy had managed to wrangle it, which was no small feat considering her grandmother.

  It should have been joyous, but Leo was in a shitty mood. I’d been determined to cheer him up. At twenty-five, he still hadn’t gained a class, cementing his status as [Broken], a loser who couldn’t interface with the [System].

  Even the most optimistic stopped calling it a ‘phase’ at twenty-five. This wasn’t something that he was going to outgrow. We’d known for a while, but there was such finality to this birthday.

  This was all our lives now.

  I wasn’t much better. I’d failed at what? Three professions? Working for Marta wasn’t so much a career as a job. I never really picked up any useful skills, no matter what trade I tried.

  I was one major bill away from moving back in with my parents. If Tandy hadn’t gifted the healing salve to me at the winter solstice, I would have been short on rent when I cut my fingers on the onions.

  We’d toasted Tandy, the only theoretical success. Her braided hair had started the day tight and perfect, just like her family’s expectations. Tandy was never shy to complain, so when it was her turn to toast, she spoke to our collective misery.

  “To seventy-five more years of the lives we’ve all settled for.” The acidic words burned us all the more in her firm voice. Leo took the first of many long drafts of his grog.

  My mind returned to him grinning like an idiot, dancing around our campfire.

  What had we done to cause such a reversal in mood?

  It hit me. A flash of gray, dreary walls. The pimple-faced bureaucrat from the Guild who updated the Woodsten quest boards.

  It was the one building everyone avoided because it was full of vultures. The only reason Woodsten had an Adventurer’s Guild presence was its frontier outpost status. Sheep and trees made the town’s economy, not [Adventurer] loot. The cities that thrived on the frontier were along the major passes through the mountains, not in our forgotten backwater.

  Only one local group had bothered to join the [Adventurer] ranks. They took care of twisted wildlife and the occasional bandit that cropped up. Not much older than us, that group had been bred to be [Adventurers]. They had investment, mentors, and education. They’d learned the fighting arts, magic, and class strategies needed to be successful.

  Tandy called them Team Abs, and they were as pretentious as they sounded.

  The lot of an [Adventurer] might sound romantic, but for anyone untrained, it was a surefire way to die young.

  The hangover haze burned away with a single, horrible realization. I remembered the rough texture of the paper under my hand as my pen moved. The recruiter’s grin as my signature dried. Understanding sank through my chest like a lead weight, settling deep in my gut.

  Generally, I avoided looking at my stat sheet. It held nothing but disappointment for me, so I braced my psyche as I brought it up.

  To my horror, all my [Mundane] classes had been grayed out, and [Provisional Adventurer] had been granted. A [System Notification] alert hung in the corner of my vision, a spot that my insobriety had blurred out this morning.

  Mentally expanding the alert, my worst fears were realized.

  [Quest Granted: [Trial Dungeon]

  Congratulations on taking the first step to fight the Incursion. You have now been given the temporary class of [Provisional Adventurer] with all the inherent growth opportunities. Please note this is an interim designation as your worth is measured.

  [Mundane] classes and skills have been temporarily disabled as [Adventurer] baselines are calculating. Please move to the nearest [Trial Dungeon] or face consequences.

  You have been granted [3] attempts to pass the [Trial Dungeon], and your life will be forfeited upon failure. More details will be provided upon entering. Beginning levels are calculated based on your base attributes during your twenty-five-year tutorial.

  Adventure onward!]

  "Upon failure, your life will be forfeited?" I read the sentence out loud, the horror sinking in.

  It was widely believed that the [Trial Dungeon] experience was the [System’s] way of balancing out the rewards of the [Adventurer] class. For the unprepared, it was a death sentence dressed as a quest.

  I was going to die.

  I had no skills to survive a dungeon. I was a failed farmer turned failed blacksmith turned mediocre line chef. Had Leo talked me into this? My head throbbed as I tried to remember.

  An image floated to the surface: Three pens moving on three separate sets of paperwork. Relief hit first, at least I wasn’t alone. Then the guilt landed. We hadn’t signed up for a party. We’d signed our death warrants.

  All three of us were going to die.

  I stumbled over to the compost bin, my stomach in revolt.

  Looking down into the mess of vegetables, a much larger than average banana slug looked up at me, tentacles waving in welcome. Two tiny fangs clung to a small piece of lettuce.

  A [System Notification] alert pinged.

  [Congratulations - You have unlocked Richard, the Fanged Banana Slug, a [Rare] [Companion], a level [redacted] entity. His slime is eternal, his fangs decorative. 1/1 [Companion] Slots used. Adventure onward!]

  A dry voice sounded in my head.

  Good day, ahem, Cole. My name is—

  I bent over the bin and introduced myself, letting Richard know in explicit detail just what a hot mess I was.

  As first impressions go, I nailed it.