The Gate Traveler

At night, I dreamed about the hellish dungeon again, and when I woke up, I facepalmed, a groan escaping my lips. I forgot to give Mahya the dungeon core. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t say anything. Unlike me, she didn’t have the annoying tendency to forget things related to my new reality.

Why hadn’t she said anything?

A faint noise from the suite’s living room caught my attention, and I glanced beside me. Rue was still sleeping, his nose twitching—probably dreaming about food.

I dressed quickly and went to investigate the noise. In the living room, I found a young man, no older than a teenager, mopping the floor. He was thin, with light brown hair that flopped over big blue eyes when he turned to look at me.

He bowed deeply. “Good morning, esteemed sir,” he greeted, his voice polite but slightly nervous.

“Good morning,” I replied, stifling a yawn.

“Would you like to go to breakfast at the café, or should I bring breakfast to your room?” he asked, his tone formal.

Of course, Rue heard the word “food” and yelled in my head, “Rue is awake! Breakfast!”

I laughed, the sound catching the young man’s attention. He looked at me strangely. I waved a hand dismissively. “My familiar woke up when he heard ‘food.’”

“Oh, yes, I understood you have a large familiar with you,” he said, nodding quickly. “Would you like to eat in the café or in the room?”

“I think in the room,” I decided, not in the mood to go out.

“Can I please see the size of your familiar to know how much food to bring him?” he asked, uncertainly glancing toward the bedroom door.

I chuckled and said, “If you’re wondering how much food to bring my familiar, the answer is always a lot. The more, the better.” I called out to Rue, “Come here, buddy.”

Rue padded out of the bedroom, and the young man took two instinctive steps back, his eyes widening.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, smiling slightly. “He’s very gentle and friendly. He just looks intimidating.”

“We should have changed your glamor from black to something else when we got to the city,” I telepathically told Rue, amused at the boy’s reaction.

“Rue like look dangerous,” Rue responded, his tone defiant.

“Yes, but right now, you also look scary. You like making friends, right?”

Rue nodded.

“Nobody will make friends with you like this. You look too threatening. Next time, we’ll change your color to something less intimidating,” I suggested.

Rue nodded, his head dipping slightly in agreement, while the young man cleared his throat nervously. “I’ll go take care of your breakfast and then finish cleaning the suite,” he said, backing away toward the door.

“Thank you,” I replied, offering him a nod of appreciation.

After twenty minutes, our butler returned with a cart full of food. He drove the cart to the balcony, arranged the dishes on the table for me, and placed a bowl on the floor for Rue. I got a plate of something similar to a frittata with vegetables and pieces of meat, and a plate of grainy porridge that reminded me of lentils in shape, but they were a pale beige. The porridge was full of pieces of fruit, and when I tasted it, I recognized the scaly fruit I had already tried and made smoothies from. Both dishes were delicious. Rue received an enormous bowl full of scrambled eggs, sausages, and large pieces of meat, almost the size of steaks.

I took out coins to pay, but our butler shook his head. “Breakfast is included in the suite price.”

“Thank you,” I told him, handing over a silver coin.

He looked at the coin with a puzzled expression, then looked back at me and asked, “What do you want me to buy for you?”

“Nothing, this is a tip for bringing us the food.”

“Tip?” he repeated, pronouncing the word hesitantly.

“Yes, it’s my way of showing appreciation for you taking care of us.”

Still bewildered, he looked at the coin again, then shrugged, pocketed it, bowed deeply, and said, “Thank you, generous sir.”

I didn’t check out the balcony the previous evening, but today, I discovered it. It was way bigger than it seemed from the ground looking up. Plants were everywhere, hanging down and lining the edges, making the wooden deck feel cozy. The view was something else—with those spires and their glowing rooftops against the horizon.

Two pleasant areas stood out to me. On the left side was a small setup with a round table and a couple of chairs, where the butler placed my breakfast. On the other side was a comfortable-looking bench with cushions tucked away in a corner surrounded by plants. The sun hit just right, casting everything in a warm light that didn’t feel too hot yet. It felt like a little secret hideout in the middle of the city.

After breakfast, we continued exploring the city. Yesterday, the guy took almost ten minutes to get us to the thirty-third floor, so I didn’t feel like waiting for the elevator again. I found the stairs, and we started going down. The stairs had no one around, so after we descended three floors, I told Rue, “Let’s turn invisible and fly down. If people are on the stairs, don’t become visible until they leave, okay?”

“Yes, boss!”

We flew down, and it was much faster and more efficient. On the ground level, we discovered two doors on the landing—one leading to the lobby, the other to something else—with many people moving in and out.

“Let’s fly up one floor and walk down,” I told Rue.

After we left the hotel, I headed north this time. Yesterday, we arrived from the south and saw that part of the city, at least partially. We kept walking and looking around, and I marveled at everything. I wanted to take out my camera and snap pictures, but I wasn’t sure how the people around me would react. We passed a few more squares where they sold all kinds of things—these were like small markets that each specialized in something.

When we passed a square where they sold vending carts with sales counters and canopies, I had an idea. I approached a person selling three carts that, according to the sign, were for selling flowers. Indeed, along the carts were planks with large round holes, each holding a metal bucket.

“Excuse me, sir. If I wanted to sell stalls here, would I need a license or to pay someone?” I asked as I glanced around the bustling square.

“Yes,” he replied, pointing to a table in the square’s corner that I hadn’t initially noticed. An obese man sat there, with two guards standing rigidly behind him. “That’s the representative of the crown. You have to pay him for a sales permit.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, giving him a nod and a polite smile.

I approached the table where the representative sat, his expression one of practiced boredom. “Good morning, sir,” I greeted, trying to sound as respectful as possible.

He looked at me with disdain, his lip curling slightly. “What do you want, merchant?” he asked, his tone dripping with condescension.

What’s up with these nobles? I wondered, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. Or the representatives of nobles. Why the disdain?

“I’m interested in selling stalls. How do I organize it?”

“You’re a merchant, and you don’t know?” he scoffed, looking at me like I was an idiot. “What kind of merchant are you?”

“I’m from Lotam, and we do things differently,” I explained, trying to stay patient. “I don’t want to make a mistake in an unfamiliar place, so I’m asking.”

“A license for a normal day costs ten silver,” he replied, his tone as dry as the desert. “For a Breath Day, it’s fifty silver. And you have to pay a tribute at the end of the day, which a mage will verify to ensure you’re honest. If you don’t want to pay tribute, it’s five gold for a normal day and ten gold for a Breath Day.”

At Ram-Son, I already learned that the tribute was 12 percent, and I had no intention of paying taxes in a fantasy world. I thanked him, and we continued on our way.

We stopped several times to taste interesting food and drinks as we continued exploring. In the afternoon, I felt a kind of tug from my diaphragm area. It wasn’t precisely a tug—more like a very gentle nudge, almost imperceptible, in a specific direction. Intrigued, I tuned in to the feeling and turned onto the street it seemed to come from. The sensation led me through several streets until we reached a large square with stages where artists were performing.

On the stage closest to the street we’d just come from, jugglers were tossing around sharp metal tools, some of them balancing on high poles and doing somersaults. Further along, I found a stage with several musicians and a couple dancing. It was a kind of ballroom dance, but it looked like a mix of Latin dances and rock ‘n’ roll with way more acrobatic elements. You could tell they had high stats—otherwise, the jumps they pulled off would’ve been impossible. I watched the entire show, clapping enthusiastically, and tossed some coins into the box where everyone else contributed.

We kept walking and eventually came across a stage where a young man and woman were setting up chairs while a crier announced an upcoming performance by Bards. I used Identify, and the man was a Bard level 12, the woman a Bard level 7.

This should be interesting.

Once they finished setting up and more people gathered around, they brought out a stringed instrument that reminded me of a mandolin or a bouzouki, but with ten strings. They started singing and activated the same ability I had—Harmonic Illusion—creating visual illusions to accompany the story they were telling. Unlike me, they didn’t sing songs but narrated a story in poetry, which they illustrated with illusions. It was an amazing performance.

The story was about a young farm boy who saves a noblewoman from an attack by pimms, and they fall in love. Her family disapproves, and they decide to run away together. They flee across the continent of Lumisor until they eventually sail to a distant land and start a family there. The man sang from the farm boy’s perspective, and the woman sang as the noblewoman, creating illusions from the narrator’s point of view each time. I watched, mouth open, just like the rest of the audience. There was a scene where the boy fought the pimms, another of them fleeing on the pig-horses they have here, while the guards—who looked like comical villains with angry expressions and scars on their faces—chased them. Then there was the scene on the sea, with a storm nearly drowning them... It was just amazing.

When the performance ended, the applause was thunderous, and a flood of coins found their way into their box. I couldn’t help myself and whistled as loud as I could, joining in the applause. Rue lifted his head and howled in appreciation. A few people jumped when he did it, but they quickly realized it was in good fun and calmed down.

I realized the tug I’d felt earlier was from my Creativity trait. This show opened up a new world for me. Songs were fine and all, but you could tell entire stories with music and illusions—it was like the cinema of fantasy worlds.

On the way back to the hotel, my mind was buzzing with ideas. My personal stories didn’t suit a Bard’s tale, but I thought children’s stories from Earth could make for an engaging Bard performance. I started humming and writing lyrics to the story of Little Red Riding Hood. I didn’t know the word for “hood” in Lumisian, so I changed it to a red cloak. By the time we returned to the hotel, I’d already built half the story in my head, including the melody, and was buzzing with excitement. I gave my Creativity trait a pat on the back for leading me to discover this new world.

In the evening, at the hotel, I wrapped up writing the lyrics and melody for the story of Red Riding Hood—or Red Cloak, as I had adjusted it—and I eagerly looked forward to performing it the next day. The next morning, after we left the hotel, I switched my class to Bard, and we headed back to the performing square.

I looked around and didn’t see a table with a representative. I shrugged. Apparently, there was no tax on performances.

I pulled out a chair and a guitar, then called out to announce a bard performance. As more and more people gathered—maybe twelve or fifteen—I started singing, playing, and activating my Harmonic Illusion ability. The story wasn’t long, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. But when I finished, the people around me clapped hesitantly, looking more confused than entertained.

I didn’t understand their reaction.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, looking around, hoping for an answer.

A woman with short, curly hair and a bright green shawl was the first to speak up. “Why is the cloak red?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“If she’s from Crystalholm, it should be colorful like the crystals. If she’s from Azureas, it should be blue. If she’s from Solaria, it should be yellow,” she explained, her expression as if I’d just made some grave cultural faux pas.

Huh? Are cloaks region-coded now?

“Okay...” I said slowly, trying to adapt. “Imagine it’s yellow.”

“So, she’s from Solaria?” she asked, tilting her head like this was the most crucial detail in the story.

“Uh, yes,” I answered, aware this was going downhill fast.

A tall man with a thick beard and a leather vest jumped in. “There are no wolves in Solaria. They have those dangerous big cats but no wolves,” he said, crossing his arms like he’d just caught me in a lie.

Great, now the wolves are a problem. Of course.

“Okay... so a big cat swallowed the grandmother,” I said, trying to keep up with this unexpected plot twist.

A middle-aged woman with a tired face shook her head. “Cats don’t swallow—they tear their prey to shreds. I’ve never heard of a healer who could fix someone eaten by a cat.”

Oh, come on! It’s a story, not a wildlife documentary!

“What were the classes of the hunters who caught the cat?” asked a younger man with short hair and a serious expression.

“The classes?” I echoed, hoping I’d misheard.

Most people nodded or said yes, their faces expectant.

“Uh, Hunter?” I said, pulling the most generic class name I could think of out of thin air.

“I’ve never heard of that class,” the middle-aged woman commented, her skepticism growing by the second.

The crowd started murmuring to each other, throwing me looks that ranged from pity to contempt, like I was some clueless outsider who’d just butchered their local legends.

Okay, it’s time to make a quick exit before someone asks if the cat has a magical backstory or something.

After the disastrous show, Rue and I wandered around the city. We stumbled upon a square that only sold fruit and vegetables. I bought out all their Raak and Flimo puree stock and grabbed all sorts of fruits and vegetables to experiment with. As we walked, my mind kept circling back to the failed performance. It seemed like the story of Little Red Riding Hood was just too far removed from their reality. I needed something that would resonate more with them. Eventually, I settled on the story of Cinderella. There was a royal family here, so a prince should be a safe bet, right?

I worked on the lyrics during the day and fine-tuned the melody on my guitar in the evening at the hotel. I was convinced this story would go over much better.

The next day, I set up a chair and my guitar again, announced a bard performance, and launched into the story of Cinderella. I was confident this would go better—royal family, a prince, a ball—what could possibly go wrong? But when I finished, the reactions were the same—confused and hesitant claps, with a few awkward glances exchanged in the crowd.

What’s the problem now?

A man with a thick mustache was the first to speak. “What is a fairy godmother?”

Oh boy, here we go again.

Another person, a woman with braided hair, added, “Yeah, and which god?”

“Fairy godmother is like a mage,” I explained, trying to sound confident even as I felt the performance slipping away.

“So why is she small? Was she cursed?” the mustache man pressed, squinting at me like I’d just told him the sky was green.

“No, that’s just how fairy godmothers are—they’re small,” I said, trying to keep my cool, but inside I panicked.

“If she’s a mage, why does she have insect wings? My sister and mother are mages, and they’d be offended to hear a story where mages have insect wings,” another man said, looking mildly outraged on behalf of all mages.

Great, I’m offending people now.

“You still haven’t answered which god,” the braided woman reminded me, as if we were discussing some critical theological debate.

Before I could even think of a response, another big woman, who looked like she could wrestle a bear, asked, “What’s a pumpkin? And besides, I work for a family of mages. Using magic to turn something so small into a big carriage is impossible. Where did the wood and metal for the carriage come from?”

“Pumpkin is a huge vegetable,” I said, holding my hands apart to show the size, hoping that would clarify things.

“How big?” she asked skeptically, eyeing my hands like I was exaggerating.

I demonstrated again, trying to convey the enormous size of a pumpkin.

“It can’t become a carriage. Where did the rest come from?” she pressed, clearly not buying it.

And now we’ve moved into the realm of magical engineering. Fantastic.

At this point, I felt like I needed a fairy godmother to get me out of this mess. The crowd started murmuring amongst themselves, throwing me looks that ranged from puzzled to downright pitying.

An older gentleman patted me on the back and said quietly, “You should work on your performance some more before you offer it.”

Yep, it’s time to get out of here before someone suggests a public execution for crimes against storytelling.

I returned to the hotel, not in the mood to keep exploring. I sat on the balcony with a cup of coffee, staring at the view while trying to think of a story that might work here.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs? Nah, they’ll probably think they’ve been cursed.

Puss in Boots? They’ll just argue that cats don’t wear shoes.

Hansel and Gretel? If there’s a witch in the audience, or someone who knows a witch, they will surely take offense.

I sighed helplessly. The alien perspective could be really annoying sometimes.

Then it hit me—I was the alien here.

So, if I’m the alien, what does that make them?

I sighed in defeat.

The undefined statuses’ perspective is really annoying at times.

At least my Harmonic Illusion progressed to level 3.

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At Least My Hotel Suite and Balcony Are Cool