Alan fell, hard, though not as hard as he might have.

“Oww,” he said, getting one knee under him to push up.

The ground was carpeted with green plants, looking rather like clover. Still wincing at the pain from falling, he stood up and stared around. In line with just about every dimension travelling fantasy story he’d ever read or played, he’d been deposited in a forest clearing.

The graphics were incredible.

Too incredible.

One might in fact say, impossibly incredible.

Alan felt something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

Wonder.

And more than a little apprehension.

Suddenly, he heard a ping sound and a blue rectangular box appeared in his vision. He had just enough time to sigh in relief at this very obvious game-like occurrence before he read the prompt and doubt came roiling back in.

— Ping —

Welcome to the world of Rotten Gods, Alan of Earth. This is not a game. You have been brought here by a higher power — though to what end, you know not. Beware, traveller of realms. The Rotting World is not for the faint of heart. Death comes swiftly to the powerless, and you are less than prepared.

Alan read the prompt, then waited to see if anything else would happen. It didn’t, so he tried tapping the floating box. This caused the box to flash out of existence to be replaced by a new one. A result!

Even now, the old circuits were lighting up in his brain. The excitement of a new world. The need to explore how it worked. The desire to overcome titanic challenges.

— Ping —

This is your spawn point, oh weaver of deals. While the souls of most pass on in the sundering of a mortal shell, yours is bound to this plane of existence. But be warned, presenter of the points of power. Do not take immortality for granted. For their are fates in this world so much worse than death.

Alan raised his eyebrow at the last epithet. Was this thing, whatever it was, messing with him?

Regardless of it was or not, he couldn’t help agree with the warning. In a very real sense, whether he was in a game or not didn’t actually matter at this point. Pain was pain. He’d never been tortured and never particular wanted to find out what it might be like.

He could think of this like a survival situation. And in a survival situation, those who won wern’t those who wasted time hoping for rescue. They were those who pulled themselves up by their socks and got on with doing what needed to be done.

Alan was never one to be passive.

If he wanted to avoid getting totally recked, then he’d need to level up as quickly as possible.

And on the chance that this was all some kind of sick joke by the dude who’d come to him for investment, then he’d want to make sure he didn’t end up looking like a total fool. Indecently, if that was the case, then he’d also be sure to sue that fool to hell and back.

But right now that wasn’t important.

Alan felt another thrill shoot through him. It had been too long since he’d played in a proper fantasy setting. The corporate world was fine and all, but this… he breathed in the cool fresh air, smelling of damp moss and pine. This, was a feeling he’d forgotten.

He tapped on the floating box again, several times in succession.

—Ping!—

You are currently a level one enchanter.

All combat skills are locked.

You currently know zero enchantments.

—Ping!—

Craft skills can be levelled, either through working on items of an equivalent level to your own, through crafting quests, by participating in events of sufficiently impressive significance, or, occasionally, through other means.

—Ping!—

Rejoice, oh counter of coins, for you stand deep within the Cinnasub Forest, a vast line of wilderness sandwiched between two great powers.

To your south are the planes of the Kingdom of Taverbell.

To your north are the Imperial Mountains.

There are other places you could have been spawned, many far less salubrious than your current surroundings — and, indeed, many of your counterparts have been spawned so. Pray stay a while from counting coins, and seek instead, to count your blessings.

Alan frowned at the last comment.

Judgey, much?

He quickly reviewed the other messages. Of course, how could he forget what the suited man with the itchy trigger finger had said just before he’d been sucked into the last portal. All his combat skills were locked. That was a handicap, to be sure, but he’d just have to work around it. Any fantasy world worth its salt should have an abundance of hired muscle available. He’d just have to ‘count his coins’ quickly enough for it not to be an issue.

To do that, he’d have to level his craft skill. He assumed that enchanting would be like the various examples he’d encountered in games — taking items and making them more powerful through magic. He wouldn’t be able to level through actually working on items yet, seeing as he had neither items nor enchantments.

Being part of ‘sufficiently impressive events’ seemed unlikely at level one.

‘Other means’ was ambiguous as hell.

That just left craft quests. So, that was what he’d need to be on the lookout for.

And the best place to find such quests was likely to be in the nearest city.

And since he generally associated cities with planes and kingdoms, rather than mountain ranges, he’d want to head south.

Alan nodded to himself.

But before he headed off, there was one other little matter to deal with first. The critically important point of what to call himself.

He’d never used his real name in games before and even if he assumed that this wasn’t a game, he wasn’t about to start now. ‘Alan’ sounded a bit too boring for a fantasy world.

Having said that, he did like the epithet, ‘Weaver of Deals’, that the prompt had given him before.

He thought back to the many games he’d played over the years. He remembered one in particular that fit the spirit of what he was going for better than most.

He smiled. “From this point on,” he said out loud, “I shall be known as Mister Recette Tier, Weaver of Deals, Counter of Coins, Presenter of the Points of Power.”

Recette nodded to himself, fully satisfied. Now that that was out of the way, he could start his venture of economic conquest.

He turned in the direction the sun suggested south might be.

To find a bear blocking his path.

It was giant and mutated and covered in writhing tentacles.

The bear stood in an opening between the trees, blocking his way.

And the bear looked pissed.