I puffed up my collar, gazing through the mist and rain at the neon signs flashing against thick, old grey stone. The night sometimes shone with vibrant aura and color, though few dared roam the streets.

Real life resided where those neon signs clung—like calling cards to specific events. If you sought something, you looked upward at the sky or downward toward the ground for a sign revealing what you most desired.

I tried lighting a cigarette, but the damned thing kept going out in the rain. “As it would,” I thought.

I moved under an overhang, following a wide building adorned with ornate brickwork and an overwhelming display of flowers emerging from a shop built into the base of a short skyscraper. Finally, I coaxed my lighter into blazing and puffed on my cigarette, hoping to capture a moment of relaxation. That peace was short-lived. As I watched the dancing flame, several burly men began striding in my direction. With a flick, the lighter shut off, and a deep breath of smoke filled my lungs as I inhaled. I exhaled sharply, and at that moment, the burly men passed right by me, turning the corner I had just come from.

My heart thumped heavily, and the urge to grab the gun concealed in a holster under my jacket flared momentarily. I was glad I hadn’t acted on it.

After a second, I flicked away the ashes, watching them swirl on the wind. Casually, my eyes shifted past my shoulder toward the men walking down the alley behind me. The two burly figures halted on the street adjoining the alley on the opposite side of the building, but they recoiled almost as quickly as smoke dissipates—a burning body collapsed toward them, and I could have sworn it wore the same clothing as the old man I had seen earlier.

They cursed and gestured in strange patterns. Whether it was by command of the rain or the freezing of the air, the flames died out instantly—though they had already consumed nearly the entire body.

‘I truly hope that wasn’t the old man,’ I thought.

Lingering any longer could prove problematic, so I moved deeper into the city, weaving between narrow alleyways and winding corridors formed by the towering buildings.

______________________________________________________________________________________

“What else can be done? I didn’t know the guy… yet something still feels off, and I can’t quite put my finger on it,” I mused.

Rain dripped from my jacket into a drain beside a coat rack—a common feature in well-to-do apartments, installed long ago so residents could hang their wet clothes without soaking the floor.

“Hmm.” It wasn’t really a dilemma; I could simply drop the book and rid myself of its burden. Yet the old man’s words had left me curious. I was dying to know. “Fuck it—what do I have to lose?”

Setting aside the coffee mug and cigarette I held in one hand, I reached for the book on a small table to my left. I thought back over my life: the tribulations I’d endured, the endless search for answers in books and ancient tomes, and now, this strange volume.

It was unadorned and simple, yet I could tell it was older than anything I’d ever seen. I carefully flipped through page after page. “Is this written in some obscure language? And why is every page filled with runic drawings… strange.”

Hours passed without the answers one might expect from such a mysterious object. I waved my hand, and a thin mist gathered before me. Out of it, a frog appeared, landing gracefully on the table.

“What do you think?” I asked, amused. The frog ribbited in response—as if offering a shrug.

“You’re my best friend, the only companion I’ve had since I was a kid… should I take the risk? What do you think?” I pressed.

It ribbited its usual reply. I sighed deeply, picked up my cigarette, and turned away from the book to avoid, by some miracle, setting it aflame. I nudged the book away from the nearby ashtray. “Fuck!”

The frog on the table jerked back slightly before hopping forward to inspect the book. I noticed a trail of blood along its top edge—blood from a paper cut on my finger.

“What the hell was sharp enough to do that? Fuck, that hurt.” Paper cuts were the worst.

Leaving the table, I headed toward the small “kitchen” (a term I like to use to soften the reality). I retrieved a box from a cabinet and bandaged my hand. The frog continued to ribbit behind me, but I waved it off. “Hey… can’t you wait?”

“Ribbbbbitttt,” it called out again.

“Buddy, give me a…” I started, turning to look at it, then paused beside its perch.

“Did you eat it?” I asked rhetorically, knowing it couldn’t have—since it wasn’t anywhere to be found on the table. A wave of depression washed over me. “It must be one of two things: either it vanished into thin air through some magic I don’t understand, or the blood was all it needed to activate, and I’m an idiot. Let’s hope it’s the former, for both our sakes—especially yours.” I waved my hand, and the frog dissolved into a pool of mist before reappearing in my hand, leaping from a small cloud in the air.

“Come on… I need sleep. I’ve been up too long…”

Five feet to my left was a wall-mounted bed. I took two steps forward and collapsed onto its worn, sturdy frame, covered in a layer of blankets. Sleep came faster than I was used to.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Jaeger’s father was a merchant ranger—a person who traveled between cities over great distances to perform odd jobs and, most importantly, investigations with a touch of protection when needed. Rangers excelled with certain weapons, served as excellent scouts, and were capable solo hunters and fighters. Their work paid the bills when the groups they accompanied needed extra muscle, and it kept him fed for most of his life. His investigations provided valuable information, whether gathered from urban centers or from the creatures he encountered in the wilderness.

One cold night, he was drinking in a tavern in a small village surrounded by crop fields with his closest friends when he looked up from his glass and saw a beautiful woman scrubbing away at the counter. She had just replaced the daytime bartender and, of course, must also serve as the nighttime attendant.

Hours passed, and while his friends became inebriated and loud, he was captivated by her graceful presence. She was gorgeous, and though she noticed his lingering gaze with a teasing smirk, she also seemed both delighted and saddened by his silent, respectful admiration—perhaps even a bit shy.

Later that night, several men on the far side of the bar began harassing her. They goaded her to come over and offer herself to them, promising generous coin in return. She politely refused, but her firm tone and commanding presence quickly put the men at bay. Cursing, they left as the night grew late.

When the tavern closed, she departed, and so did the man and his comrades. She turned down an alley toward her home, while he headed in the opposite direction from where they were staying. Looking up, he noticed the same harassing men from earlier bumping into his friends. The group—already hammered—was about to protest when one of them quickly put a finger to their mouths. Their eyes silently asked, “You suddenly don’t feel like fighting anymore?” He merely gave them a silent glare and then nodded toward the men, who turned sharply into the alley the woman had taken.

Throughout the night, as he stole glances at her, none of his companions said a word. It was understood that life on the road made family life difficult, and an unspoken rule prevailed: don’t get too attached. Casual encounters were one thing, but seeing him—an inherently romantic soul—focusing on her was both unexpected and profound. They followed his silent cue, understanding that those men were after her.

Drunk? Yes.
Less capable due to inebriation? Absolutely not—they were astute fighters.

He nodded to his comrades and turned the corner. With a sideways glance, each let out a deep sigh.

The next morning, the man departed with a wave and a bouquet of flowers in hand. Some of his friends cursed, but everyone understood that when your time came, you might be caught off guard and choose to settle down after a long, hard life. “Fuck it,” they thought, “we can always visit!”

And the three men from that night? They were—some might say—buried somewhere.

Several years later, a son was born. The couple adored their child, but their happiness was abruptly shattered when the man’s old friends rushed back to the small village.

“Hoard.”

A phrase the man knew well; he had encountered many such occurrences during his travels. This time, as he looked around, only a few of his friends had returned to the village—the rest were deceased. The world beyond the cities boasted countless terrains: vast mountains, dungeon-like ruins, ancient cities, and crumbling towers. Countless wonders were mingled with danger, disease, monstrous creatures, and the undead.

However, the place they now inhabited was not one of those cities protected by divine mystic powers or scientifically bound magics. It was an auxiliary village—a settlement that offered no protection beyond that of its strongest men.

The man cursed, but still, the woman carefully packed their belongings and bundled their child as they fled in the opposite direction from which his comrades had entered the village. People scattered in every direction as night fell—a journey that seemed to have no end.

His friends perished, and in a desperate struggle against a branch of the hoard, he was bitten while protecting his wife and son.

They ran toward a city, but as he slowly succumbed and his vision blurred, he kissed her goodbye and turned back, drawing the hoard away to buy her time. He fought with nothing left to lose until, at the final moment, his body convulsed and he ignited something one of his old comrades had given him. A great explosion rocked the air, sending countless bodies away from his last stand.

She was barely a mile from the city when guards began pouring out. They fired past her and into the horde of zombies and creatures in pursuit. Believing herself safe, she tripped—a simple mistake that resulted in her being bitten by someone from the crowd. Crawling through carnage and a rain of metal, she managed to leave her son with a soldier who had stayed close enough to protect him. He knew she wouldn’t survive, and she silently accepted leaving her son in his care.

Not knowing how events had spiraled so out of control, she maintained her composure as she instructed the soldier about an old friend her husband had known long ago—a friend who should take her son to safety. She told him what to say, naming the group her husband had belonged to, his occupation, and the name she had chosen for their child.

Jaeger—or, in other words, the hunter, the sharpshooter. A name chosen alongside the songs of the village birds that had traveled from a distant sea.

Then, as she turned to gaze upon the place where her husband had once fought, a soldier solemnly shot her. Years later, Jaeger would come to learn that none of this was entirely true.

The city was ‘Abyss’, a new moniker after it was left without a soul outside its massive towering walls and structures. 23 years ago, a rogue wave had struck the city like an ocean tide and from then forth the name had been changed. The next several cities were hundreds of miles east or west, and the countless others beyond them were several or tens of thousands of miles away out dotting the landscape of the world.

In tow with its name change, no hands from nearby cities or families to reach their hands into the city, people with mystical ‘powers’ had come to the city or been there previously and made the city theirs. 

__________________________________________________________________

I woke from a dream in a cold sweat, clutching the blankets as one hand gripped them tightly while the other ran over my face and hair. I had this dream often—sometimes from different vantage points, sometimes in block colors. My parents’ faces were always vague and impossible to make out. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what they looked like, having seen them only once in the 23 years I’d been alive.

“Fuck.” With a small trot, spin, and drop, I leaned against the ‘kitchen’s’ counter and waited for the hot joe to brew.

Ding. Ding.

“Had a thought, and the coffee machine lost it again.”

Ding.

I hated when the coffee machine alarm went off more than it needed to, although at times it was handy when I wasn’t paying attention. Today, however, was not one of those days when I wanted to be distracted. I sipped my coffee lightly. “You will live another day…this is too good to kill you for.”

With another soft trot, I arrived at the “pricy view” from the floor I resided on. As always, rain fell; I cracked the window to let the fresh, damp air in and, with a deep breath, relaxed a bit more after the dream.

From a loose, stained board next to the window, I pulled out a letter and read its contents for the millionth time:

  “They’re alive, out there in the world. You’re safer not knowing where or whom.”

This letter had been given to me along with the questions on my 18th birthday—a letter that twisted nightmares into curious dreams. A weight was lifted, leaving only the questions of “where” and “why.” They hadn’t left me to a bad life. I didn’t know any different.

“Oh right… I might need some more of these.” I grabbed a small pack of smokes; on its cover was an image of a long plant with a curl at the end—“Vannilgirettes,” a vanilla-flavored cigarette I adored. I lit the last one in the box with reverence and sipped my joe while contemplating the coming day.

‘The book…’ Only now did I remember the small fiasco that had occurred yesterday.

With a wave of my hand, a mist appeared over the small table nearby, and Frog came forth with a plop.

“Ribbit.” He looked up at me expectantly, and I laughed simply at that innocent glimmer in his eye.

“Alright, buddy… uh… hmm… fly?” I waved my hands haphazardly, careful not to spill the coffee in one hand or burn myself with the other. Frog cocked his head, jerked a leg, and leapt off the table. I was amazed for a second before he fell through the air and landed on the ground with a dull, flat sound.

I walked over and set my coffee down before picking him up. “You don’t seem much different. Am I then? If the book was magical… or if it held some strange power, what was the point of giving it to me?” I placed him on the table next to my coffee to let him warm up, then slumped into the seat beside the table.

A frail old man not far from death wouldn’t need to lie—hell, even if he were perfectly well, he might still not be the type to lie. Sadly, most would, even if innocent; it was just how the city and its people were.

Either way, today was the day to report to the current client—a person searching for someone old with a peculiar item.

“Wait… fuck, how did I not put two and two together? Could it be the old man I met? No… things don’t happen like that, right?” Keeping the groan tucked away in my throat at such a cliché line being said I leaned forward to stand, and the chair came with me.

I looked down to find that the wooden armrests now bore new additions—shaped like hands. To my great surprise, as the gears turned in my head, I realized these wooden hands were attached to my own fleshy wrists. I yelped before quickly calming down.

Strange things happened—hell, I had seen countless strange things—and I was only a few chest hairs away from being a kid. Yet, this was happening to ME. I glanced over at Frog on the table; he was subtly inching forward. His head slid over the edge of the table, peered downward, then looked back at me, shaking his body as if to indicate something.

“I… what… oh…I have your power now?” I took a deep breath and urged the wood to recede, but it wouldn’t budge.

I slumped back into the chair, resigned to being trapped. This was harder to get out of than a pair of handcuffs, for sure.

“What’s different then?” I slouched further. Thankfully, the hand holding a cigarette was turned just enough for me to take a drag—god forbid I waste it. As I glanced at my right hand, I noticed that the wood from the chair’s armrest seemed to have merged with my flesh, and the once-bulky chair arms now appeared thinner.

“So it is equal parts… much like you,” I murmured, glancing at Frog. He seemed to be staring at my right hand, which held the cigarette. I blew some of the smoke out of my eyes and craned my head to inspect the side of my hand. There, on the back of my palm, was a strange symbol—almost like a jagged puzzle piece formed of wood, yet it didn’t match the natural grain or cut of the wood at all.

‘Huh.’

I focused on the symbol for a while, and slowly, the wooden appendage sank back into the arm of the chair.

“Clear mind… and contact… that’s what I know so far. It covers skin and becomes material like Frog. The chair arms looked thinner, so they need material and can’t create their own—an equal amount, I’m guessing?” I stood slowly to ensure I wouldn’t rip my ass cheeks off in case they’d turned to wood too, and, with relief, patted them to confirm they had not.

With a tug, I tossed Frog into my breast pocket and rushed to grab my jacket. “I can’t be late! Damn!” I bolted out the door, letting it lock itself with a click behind me.

My summon—my spirit—I had never quite pinned down what Frog was. He had the ability to absorb material and mimic its properties: elastic and black like rubber, heavy as metal, hot to the touch if he ingested coal. Nothing too crazy—not enough to make me useful to those intrigued by odd spiritualist types. I had been tested for magic, qi, and other vessel types someone could be born with, and it turned out I was a Spiritualist—a spirit vessel type. I could cultivate the soul or even summon something from it. With no one around to teach me, I had only ever had Frog—my buddy. And now, I had his power. What would I do with it? What did this mean? Was the book a spiritualist artifact?

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