The Gate Traveler

Alfonsen Holerand Mirbit VII was deeply dissatisfied. It was unbecoming for a Mirbit prince to show emotions stronger than dissatisfaction, so he was merely dissatisfied, but profoundly, inexcusably so.

As tradition dictated, since his family established the Kingdom of Mirbit, every heir to the throne had to travel through the Gates to raise the level of the Gate Traveler Class and the sub-classes to a respectable height. At least his Profession, [Monarch (in training)], would eventually shed the humiliating parenthetical and rise in level when he ascended the throne.

His ancestors had shown impeccable sense. Each had dutifully selected the Mage sub-class and the Enchanter Profession, and in doing so left behind not only an ancient legacy but also detailed records of how to raise those classes and professions. The Mirbit royal archives were legendary, filled with scrolls of progress reports, accounts of Gate chains, and maps that charted the surest routes to advancement. They were meticulously curated, bound in leather, and arranged in gilded halls, a model of clarity and refinement. They were nothing like that appalling example of chaos misnamed the Traveler's Archive. Alfonsen had once deigned to open the Guidance Archive screen, only to be confronted with a disorderly heap of ramblings, gossip, and cryptic nonsense presented as knowledge. There was no organization, no refinement of any kind. Compared to the solemn grandeur of Mirbit's records, the Traveler's Archive was nothing short of an insult.

And yet, despite the luminous wisdom of tradition, he could not accept the short, laughable lifespan of 550–700 years. It was beneath him. Mages received a pitiful two points of Vitality, Enchanters none at all. To live such a fleeting life was nothing short of scandalous.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

So he, Alfonsen Holerand Mirbit VII, had undertaken the vulgar necessity of inquiry at the Adventurers Guild, lowering himself to pose questions among the common rabble. There, after far too much squabbling and misinformation, he had discovered a most pragmatic solution. The Heavy Warrior class—so brutish a title—granted four points to Vitality. Even better, the Alchemist profession, though smelling constantly of burned herbs, promised four more.

Acquiring the Heavy Warrior class was laughably easy, though exhausting to recount. He deigned to join a party, spent his precious ability point on a mana shield, purchased a mithril shield so large it might as well be a door, cleared an obscene number of dungeons, and even endured a Mana Aggregation Occurrence. The Alchemist profession was harder, but he had outlasted it, bribing an impoverished Alchemist until the man agreed to instruct him for money. Without, of course, the indignity of an apprentice contract.

But now he found himself trudging through a swamp. A swamp. His boots squelched with every step, each sucking sound an insult to his royal dignity. Mud covered his boots. Worse, mud had seeped inside, soaking his socks and clinging to his skin like a common peasant's burden. Worse still, insects hurled themselves at him as though the very air conspired to gnaw at princely flesh. The swamp reeked of rot and other foulness he preferred not to name. And worst of all, the denizens of this world were miserably small in stature, an endless parade of underwhelming figures.

Alfonsen Holerand Mirbit VII was, in every sense, deeply and profoundly dissatisfied.