Arthur Averell was dying.

  He had been dying for a while now. People almost expected him to want to die by now, but he held on. He couldn’t die—not yet. Art had a name that made people think he had always been rich, but those who truly knew him understood that he had been dirt poor most of his life. Born into an extremely poor family, he had been homeless, in debt, and destitute. In his early twenties, he worked relentlessly, doing everything in his power to change his circumstances. By the time he was 27, he had managed to amass a small fortune. Ready to live his life to the fullest— only to be diagnosed with cancer.

  He prayed to God. He cursed at God, at himself, and at the world as a whole. But the cancer kept spreading. Even though he no longer had to worry about medical costs, he never really got to enjoy his wealth. The only faint silver lining was that he had been able to set things up so his parents wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of their lives.

  “I will survive, Mom. You know I’m strong,” Arthur whispered a faint lie to his mother, who sat beside him, stifling tears.

  “I know you will, Arty.”

  “We are very proud of you, son. You were the best son we could have asked for. If something happens—”

  “Dear,” Mrs. Averell interrupted.

  “No, let me speak. If something happens, I want you to know that we are proud of you and we love you. We’ll take care of your plants”, he said with a forced smile, “ and most importantly, we’ll always remember you.”

  Arthur had tears in his eyes now. He chose not to say anything, knowing his voice would betray him, so he just nodded.

  The three remained in each other’s company, not speaking much. Every so often, Mrs. Averell would recall a memory of Arthur and recount it with a sobbing laugh echoing Arthur's own emotions.

  Soon, visitation time was over, and they reluctantly got up to leave. They bid their farewells and started to exit.

  “I love you too,” Arthur said just loudly enough from behind. Mr. Averell ran back to hug him once more before finally leaving.

  Arthur drifted off to sleep soon after. He didn’t wake up the next morning.

  After dreams and a swirl of memories he would have trouble describing if even he remembered everything, Arthur opened his eyes, feeling an odd sense of clarity. He looked around, wondering if he was suddenly lucid dreaming. Surrounding him was some kind of cult ritual—complete with a glowing diagram, strange gemstones, people in robes, and someone chanting ominously.

  “Am I dreaming about being Satan or a demon?”

  "Q???o???w???i???e??? ???v???p???i???a???s??? ???a???o???i???s???d???h??? ???a???p???i???h???d??? ???a???o???l???d???k???n???f??? ???h???a???f???s??? ???a???p???i???s???d???n???,*” said the person standing closest to the circle. He looked to be in his 30s, extremely handsome—or maybe beautiful? He had an androgynous feel but definitely leaned toward masculine. His attire was something straight out of The Lord of the Rings, reminding Arthur of a young Gandalf if he was even more interested in jewelry.

  “What language was that?”

  The chanting repeated. Whatever they were saying was the last thing Arthur heard before he blacked out. He still believed it was all a dream—what else could it be?

  The next time he woke up, he still felt good. Better than he had in a long time. Arthur wasn’t ready to open his eyes just yet. He woke up with an odd sense of clarity, an absence of the usual grogginess that accompanied waking up. So instead of moving, he decided to wait. To just breathe. To finally take a break from his fight. One way or another, it was over. He had to have died—he truly believed that.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  But something whispered in his mind that something was amiss. The last thing he saw before passing out—the cult, their strange language, sounding human yet feeling distinctly not human. That was how Arthur spent his first day awake in the Cronell Kingdom of Aarinth—pretending to sleep, thinking, and most importantly, resting.

  Hours passed. Unbeknownst to arthur, the sun set, and the twin moons rose.

  “Till when exactly are you going to pretend to sleep? Is this a cultural thing? Should I join you?”

  Arthur startled out of his near-meditative state. He looked around and saw the young Gandalf figure standing beside him. Arthur took in his appearance appreciatively—he might be straight, but he was confident enough to recognize when someone was a prime specimen.

  “Am I dead? Are you an angel? Or an actor, perhaps?” Arthur finally spoke.

  “Well, yes. You were dead. More accurately, you had died. No, I’m not an angel or an actor. Do you have humanoid angels in your world? Fascinating,” the man replied with rare sincerity.

  “What do you mean I was dead? Where even am I?”

  “Let’s take a walk”, the man replied and left the room without waiting.

  Arthur contemplated for a few moments, cautiously looking around the room. It was not the hospital room he was in, he kind of expected that, instead he was in some kind of old style dimly lit A stone-cell chamber. It didn’t look like a prison with the ornate chest of drawers, the plush if a little lumpy bed, and even some fruits he had never seen before set on the bedside table, yet the room had a feeling of opression without any natural lighting.

  He decided he wasn’t in any immediate harm and followed the man out.

  As they started walking through some precisely cut and polished stone tunnels the man finally gave some answers.

  “My name is Grenshaw Maladrith, Prime mage of cronell kingdom and head of the magic society. There’s really no easy way to say this, but you died. I’m sure if you try, you can remember your last moments. We, at the Magic Society of Cronell, have been conducting research on other worlds—planes of existence close enough to interact with. And you, my bag full of otherworldly knowledge and power, are the culmination of my personal efforts over the past five years. You did die, but with a magic ritual beyond the understanding of all but maybe half a drek of people—” (half a drek means eight, Arthur somehow knew this) “—we combined some of the most difficult magics of teleportation, transmutation, alchemy, and resurrection to summon a being—you—from a different world to this one, called Aarinth.”

  Arthur had stopped walking, stunned, just repeating the words Grenshaw had told him. Meanwhile, Grenshaw studied him like a rare subspecies of haliket. After contemplating for a while, Arthur finally spoke.

  “So, the multiverse theory is correct in some way. Never thought magic would also be real, but you live and learn, I suppose. Or die and learn.” Arthur let out a hollow laugh, to Grenshaw’s amazement. “But what happened to me? Why do I feel so good? I was dying from cancer forever, and now I feel like I just took the first breath of fresh air, like it's circulating through my whole body.”

  “Your body is new. In essence, it’s a body without a single scar or blemish—and, of course, no disease. Your mind may be older, but your body is barely a week old.” Grenshaw waved dismissively. “That’s not important. So your world knows about other realms? Interesting. And did you say magic isn’t real there?”

  “Yeah, magic isn’t something I’ve ever seen. I mean, aside from illusionists who use sleight of hand.”

  “Fascinating. I suppose I could at least learn how a world evolves without magic. Anyway, now that you’re awake, let me tell you one thing—you were dead, and I essentially brought you back. All I need in return is for you to tell me everything about your world. That part is not optional. You will be compensated fairly and given a place to live.”

  They came upon a gate that led to a small balcony. Arthur’s eyes went wide as he took in the view and the reality of the situation dawned on him, A city sprawled horizontally for kilometers, few towers sprinkled in between that would compete with the highest skyscrappers in new york. At the edge he could see a massive wall as if the whole city was a castle.

  “And if I don’t want to be your slave?” Arthur stared straight at grenshaw.

  “You know,” Grenshaw smirked and conjured a glowing symbol in his palm, “your body is filled with things that make it nearly impossible for you to do anything I don’t want you to. But I’m not a bad person, and neither are you a slave. As long as you don’t try something… brave, we’ll get along just fine.”

  With that, Grenshaw left, leaving Arthur with a jumble of emotions—scared, trapped, but most importantly, alive once more.