The tombs were the same. But not the same. She walked past rows of them, down the center aisle. But they told a story. If you stopped, as she did, to check them—they told a story.

“Iscle Ladel, parents unknown. Descendants unknown. Died as he lived, in disgrace. A [Thief]. Let death abate his sins. [Thief], Level Unknown.”

She read dully from one lid. Not only the good were buried here. And someone had given this man a mercy. So—[Thief] was a class too.

It made sense. Her iPhone was at 46%, despite her best efforts. But she had read from countless tombs.

And if her throat was parched—she had learned something.

[Farmer]. [Baker]. [Butcher]. And yes—the candlestick-maker. He was called a [Chandler]. But there were other—classes. [Warrior]. [Scout]. [Mage]. [Ruffian]. [Gravetender]. [Carer]—perhaps a nanny?

And…rarely—more unique names.

[Death Warrior]. [Necromancer]. [Lightkeeper].

These…professions described the life the person had led. The levels were seldom above 20; she had only seen two that reached above Level 30. But people had one, or two, or even three classes.

“[Farmer]. What does it mean?”

It meant…well, it sounded like a game. Not one that she had ever played. But a game nonetheless. Who would write the names with such sincerity if it didn’t matter? Now she wished she’d played more such games. This was not an app game on your phone. This was…

Her hair stirred in the darkness. The young woman’s plodding pace slowed further. Her mouth was dry.

Her body heavy.

She was so thirsty. The fear and panic of her situation had turned into the primal, urgent need for sustenance. She couldn’t even be afraid.

No—that wasn’t right. She was terrified she might die here. The young woman panted as she sat on a tomb, past caring for the deads’ wishes. They wouldn’t begrudge her for a rest. Not when she might soon join them.

“But who’ll bury me? Who made this place?”

Something was…apparent. Dust lay on the ground. Not much; the stone had little to give. But dust still lay there. And the intruder had a terrible suspicion.

“I’m going the wrong way.”

She coughed. The dust was heavier, here. Undisturbed—the two times she’d turned on her light. That meant—she was walking deeper into the tomb.

Imagine it. Someone building this place. They’d leave the older parts undisturbed except to maybe maintain it. Yet the dust indicated no one had set foot in this place for a long time. And if it was growing thicker…it meant she was going the wrong way.

But…had she been going the wrong way for nine hours? A light covering of dust lay on the floor. And her footprints were the only ones, heading one way.

She knelt, then. On the floor. She just sat down and screamed, though it was only a whisper in her exhaustion.

“What is happening?”