A Gamer's Guide To Beating The Tutorial

The anger buzzing like a hive full of wasps in the air dissipates.

Goss almost looks despairing. “What’s so important about…? Types is everything! Your type determines why you became a dragon, and what keeps you as a dragon, and what can get you to ascend.” His brow furrows deeply. “Since kidnapping Father Moonlight didn’t let me ascend, I’ll assume I’m not a type seven, but…” He looks down at the table, eyes cast in a bit of shadow. “If I don’t know what type I am, how am I supposed to know how to ascend…?”

“Well, uh…” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “What’s the difference between types? Do all type sevens have flame breaths and type twos ice breaths, or is it the colors, or…?”

“Not quite,” Kempt says across the table. “There’s no physical way to tell, and the actual events that caused you to become a dragon don’t have anything to do with it, either. It’s a personal feeling.” He hesitates slightly before continuing. “However, I tend to agree with Father’s perspective, in that there aren’t nine types, but rather only a single—”

“That’s dumb,” Frey says as she chews on at least fifteen rats at once. “The parties have been using this system for like fifty years. Why would they design all of the parties after the types if it wasn’t correct?”

Kempt pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure. However, Father has been here for seventy years, so—”

“So that means he knows everything? Hah!” She pulls up her lips, giving a nice view of her sharp teeth. “If he hadn’t had the sacrament of absolution, he would’ve been served at the feast by now. That’s the only reason anyone bothers letting him hang around, at least. Faith? Devotion? Friendship? Ridiculous! Heck, even if he hadn’t been here, we could still do the killing rite just fine. Throw some dragon in there, stick that feathery whatchamacall it on them, and have them pummel the would-be mumbler to death!” Leaning in closer to Kempt, she gives him a front-row seat of the toothiest leer I’ve ever seen. “Maybe then we could even have goblins over for dinner, every single day.”

He seems completely unimpressed. “No, I think we’d better not serve goblins for dinner every day. I’d hate to see you starve.”

Frey’s eyes widen. “Why you…!”

Turning away from the bickering whelps, I give my attention to Goss. He doesn’t even seem slightly amused by the circumstances, which is worrying. “Hey, you alright?” I ask him, putting a hand to his foreleg. I look at the untouched pile of meat in front of him. “You’ve hardly touched your rats.”

He jerks back in surprise, head swivelling to face me. “H—huh? Oh! Sorry Kitty, I was just… Heh, um, all this talk about types got me a bit confused, that’s all.” He tries to smile but fails, the edges of his lips dipping into an uncertain frown. He falls into silence, but I can tell that he has things to say, so I keep quiet. After a couple of choked seconds, my efforts are paid off. “Thinking about when I turned into a dragon feels weird. I don’t remember hating much of anyone. When it happened, it just felt right, and I’ve never really questioned it. It still doesn’t feel wrong. In all honesty, it doesn’t feel like much of anything.” His eyes fall to the little pile of meat in front of him. “But I must have hated someone. Why else would I…?”

I pat him on the arm again. “You’ll get there,” I say as though I know anything. A small epiphany strikes me. “No, as a matter of fact… We’ll get there.”

He blinks at me. “Huh? What do you mean?”

I fight back the urge to cackle maniacally. “It’s quite simple, Goss. You said it yourself, right? We just need to figure out who you hate, and then we can use that to turn you into a four-winged dragon, and then…!”

“And then…” Goss says quietly, “You’ll go away.”

I ignore it. “So, how do we best figure out who you hate…?” Well, frankly, to know which type he is, we’ll kind of need to actually know which types there are. “Goss, about those parties you mentioned… Could you explain them a bit more?”

“Oh, uh…” Turning back to look at his pile of meat, he begins absently tracing lines using his claw. “Well, there are nine parties for all the nine types. You join the one that shares your type, so if I was a type seven, I’d join the religist party once I came of age. Right now, the biggest party is the socialist party, with… Fifteen or sixteen members, I think? I can’t remember who the leader is, but since they’re the biggest party, they have the most sway at the monthly conference.”

“The—the socialist party?” I ask, trying not to let the shock show on my face. “You have a socialist party?”

“Yeah,” Goss answers, completely missing my incredulousness. “There’s the socialist party, the deist party, the progressivist party, the naturalist party… One for every type, as I said. Oh, and the smallest party is the suicidalist party. It only has a single member, so Ymir is party leader by default. Ah, but Kempt will be joining in two months or so, so by that point…” His words trail off as his brow folds over his eyes. “No, wait, Ymir turns thirty-seven next month, which means that he’ll have his killing rite, so…” His brows squish together. “I guess that means that by the time Kempt joins the party, he’ll be alone. Weird. Strange to think that we’ll have a month or two without any type fives.” His thoughtful expression abruptly shifts into a jarring grin. “—Good riddance!”

Across the table, while still keeping Frey in a chokehold, Kempt quickly shouts, “Hey, I heard that!”

Ignoring him, I keep my mind running. Not just about the fact that there are socialist dragons, but rather because this makes our path forward fairly clear. “Alright. Got it. In that case, I think I know how to best figure out which type you are.” I smirk up at his confused, reptilian face. “We’re going to go interview a few politicians.”

If they’re even a fraction as corrupt as the real-life versions, this might be a bit mentally draining. But it’ll be worth it.

…No, wait, sorry, earth versions. Not sure where that came from…

Either way, during the few minutes it takes for Goss to finish eating his rats and such, I’m able to convince him to join me in questioning the political parties about why they are the type they are, why their type is the best, how they became dragons, etcetera, etcetera. He’s skeptical, of course, but since I’m the one asking, he goes along with it.

“So, first up… Type one?”

“No, it’ll probably be easier to do it in order of size,” I say from where he’s clutching me tight in his hand. “I doubt they’d all be collected in one place, right?”

“...Not quite, but kind of? I haven’t been to all of them, but they have their party locales.”

“Locales where they party?”

“Locales where party members gather,” Goss clarifies. “I haven’t been to all of them. Since I’m a whelp they should let me in alright, but I’m a bit worried about you…”

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “I’m too charming and witty to kill off.”

He chuckles. “Maybe so. But if they make any quick movements… I’ll try to protect you.”

“I can say the same for you,” I comment. Then, after a moment’s consideration, “But thanks.”

“No worries. Let’s see, the socialist party should be down here and to the right…”

We swoop down a few more completely dark tunnels, Goss flying as per the guidance of his whistling. Echolocation? Possibly. Since I don’t have anything of value to add, I allow myself to lean back and enjoy the ride a little. I’ve only been to an amusement park once, but it was pretty similar to this. The only difference would be that this is a smoother ride. Not to mention that considering the difference between the way I am now and the way I was when I was ten or something, this is probably safer. Hm. Now that I think about it, couldn’t I technically survive a rollercoaster crash by now? Remind me to test that hypothesis when the opportunity arises.

As I’m thinking about theme park accidents and my own mortality, Goss takes an abrupt right, goes up through a hole, climbs a stark tunnel wall, and eventually finds a big, fancy door. I can only barely see it in the darkness, but… Yeah. It’s a door. Like, an actual wooden door, big enough for several dragons to enter at once. While I’m still reeling from the existence of the stupidly ornate door, Goss walks up to it, bumping his short horns against the wood. After a few seconds, a slot opens. A massive, flaming eye peers down at us. “Who’s there?”

“Um, it’s Goss,” Goss says. “One of the whelps?”

The eye shifts from Goss down to me. “What is that creature in your hand?”

Goss lights up with pride. “Oh! This is actually my new friend, Kitty. He’s a human!” In the same vein as a child presenting their parents with a cool lizard, Goss holds me up to the slot, putting me mere meters away from the eye. Going by the eye’s size alone, the owner must be over twice as big as Goss.

To alleviate the tension a little, I give the eye a casual wave. It remains, staring at me, unblinking. Ah. This is awkward. I wonder if TRT would work if I applied it directly to the eyeball?

There’s a sound of locks and chains being undone, and while I’m still reeling a little, the door slides open. In its place stands a dragon, easily the size of an entire gymnasium, with horns large as trees, said horns being partially covered by lacy pink dresses. My sense of reality completely leaves me. The dragon as a whole is a vibrant shade of orange, with striking patterns in yellow and pink. The arms and legs, the lower parts which are usually not covered in feathers, are also covered up by torn and repurposed ball gowns. If I hadn’t been carried by Goss I would probably have collapsed with the sheer disillusion taking hold of me.

The dragon in question nods for us to enter, which Goss does, his head only barely reaching up to the level of the other dragon’s folded wings. Compared to Goss’ hand, I’m like an action toy, but if this dragon were to carry me, I’d be more in the size category of a tin soldier.

As we enter, the dragon closes and locks the door behind us, allowing my jaw to drop once more. The place we now find ourselves in is not only absolutely massive, but it is likewise stupidly fancy. The floor is covered in a ridiculous mish-mash of different carpets, some woven as finely as any tapestry, others more simple, but all of them spread out with the casual indifference of the wealthy. There has to be at least several hundred of them, if not thousands. The walls are similarly diverse, made up by an unfathomable array of paintings, the majority of them set in frames that could probably buy a normal person their entire pension. And that isn’t even to mention the various pieces of decorations, ranging from vases and armours and weapons to entire regalia outfits, artifacts and masterpieces worth more than entire castles lining the walls and ceiling in a casually grotesque show of indifferent wealth.

My eyes finally fall on the main sources of illumination, namely a pair of crystal candelabras hanging from the ceiling, the finely polished and tempered glass effortlessly refracting the light of the dragonhearts contained within to create stunning spectacles of light across the room.

What the hell is this place? More importantly, why are supposed socialists hoarding wealth?

“Hello, Hart!” Goss says chipperly as he bounds up to one of the five or so dragons in here. The dragon in question is currently discussing something with another, equally massive dragon. They don’t seem to mind his approach too much, though. As a matter of fact, the dragon Goss addressed seems almost delighted to see him, his aged face wrinkling up as he turns his massive, green body to face us. I’m unhappy to notice that he, too, has covered his arms and legs in dresses.

Hart gives us a smile that strikes me as more predatory than pleasant, his great head lowering until he’s level with Goss. “Why, if it isn’t the little religist-to-be!” He taps a claw to his chin, his tunnel-sized neck moving back and forth. “Mind telling me what a type seven is doing in here?” With only those little words, the air around us seems to take on a chill. His eyes turn to me, narrowing slightly as he takes in what I am. “And a human, too.” He leans in closer, until I can feel his breath against my face. As hot as fire. His eyes roll to Goss. “Religists aren’t welcome here, Goss. Or are you trying to make a statement?”

I can sense it. I don’t know if I’ve ever really felt it this clearly before, but the look in his eye… This man—no, this dragon is ready to kill. Even more than that, he’s willing. I can practically taste his eagerness in the air.

Goss, however, doesn’t seem to notice it in the least. “Oh, yeah, sorry, I changed my mind. I realized earlier today that I’m actually not a religist.” Smiling innocently, Goss looks up at Hart, eyes almost sparkling. “So it’s okay that I’m here, right?”

Hart’s wings shift where they lie folded across his back and he leans back, his face melting into an expression of slight amusement. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He grins, pacing a little before lying down properly. “About time, if you ask me. Religists… They are too narrow-minded. What use is there in blaming priests and churches when the real fault lies in this cold and unwelcoming society?” With a small pat on the floor, Hart invites Goss to lie down as well, which Goss does, letting me down as he does.

Man, these carpets are even more comfy than they looked. “Yes,” Hart says, continuing his monologue, “if only those shallow goblins had been more accepting of our kind, we would not have had to live secluded in mountains such as these, cooped up like caged beasts! What injustice, to deem us cruel merely because of how we chose to react to the cruelty of society.” He pauses briefly to look down at Goss, maybe to make sure he’s still listening. “Tell me, Goss. You came from a poor family, did you not?”

“Um,” Goss says, the question clearly taking him a bit aback. “Well, kind of, I guess? Dad was a farmer, mum kept the family… But it’s not like we were poor or anything. We could eat. Not as well as I do now, sure, but it wasn’t like that, you know?”

“Ah, the son of a poor farmer,” Hart says, shaking his head as though that’s the same as being the child of a worm. “It’s no wonder, really. I myself was the third son of an impoverished working family. Can you imagine it? Owning no more than three full outfits, barely enough food for everyone… Yes, indeed, anyone would do the same thing in our positions.”

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pull out the seam of a nearby carpet. “They didn’t, though.”

“Exactly. Economic strain is the cause for—” Hart almost bites his own tongue off. His head slowly turns to sneer down at me. Then, he looks at Goss. “...Excuse me, did your pet try to say something?” He catches his own mistake. “Oh, sorry, I meant to say snack.”

Goss, with wide-eyed naivety, shakes his head. “He’s my friend! Also, I think he said something like, ‘they didn’t, though.’ Is that true?”

Hart clicks his forked tongue. “I suppose so. Not everyone under economic hardship becomes our kind. However, how many of us come from working backgrounds? How many have been put down by the heartless society that failed to rear its weakest members?”

“No idea,” Goss says.

“No idea,” I parrot.

The fact that we both said it gives Hart some pause. “—Yes, exactly. We cannot know. However, I’m sure that you can find no fault in my argument.” I can, but I’m not going to mention it because he seems like the easily annoyed sort. “Now, to return to the tyranny of class society…”

By the time Hart finishes his speech, I’m completely certain that he’s off his rockers. He doesn’t have a shadow of a doubt in the theory that society as a whole is to blame for dragons existing. However, at the same time, he also seems weirdly proud of being a dragon. I don’t get it. Can’t he just accept that dragons are awesome and should be revered as the ultimate lifeform? Weird. He even recounts how he transformed into a dragon, and… I’m sorry, but it was totally his own fault. He covered it in a bunch of flowery words, but in the end, it can be summarized as a family squabble going out of control. He felt unseen in his family, purposeless and too sheltered not to fear going out into society, so when they finally got enough of him to throw him out into the streets, he lashed out. Burnt down the family home, killed his childhood sweetheart…

I can see why he’d blame the whole not-having-money thing, but in the end… Wasn’t it his own choice?

Once Hart finished his monologue, I grabbed Goss, pulled him to the side and told him my thoughts.

“...Yeah, I think so too,” Goss agrees. “But, I mean… Doesn’t he kind of have a point? A thief steals because he lacks. If society had been kinder to the poor, he wouldn’t have lacked.”

I roll my eyes at him, my voice taking on the tone of a preschool teacher, “Yeah, sure, but what about when the nobility steal from those poorer than them? Not to mention people who kill for no reason, or the people drunkenly fighting in bars.”

“Maybe so,” Goss admits. “At the very least, I don’t think I’m much of a socialist. All this economic stuff, and society… I wasn’t thinking about that in the slightest.”

“Good.” Nodding, I try to withhold my enthusiasm as I ask, “So, who’s next?”