New York.
JFK Airport.
Levi stepped off the plane with everything he owned on his back, heading straight to his distant uncle’s place.
That heavy feeling in his chest still sat there, but a little spark of excitement flickered underneath it all.
His parents had mentioned this half-brother plenty of times.
Guy used to be a screw-up—blew through money like it was nothing—but later claimed he’d made some and even invited the whole family over.
Dad always said no.
Levi had never met the man.
Just heard the stories.
Now both parents were gone, killed in a car crash, and seventeen-year-old Levi was drowning in debt.
Staying in China meant becoming a deadbeat forever.
He wasn’t built for that life.
Thanks to some international agreement, the right people had put him in touch with this uncle in the States.
Don Quixote Cervantes.
Levi turned the name over in his head while dragging two heavy suitcases.
Sounded like something out of an old book.
His phone rang—the cheap one the ministry lady had set him up with before he left.
“I’m Don Quixote Cervantes,” a raspy, rushed voice said over the clicking turn signal.
“Listen, I’m not pulling into that goddamn parking garage.
Those vampires charge four bucks an hour.
Where the hell are you?”
Levi’s English was good—close enough to native from years of movies and music—so he caught every word without trouble.
Did this guy actually have any real money?
Levi wondered.
Why panic over four dollars an hour?
“I’m Levi,” he answered.
“Just got through customs.”
“Terminal 4, Zone B, Door 2.
Call me when you’re five minutes out,” the uncle snapped.
“Don’t call early.
I can’t sit there.
Cops are already eyeballing me.”
The line went dead.
Levi stood frozen for a second, seriously considering whether he should just buy a ticket home with his credit app.
Ten minutes later a beat-up white Toyota—now more rust than paint—swerved to the curb and nearly took out a yellow cab.
Levi finally recognized it through the dirt and side skirts.
The window dropped.
A gaunt face stared out—sharp cheekbones, patchy beard, heavy bags under bloodshot eyes.
“Get in!” the man barked, eyes darting like he was dodging invisible cops.
“Move it, kid.
Quit screwing around.”
Levi muscled both suitcases into the trunk full of dust and empty paint cans, yanked open the passenger door, and climbed inside.
A paint-stained reflective vest and half-empty Gatorade bottle sat on the seat.
He shoved them into the back with a grimace and buckled in.
Don Quixote stomped the gas.
The old Toyota groaned like it was dying and shuddered into traffic.
“Buckle up,” he said without looking over.
“Passenger door lock’s shot.
It’ll pop open on a turn.”
Levi grabbed the handle above the window and held on.
“Levi, right?” Don Quixote said.
“Listen, I’m sorry about your dad—my half-brother—and your mom.
He was sharp.
Died in some stupid wreck.
Heard you got left holding a big debt.
That why you ran here?”
“I’ll pay it back.
It’s not your problem,” Levi said, jaw tight.
“My business.
Once I’m eighteen I’ll get a job and handle it.”
This was the uncle who supposedly “made a little money”?
“When your old man dumped you on me, there wasn’t any million-dollar check attached,” Don Quixote snorted.
“New York ain’t like back home.
Money buys everything here—and everything costs money.
So how much you actually got?”
“About six hundred in the account,” Levi said.
“Everything else is clothes and basics.”
He had another card with six thousand hidden.
No way he was mentioning that.
Six hundred wouldn’t touch the debt back home, but right now it was the only thing standing between him and sleeping on the street.
Even six hundred made the uncle’s eyebrows jump.
“Six hundred?
Ha!” He slapped the steering wheel.
“Well, at least that covers gas and what I lost today.
Welcome to America, kid.”
Don Quixote talked the whole ride, spilling his life like it was a bad stand-up routine.
Made some money in business once.
Married a woman who turned out to be “pure-grade bitch—women’ll drain you dry if you let them.” Divorce wrecked him.
He borrowed from the wrong people at loan-shark rates while paying her two grand a month in alimony.
“Fucking American law lets a pig sit on her ass and still cash two grand every month.
Ten years ago I might’ve sold my own ass just to break even.”
“Now I work two jobs to stay alive,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“Days hauling bricks on construction.
Nights washing dishes in the back of a Spanish place.
That’s America.
You want to eat, you hustle.”
They stopped in front of a gray concrete building that looked like it had been left out in the rain too long.
“This your place?” Levi asked.
“Nah.
This is ACS,” Don Quixote said.
“Children’s Services.
For me, this is the promised land.”
He whipped the Toyota into an official-only spot and slapped a fake disabled placard on the dash.
Levi stared.
“You disabled?”
“What?” Don Quixote grinned, proud of the scam.
“Course not.”
“Listen, kid,” he said, killing the engine.
“The only reason I’m taking you in is because of this fucked-up law.
Guardian of an orphan under eighteen?
State cuts me a thousand-dollar check every month.
Kinship foster care.
That’s the deal.”
“So I’m just a walking ATM that prints money once a month?” Levi let out a short, bitter laugh.
“And here I thought it was family.”
“If family or love paid rent, I wouldn’t have sold one of my own balls to cover last month’s bills,” Don Quixote said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I wish that shit was real.
Especially if it came with cash.
Now get out.”
He spit in his palm, slicked his greasy hair back, and shoved a pair of cheap gold wire glasses onto his nose.
The paperwork went smooth.
Levi’s face helped with the caseworker.
The check cleared fast.
Don Quixote was still buzzing when they got back in the car.
“We’re in this together now, right?” he said, tucking the fake placard away.
“Those ACS people got nothing better to do than crawl up our asses every month.
They come check you’re still breathing and not living in total filth.”
“We split it fifty-fifty,” he continued.
“Five hundred for me, five hundred for you.
Covers your room and food.
You just deal with the visits.
Deal?”
“Eight hundred fifty,” Levi said.
“Or no deal.”
He’d looked up prices.
Five hundred in New York barely kept you alive if you ate nothing but discount vegetables and walked everywhere.
Transit and a phone plan would eat two hundred easy.
And judging by the smell rolling off Don Quixote’s shirt, there was no washer in that basement.
Laundromat money on top.
“You trying to rob me, you little shit?” Don Quixote yelled.
“I ain’t even counted utilities!”
“Without me you don’t get the hundred and fifty either,” Levi said calmly.
“I’ll give you two.
I keep eight.
Otherwise next month I tell ACS you’re beating on me.”
Don Quixote turned and stared.
“We’re family.
I’m your guardian.
Your elder.”
“That’s what you said,” Levi shrugged.
“This is America.
And I’m not selling a nut just to eat.”
Don Quixote’s yellow teeth showed in a slow grin.
“Damn.
You learn fast.
Welcome to America.”
The Toyota crawled through traffic between Brooklyn and Queens while the sky turned the color of old bruises.
Eventually Don Quixote cut off the highway and dove into Sunset Park’s cramped streets.
Signs in Spanish and other languages lined the blocks between faded red brick buildings.
Mexican guys hauled boxes on the corners.
Manhattan’s skyline floated in the distance like a mirage.
If Levi squinted, he could almost pretend he was back in some rundown small town from thirty years ago.
“We’re here,” Don Quixote said, parking right beside a fire hydrant.
“Alley off Eighth.”
They walked around the side of a crumbling three-story brick building.
A rusty half-height gate led down to the basement.
“Watch your head,” Don Quixote muttered.
“Step light.
Dog upstairs hears footsteps, it’ll bark till sunrise.”
The gate groaned open.
Musty air rolled out.
Levi followed down into what had once been a storage cellar, now turned into an apartment.
The only window was a long slit at sidewalk level.
You could see ankles walking past and rats darting by.
One long, narrow room.
Bathroom had its own door.
Everything else—living, sleeping, eating—was divided by cheap blackout curtains.
“I sectioned off a spot for you,” Don Quixote said, pointing at a stained mattress on the floor.
He looked pleased.
“Even scored you a mattress.
How about that?”
Levi didn’t answer.
He just dragged his suitcases behind the curtain.
“If you’re gonna jerk off, do it in the bathroom,” Don Quixote said, checking his cracked phone.
“I can smell it from my side.
I got half an hour before dish duty.
Come out.
We need to talk about what you’re doing here.”
Levi pushed the curtain aside and sat on the ripped couch.
Something hard poked his thigh.
He fished between the cushions and pulled out a beat-up knight novel.
“That’s mine,” Don Quixote said, snatching it.
“One of the few things I kept.
Always wanted to be a knight… still got the armor in my room.”
“I know you want cash fast,” he said, voice turning serious.
“Can’t happen.
Not till you’re eighteen.
Part-time only.
Minimum wage is fifteen-fifty an hour.”
“I’ve got a year,” Levi said.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You go to school,” Don Quixote answered, lighting a cigarette like it was the last one on earth.
“Even the worst high school.
You finish.
You came in on a real B-2 visa.
Working off the books ain’t simple.
New York wants you on an F-1 student visa, then I can help push for a green card after two years as your guardian.”
“Too many kids tried turning student visas into cash.
Road’s blocked now,” he added with a smirk.
“No matter how bad you need money, you wait.”
Levi had pictured it different—wash dishes, make real money like the stories online.
“Your debt back home can wait,” Don Quixote said, smoke curling between them.
“What you should worry about is school… and what kind of life you’re actually gonna live here.”
“School?” Levi asked.
“You mean nonstop shootings?”
“Shootings happen.
Death rate’s still low, all things considered,” Don Quixote said vaguely.
“I’m talking about that pretty face of yours.”
“If I were you I’d hit the gym hard the next month,” he said, heading to change.
“Or keep a knife on you.
Good-looking kid, new in town, not exactly built—you know what I’m saying.
I’m out.
Feed yourself.
If I’m not back by three, call the cops.”
The door shut.
Levi let out a long breath and stared at the narrow window.
Upstairs people shouted in languages he didn’t know.
Feet stomped.
None of it mattered.
Jet lag and everything else crashed over him at once.
He passed out in his clothes.
At least it was August.
The basement was damp, but not cold enough to keep him awake.
Half-asleep, a voice slid into his head.
[Welcome to the Middle Ages, adventurer Levi.]
[Medieval Adventurer System loaded successfully.]
[This world holds both crisis and opportunity.
Good luck.]
Levi didn’t answer.
Sleep pulled him under.
Later, rustling and metal clanking dragged him awake.
He thought it was rats at first.
The noise grew louder—boots, armor, something heavy shifting.
He pushed the curtain aside.
Streetlight through the slit window showed a figure in full armor.
“Uncle Don Quixote?” Levi mumbled.
“What are you doing?
It’s… three-thirty in the morning?”
“Who’s there!” Don Quixote’s eyes were shut tight as he spun toward the voice.
“Who’s talking?!”
“It’s me,” Levi said.
“Your nephew.
Levi.”
“What nephew!” Understanding dawned on the closed-eyed face.
“I see!”
He reached out and clapped Levi’s shoulder with perfect aim.
“You’re my squire, Levi.”
He pointed at the boots on the floor.
“Squire!
Put on my boots!”
Levi stayed still and watched.
After a moment Don Quixote bent and pulled them on himself.
Then he shoved the basement door open.
“Where are we going?” Levi asked, grabbing a jacket and following.
“What the hell are we doing?”
Knight Don Quixote straightened, full of purpose.
“The village chief gave me a quest today.
We ride to clear out the goblins plaguing the village!”
The voice returned in Levi’s mind.
[Hero Levi, you have met Knight Don Quixote Cervantes.]
[New quest received: Assist the knight in clearing the goblins.]
[Reward: System panel unlocked.
+0.1 attribute points.
Random skill x1.]
Levi stared into the dark.
What the actual fuck?