Bonus Chapter: Prove You Are Human : Part 1

Aldric spent most of the morning at home. The apartment was tidy, his lunch was ready, and he had checked the following week’s schedule twice, which he considered sufficient to declare the morning properly underway.

He picked up his phone from the living room table.

Maxime had told him about a book on medieval European fortifications. Aldric had listened with polite interest until Maxime mentioned that it contained detailed plans of several French castles.

His interest had immediately become considerably less polite.

In his world, making complete plans of fortifications available to anyone for the price of a book would have constituted a serious security failure. In Paris, they sold them in bookstores.

He had looked for the book in two of them. The first had been out of stock. At the second, a saleswoman had explained that he could order it online and shown him how to find the store’s website on his phone.

A simple procedure, in theory.

Aldric opened his browser and typed “Furet du Nord.” A banner covered half the screen, asking whether he accepted cookies.

This problem, at least, he had encountered before.

The first time Aldric had come across cookies, he had spent several minutes trying to determine what an online store could possibly want with biscuits. Emma had explained that the word referred to small files stored on his phone.

He still didn’t understand why anyone had named them after biscuits.

Neither did Emma.

Since then, he had refused them.

The banner disappeared.

First defense breached.

Aldric entered the title of the book into the search bar. Several results appeared, with the book in second place. He opened its page.

A fortress dominated the cover, surrounded by soldiers.

The walls were depicted accurately enough. The towers had acceptable proportions, and the archers had been given adequate elevation.

The knights, however, were a problem. Nearly half of them stood within range of the defenders without mantlets, without raised shields, and without even making use of the terrain.

“Poor positioning…”

One of them was even attacking the main gate alone while his companions remained several yards behind him. Aldric hoped the book handled strategy better on the inside than its cover did on the outside, but that did not stop him from pressing Add to Cart.

A confirmation appeared.

Item added.

Finally, a step with clearly defined success conditions. He continued toward checkout, where the website suggested creating an account to make tracking his order easier.

Creating an account meant providing several pieces of personal information in exchange for easier access to the service. In his world, an agreement of that nature would have required a seal, two witnesses, and at least one person responsible for explaining the legal consequences. Here, all he had to do was press a blue button.

He accepted, and a new page appeared with several fields to fill in. His first name caused no difficulty, nor did his last name, and his address had become familiar enough that he could now enter it without checking his rental agreement. He then entered his phone number and email address.

So far, everything was proceeding correctly. No incomprehensible terminology, no missing administrative documents, and no one was asking him to come back with a piece of paperwork whose existence he had been unaware of five minutes earlier. After several months in France, a procedure this simple should have reassured him.

It had the opposite effect.

He had learned that when an administrative procedure went too smoothly, it usually meant he had not reached the difficult part yet.

“Acceptable?”

He had found the book, created his account, and filled in every field without asking for help.

“I would have considered that satisfactory.”

“Very well…”

He closed the notification. He had learned long ago that arguing with the System rarely produced the desired result and far more often produced additional statistics.

The website now asked him to create a password.

Dawnbringer

A red line appeared.

Weak password.

Aldric frowned.

“Weak?”

Dawnbringer had pierced a demon general’s armor, shattered three enchanted weapons, and delivered the blow that had killed Malachar. Aldric could accept that the website was unaware of those events. He was less willing to accept its assessment.

The problem was clearly a lack of precision.

He deleted the word.

DawnbringerPowerful

Weak password.

DawnbringerLegendary

Weak password.

Legendary was not a matter of opinion. Dawnbringer had officially received that classification after the Battle of Kharan.

The website apparently had stricter standards than the Royal Guild.

DawnbringerIndestructible

Weak password.

“Debatable, perhaps, but certainly not weak.”

DawnbringerLegendaryWeaponDemonKingSlayer

He submitted it.

Weak password.

Years of war had taught him that some opponents could not be reasoned with.

“Your standards for strength are absurd.”

He was about to search for an adjective superior to legendary when he noticed several red lines beneath the field.

Your password must contain:

At least 8 characters

One uppercase letter

One lowercase letter

One number

One special character

“So this had nothing to do with the weapon…”

He added the required elements.

Dawnbringer1!

Strong password.

“Almost no one knows what it’s called.”

Emma posed no threat. Neither did Patrick. Karim had proven himself reliable on several occasions.

Lucas… Aldric lingered on that name a little longer. He did not pose an intentional threat.

The other fourteen people were more difficult to account for.

He deleted the password.

“Very well. I won’t use the name of my weapon.”

He needed something with no connection to his identity, his friends, his work, or his possessions. His gaze swept across the apartment before settling on the fruit bowl.

A banana rested on top of the apples.

No enemy knew of its existence.

HarmlessBanana47!

Very strong password.

He retrieved his notebook and wrote down the combination.

“It’s inside my apartment. No one is supposed to enter without my permission.”

That number lacked context. He put the notebook away in a drawer.

The form was almost complete. Only one box remained.

☐ I’m not a robot

“Why not one hundred percent? I am human. My declaration is accurate.”

“I am human.”

The website remained unmoved by this clarification. Aldric was beginning to suspect it placed no value on verbal declarations when he noticed the small box to the left of the text.

He pressed it.

A circle spun for a moment, then a window covered almost the entire screen.

Select all images with traffic lights.

Nine photographs formed a grid.

“I understand. An observation test.”

Aldric identified three traffic lights and selected the corresponding squares. His finger moved toward Verify, but stopped when he noticed that a fourth image contained a small part of the traffic light directly above it.

He enlarged the image. A few red pixels and part of the casing extended into the square below. Aldric reread the instructions more carefully.

Select all images with traffic lights.

In theory, the wording left no room for doubt. The square contained part of a traffic light, so it had to be selected. Aldric tapped it, only to notice that the metal pole supporting the same light extended into yet another square.

His finger stopped.

Did the pole count as part of the traffic light?

Technically, yes. Without it, the light would fall to the ground, which would significantly reduce its effectiveness. On the other hand, if someone showed Aldric a metal pole and asked him to identify the object, he would not answer “traffic light.”

He enlarged the photograph again. No signal, light, or other visible feature allowed him to identify the pole’s function without relying on information from the neighboring squares.

Then no.

Aldric left the final square untouched and submitted his answer. The circle spun before the result appeared.

Please try again.

“What constitutes a sufficiently human manner? I identified every visible traffic light.”

The System did not respond.

“One of them was spread across multiple squares.”

A new grid appeared.

Select all images with bicycles.

This time, Aldric touched nothing. The first test had at least provided him with one piece of information: his interpretation had been too broad. He would therefore apply stricter criteria.

Two bicycles were clearly visible. He selected them. A third bicycle occupied two squares: almost the entire bicycle was in the first, while its rear wheel extended into the second.

Aldric’s finger hovered over the screen.

A wheel was not a bicycle. That seemed difficult to dispute. However, the wheel belonged to a bicycle, and the instruction did not say to select the bicycles. It said to select all images with bicycles.

The first test might have penalized him for selecting a square that contained only part of the object. Or it might have penalized him for failing to select the pole. There was no way to determine which of those two mistakes he had made.

“The object must be independently identifiable.”

At least that rule had the advantage of being consistent. Aldric selected only the square containing most of the bicycle and submitted his answer.

Please try again.

“You evaluated Malachar. You were capable of estimating my chances of survival against the Demon King, but not this?”

Aldric retrieved his notebook. When an opponent refused to reveal its rules, the first step was to gather enough information to determine them himself. He opened to a fresh page and wrote:

Attempt 1: Traffic Lights

Hypothesis: Excessive selection.

Attempt 2: Bicycles

Hypothesis: Insufficient selection.

Conclusion: Contradictory criteria or missing information.

He underlined the last two words. Contradictory criteria were difficult to fight. Missing information could be found.

A third grid appeared on his phone.

Select all images with crosswalks.

Aldric placed the notebook beside him and examined every photograph before touching the screen. The first two presented no difficulty: white stripes crossed the road. He selected them. The third showed an intersection where a car obscured the crosswalk, but three stripes remained visible behind its wheels.

He selected that square. The fourth was more problematic: two white lines appeared in one corner of the photograph. Aldric enlarged the image and studied their angle.

“Crosswalk or lane markings…”

He tilted his phone as though a different angle might convince the pixels to reveal their true nature. It did not.

“So you’re no more useful than I am.”

“Neither was I.”

On that point, at least, they agreed.

Aldric selected three squares, then tapped the first one. Instead of remaining selected, the photograph disappeared and was replaced by a new image containing another crosswalk. He selected that one as well. It disappeared, and a third took its place.

Another crosswalk…

“The terrain changes after every action.”

He selected another square. A new photograph appeared.

“I noticed.”

A new photograph appeared. There was no crosswalk visible in it, so he left it untouched. The next contained four white stripes spaced so far apart that they could just as easily belong to a crosswalk as to some other form of road marking.

Aldric waited to see whether the System would provide an analysis.

Nothing came.

“Very useful.”

He examined the grid one last time before submitting his answer. The loading circle spun for a second.

Please try again.

Aldric set his phone down on the table and crossed his arms. He had faced more dangerous enemies, but most of them had at least possessed the decency to operate according to understandable rules. Malachar, for example, had wanted to kill him. Aldric had wanted to prevent him from doing so. Both sides’ objectives had been clear from the beginning.

The CAPTCHA, on the other hand, refused even to explain what it found wrong with his bicycles.

Giving up would only confirm the website’s suspicion that it had been right to doubt him, which was now entirely out of the question.

A small speaker icon sat in the lower corner of the window. Aldric pressed it.

Use an audio challenge.

A new interface appeared with a play button and a much simpler instruction.

Listen to the recording and enter the numbers you hear.

Numbers. No bicycles divided between multiple squares, no poles whose philosophical relationship to a traffic light had to be determined, and most importantly, no photographs capable of transforming after being selected.

He pressed the button.

A burst of aggressive static came through the speaker, followed by a voice so distorted that Aldric wondered whether the recording had been damaged.

“Sssss… sevvven… khh… four… eeeight…aaaaaaaate…”

Aldric played the recording again and brought the phone closer.

“Seven… four… eight… two?”

He listened a third time. The first number was seven, the second was four, and the third was almost certainly eight. After that, the voice seemed to have decided that intelligibility was optional.

“Or five.”

“Why would it say someone ate?”

Aldric listened to the recording again and had to admit that the sound was disturbingly close to ate.

“But what did they eat?”

“That makes no sense.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

He selected the first sequence suggested by the System and submitted it. The circle spun before displaying the result.

Incorrect. Please try again.

He retrieved his notebook and added another entry beneath the previous attempts.

Attempt 4: Audio Challenge

Result: Failure.

Opponent Reliability: Low.