For more answers, Kain unceremoniously dumped out everything that was in the rundown space ring handed to him. It was a very cheap ring—less than two feet squared—but it was stuffed to the brim. It would be simpler to just empty its contents onto the floor and reorganize the mess.
Most of the contents were irrelevant: a change of clothes, loose coins, a half-eaten snack bar long since fossilized, several pens without ink, and a cracked phone.
He nudged aside a soft, squishy 'training dummy' shaped like a busty elf—used for 'grappling practice,' or so the tag claimed. It had a suspicious, unidentifiable gel on various regions of its body, and Kain made a mental note to burn it later.
"What was this guy's day job again?" Kain muttered.
He pushed aside a pile of creased clothing—most of it stained, one shirt still bearing the logo of the Black Vine Consortium—and found a thick notebook. The cover was bent, the edges frayed. On the front, in loopy handwriting, was the title:
