Max’s room at the Wayfarer’s Rest was the kind of cheap that creaked when you breathed. Shutters rattled in a draft he could never find. The mattress was thin enough to count slats through, and smoke clung to the rafters. He sat up, stretching until his back cracked, and reached for his gear. Chain shirt over linen and a padded vest, straps tugged snug. Belt, scabbard, sword. His shield leaned against the wall, dented from the sewer run last week; he promised himself he would hammer it flat later and probably wouldn’t. He got up and pulled on his boots, which were a nice sturdy pair made of fine leather. His time working the warehouse, standing and walking the endless shifts on concrete floors had taught him the value of good footwear. It was the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on. The rest of his gear was good, but cheap, fitting for a Copper rank Adventurer. He dragged his whetstone along the blade until light caught on a clean edge. The same face he'd had on Earth reflected back in the steel as always, with dirty blond hair that never behaved, and too-awake eyes for the hour. He opened his System Status page, a daily habit.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  He blew out a short breath to steady himself. “A-all right… adventurer time.” He grinned to himself at the silly words, reminded of the cartoon Gideon and he had watched as children. He let out another, longer breath, and steeled himself for the day ahead. “Okay.” He stood and exited the room, made his way downstairs, and out into the town he'd made home for the past month since he'd arrived on this new world.

  Brindleford was damp and loud in the mornings. Carts rattled over cobblestones slicked by last night’s rain. Bakers shouted their prices, as though volume would cause customers to appear. The smell was wet wool, wood smoke, and too many people living close. Max threaded through it with his cloak pulled tight, heading for the Adventurers Guild on the far side of the square. He passed a girl, no more than 19 or 20, with a travel-stained skirt and a bow slung over her back, standing near the guild steps and trying to catch the attention of anyone wearing steel. “Please,” she said to a pair of mercenaries. “Please, I—” They walked on without slowing. Her knuckles were white around a rolled notice, her cheeks pinked with the morning cold and the embarassment of rejection. Max looked back once, kept walking, and told himself he would check the board before making a decision.

  Inside, the hall smelled of wet cloaks, ink, and boots that had seen better days. Heat from the big hearth drifted up to the beams and into the smoke stains that had lived there longer than anyone. A wall map of Valdarin took pride of place behind the counter, the kingdom’s rivers and roads picked out in careful ink. Max had learned the lay of the land there, and he had learned the world’s name the same week. After he first arrived in Brindleford, lost and pretending not to be, he found the scribe-house and asked way too many dumb questions. A kind clerk with ink on his thumb had pointed him to a worn history primer. That was where he read it: the world was called Edras. Valdarin was one kingdom among many, sprawling and not very tidy. The roads were there, but they were not safe. The King and his army did not patrol his whole Kingdom, choosing to focus instead on the roads surrounding the Capital, leaving long stretches of road unprotected. This made travel an arduous task, especially for individuals. If you wanted to get to the next town safely, your best bet was usually joining a caravan. The clerk had smiled at Max's questions and sent him to the guild next.

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  Max moved toward the notice boards out of habit. Wolves near the southern hills; low pay with a note saying to “bring your own traps.” A caravan escort to Glassmere; it paid good coin but it was two weeks there and back, and he did not have a five-man party. Sewer rats, again, with a nasty scrawl underneath that said “bring oil.” A Town Guard posting on bandits, coin per head and extra for the leader. Three different “missing farmhand” notices that probably really meant “my cousin ran off with my money, please find him for me.” A swamp job some poor idiot had underpriced and would regret. Half a dozen goblin clearances with the usual details: nests in the woods, chicken thefts, broken fences, scared children. The Guild stamped the edges clean on those so you knew they were approved. Goblin work never paid well, but it was steady. There was also a hand-drawn map with ugly little Xs around a village called Brookhollow. Max’s eyes paused there. He remembered an aged, curling posting about Crestwood Farm that had hung crooked for days. Now the nail where it had been was bare.

  “Please tell me you’re not even looking at the rat one,” Elira said from his elbow. She slipped there like a shadow and leaned her shoulder toward his. She was slim, sharp, wore her hood up, and had a dagger twirling between her fingers. A compact crossbow rode her back, string waxed, stirrup scuffed from use. Twin sheathes on either side of her hips usually held the daggers she preferred to use.

  “Not rats,” Max said. His words came clean, but the corner of his mouth tilted. “Never again. I h-have standards.” “Thin ones,” she said, bumping him with a ghost of a grin. “But sure.”

  Borin pushed through the doorway next, shoulders filling the frame. He was a dwarf that had the posture of a door that had decided it was a wall. A stout and sturdy man, with a long beard braided into 3 seperate braids, with an iron ring at the tip of each. His shield hung on his back and looked like it belonged there, his short hammer at his hip. He gave Max a once-over and grunted. That was Borin for hello. Calder followed, a lanky and bone-tired looking youth with ink on his fingers and a book tucked under his arm. His hair always looked like he had dragged his hand through it in surprise. He joined the others and walked up to the notice board. "What fine misery do we have today?” Calder asked, peering at the board like it was going to start explaining itself. “Public board misery,” Elira said. “Until we find a fifth. Same as yesterday.”

  Max nodded, jaw tightening. The Guild kept the better jobs behind the counter for what they called true parties: five or more adventurers, steady and vetted. It was not just favoritism; the Guild was a business. Bigger crews meant more redundancy, healers to catch mistakes, extra eyes to spot an ambush, and people to carry you when you were too hurt to walk. That meant fewer funerals, which meant fewer angry friends and family demanding recompense, less lost reputation, and more coin flowing both ways. A four-man party like theirs could apply, but the clerk always found a reason to say no. He and his three had tried filling the gap before. The axe man who drank too much and had stumbled drunkenly into battle. The archer who would not stop talking in fights and gave away positions. The healer who spoke only in prayers and refused to aid anyone who swore. Not one had lasted.

  “We could keep looking,” Calder said mildly. “Carefully.” “Not yet,” Elira replied, a but testy. “Better to have no fifth than the wrong fifth.”

  Borin grunted again. Agreement, probably. Or hunger. It was hard to tell with him sometimes. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was probably best to listen. Max’s gaze lifted to the big wall map while they bickered. His eyes traced rivers and roads north until the neat ink of Valdarin faded into a smudge that said Northwilds. The Guild talk about that forest was never nice. Trackless pines. Tangles of old growth. Blackwater bogs that swallowed carts. Ruins that did not want to be found. Winter came early there and left late. Patrols did not ride that far because patrols did not ride back. The reckless went north to make names. Most of the time, the only thing that came back south was a rumor. Folks in Brindleford said the Northwild goblins were not the same as the weak cannon fodder types down here. Central Valdarin got trash nests of ten to fifteen bodies in a ditch, poorly armed, squabbling, mean and stupid and cruel for the fun of it. They carried no armor beyond low quality leather, had no discipline, and were just as likely to die from tripping onto their own blade than anything else. Up north, the stories said, it was different. Huge warrens hundreds strong. Bugbear chieftains as big as trolls. Hobgoblin captains who drilled spear lines. Raids with scouts and signals. Ugly as sin, but smart as a soldier. Max had laughed that off when he first heard it, dismissing it as simple bar talk, trying to scare the green horns. After a month on Edras, he laughed less at anything. One thing remained true however, whether it was down here in Central Valdarin, or up north in the untamed Northwilds, goblins were still goblins. Filthy, vile, cruel little creatures. Max sighed internally and shook himself out of his musings.

  He turned back to the board and frowned. “Crestwood’s notice is gone.” He tapped the bare nail where it hung just yesterday, then looked toward the front doors. “The girl on the steps, with the bow on her back. I think that was hers.” Elira blew out a breath and rolled a shoulder. “Of course it was. And of course she's still here.”

  Max found himself thinking of the white void again, the place before this one. Of the Adjudicator with a featureless face and a voice that did not echo. Of the menus and the choices and how he had hovered over the safe pick of Human for too long. Random race, random start, a Unique Perk and 5 Skill Points for your trouble. He had told himself he was doing it because the perk math was good, and it was. +1 Stat every level was nothing now, but at level twenty or thirty it would stack into real power. He had also told himself that Gideon would have called him a coward if he picked the safe option. In the end, whether it was luck or fate, that random roll had still landed him Human. He had opened his eyes coughing on dirt with human hands and a system window in his face, in a place he knew nothing about. He had asked a lot of bad questions that day. Things that any 5 year old native to this world would know. He made himself stop thinking about it when thinking did not help. He did that now, too.

  “Let’s go talk to her,” Max said. “You sure?” Elira asked. “If it is the Crestwood posting, the pay was insultingly low.” “Yeah,” Max said. “Still.”

  They stepped back out into the square. The girl from earlier had moved down off the steps and closer to the churn of foot traffic like proximity alone might make someone listen. “Please,” she was saying, voice already hoarse. “Anyone. My village is a day north. We can pay some, not much, but... please.” A sellsword waved her off like a fly. A clerk ducked his head and walked faster.

  “Hey,” Max said, gentle and close enough not to make her flinch. “You posted for Crestwood Farm, right?” She looked up fast, startled to be addressed instead of avoided. Her eyes jumped from his sword to the others’ gear and back to his face. “Yes,” she said. “Alina. Alina Crestwood.” She swallowed and straightened as if bracing for a blow. “We posted three days ago. No one took it, so I came myself when I could leave. I can’t be gone longer. They come every few nights. They were there two nights ago. They will be back.” “Tell us more,” Max said.

  “They come from the woods on the outskirts of our fields,” Alina said in a rush. “Five, sometimes eight or ten. They take chickens, smash tools for the noise, destroy fences and leave them. My da tries to watch. He sits up. He's old though. He sleeps. I can sometimes scare some off with the bow if I see them first.” She touched the bowstring unconsciously, a quick check that it was still there. “If they all come at once, they will run us out. I know it.”

  Borin’s voice rumbled. “Where is the farm, young lady?” “Brookhollow village,” she said. “North out of Brindleford. No more than a day if you do not drag a cart.” “How much can you pay?” Elira asked. Her tone was flat, but not cruel. Alina’s mouth went tight like she had practiced the answer and hated it. “Twelve silver now,” she said. “Twelve when it is safe again. And food if you need it. It is all we can afford.” Her eyes flicked between them. “I know it isn’t enough. I would not ask if it were not this bad.”

  Silence pressed in for a beat. Calder’s face went thoughtful in a way Max recognized as him doing math he did not want to admit. Elira watched Max with a tired kind of fondness that meant she was already adjusting to whatever he was going to say. Borin looked at the rolled notice in Alina’s hand, then at the bow on her back, and then up at Max too. Max felt the speech coming, but tried not to make it sound too much like a speech.

  “If we o-only take the jobs that p-pay well,” Max said, his tongue catching on the first word and then smoothing as he kept going, “then we’re not adventurers. We’re mercenaries. If we’re n-not here to help people who need it, we may as well t-turn in our badges and s-sell our blades to the highest bidder.”

  Elira sighed in a long suffering way that was almost a smile. “I hate when you do that.” Calder huffed a laugh. "At least he kept it short this time.” "Still too many words," Elira replied, although the fight was out of her voice. She'd known exactly what Max would do as soon as he mentioned the posting. Max looked at each of them in turn. Borin nodded once. “We’ll do it.”

  He turned back to Alina. “We’ll take it.”

  For a second she just stared. It looked like she had not planned for anyone to say yes at all, like this had been a last try before giving up and going home alone. Then the relief hit so hard she had to hold her breath to steady it. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean that.” "Give us an hour,” Max said. “We will need to buy supplies. Meet us at the north gate.” “I’ll be there,” she said quickly. She hesitated, lifting her chin like she expected an argument. “I can shoot. I hunt. I am not dead weight.”

  “That's good. Stay near, listen to us, and we will work as a team to drive them back” Elira said. Alina nodded and glanced toward the street that led out of the square. “I have to go to the market. I will bring what I can.” “Good,” Borin said, which was as close to encouragement as he got.

  Alina hurried off, the parchment twisting in her grip, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Supplies,” Elira said, tapping the air with two fingers. “Oil, line, a second lantern. And rations that do not taste like death.” “G-got it,” Max said, managing a grin. Calder murmured something about spare bandage rolls and a corked bottle of spirits for wounds; Borin just nodded once and peeled away toward the smith’s stall. They split across the square, swallowed by Brindleford’s churn. Behind the counter inside, the Guild clerk did not look up as a gaggle of armored bravos argued about pay scales. Max kept his eyes on the cobbles and his mind on the list in his head. They had a village to reach, fences to mend, and a young woman who did not expect to be believed, waiting by the gate with twelve silver and a bow she claimed she knew how to use.

  Sometimes, the difference between a story and a tragedy was who showed up when someone asked.