The ruin sealed itself behind them with a low groan, leaving John and Lia once more in the quiet basement. The air here felt warmer, heavy with dust and the faint scent of ale from the barrels stacked against the wall.

  For a moment, silence stretched. Then Lia turned to him, brows furrowed.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  John’s pulse spiked. “What do you mean?”

  “The guards saw no one enter town.” She stepped closer. “And now this.” She swept her hand toward the rune covered door. Her fingers trembled, though her stare never wavered.

  John forced a crooked smile. “Would you believe… teleportation accident?”

  Her gaze narrowed, weighing him. “A teleportation accident.”

  “That’s right.”

  She studied him for a long moment, unblinking. “That would explain your sudden appearance from nowhere. The alley having no footprints.”

  A chill pricked his spine. She checked.

  “Caught me completely off-guard, to be honest,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

  “Are you?” Her eyes searched his face. “Are you being honest?”

  He thought of the ceiling collapsing. Of waking up here instead of cooling in a morgue. Of being from somewhere no one in this world would ever believe. His throat tightened. “I did teleport here.”

  Her shoulders eased the slightest fraction. A slow breath escaped her lips. “Then you’re incredibly fortunate. Many caught in such magic gone wrong lose limbs, or much worse, bodies warped by the void.”

  Her voice softened, just barely. “Where was it cast from?”

  John’s mind scrambled over the game map. “Black Hollow.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. But she pressed no further.

  Then a creak from above. The cellar door opened, spilling a shaft of lamplight down the stairs.

  Garren filled the frame, broad and grim as ever. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the sealed rune door before settling on John.

  His disapproval was wordless but palpable, a pressure that made the air feel smaller.

  “The searchers have arrived,” he said finally. His voice was clipped, precise.

  Lia nodded and started up the stairs, her footsteps light on the worn wood. Halfway up, she paused and looked back. "You're not coming?"

  John still stood at the bottom, one hand still resting on Moonfang's hilt. "In a moment," he said. "Just need to catch my breath."

  "They'll want to meet you," Lia said. "The man who killed the Carrion Mother. You're a hero now, whether you like it or not."

  Hero. The word sat wrong in his mouth. He'd just spent a lot of time playing a video game. "I'll be up soon," he promised.

  Lia held his gaze for another beat, then continued climbing. Garren was still at the top, silhouette filling the doorframe. The bodyguard's expression was unreadable, but John felt the weight of his scrutiny even from down here.

  The door closed. Footsteps faded.

  John waited until he was certain they were gone, then exhaled slowly and moved to the nearest barrel. He lowered himself onto it, feeling every bruise, every strained muscle from the dungeon's trials. The wood was cool and solid beneath him. Real in a way the shifting gravity chamber hadn't been.

  He pulled up his status screen with a thought.

  John Hale

  Race: Human - Rank 1

  Class: Empty [Options Unlocked]

  Level: 13 → 14

  Strength: 6

  Dexterity: 19

  Endurance: 17

  Vitality: 3

  Intelligence: 9

  Spirit: 3

  Unassigned Points: 45

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Titles:

  Obsessed

  Rank Defier

  Class Skills: [Options Unlocked]

  Empty

  General Skills:

  Combat Intuition

  Elegant Swordsman

  John stared at the numbers, considering.

  The silence stretched out, warm and heavy. Dust motes drifted through the last scraps of light seeping under the cellar door. Somewhere above, he could faintly hear Lia’s voice. Clipped, formal, talking with the searchers. Garren’s deeper rumble answered now and then, a punctuation of command and certainty. They sounded like they belonged there.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he sat there, turning the thought over and over until it hurt.

  The world of Elder Veilfall wasn’t static. The developers were pioneers in procedural generation, as if they picked up the torch laid down by Bethesda in 1994 and never stopped running. With enough curated content that the bones of the story would remain each playthrough. The years of constant updates turning the game into a masterpiece.

  Somewhere south of here, was there a Hero breaking out of prison? The world’s Chosen One? Could a real man really do all the game asked to save the world?

  John rubbed his eyes and laughed quietly to himself.

  “Hope you’re real,” he muttered. “Because it sure as hell shouldn’t be me.”

  The laughter died quickly. The silence of the basement pressed close again.

  He let out a slow breath. Might as well get it over with.

  The steps creaked under his weight as he climbed. When he pushed open the door, lamplight flooded over him, sharper and brighter than he expected. The main floor of the tavern, now stripped of drinkers and laughter, had been transformed. Tables shoved aside. Papers, maps, and lanterns spread across one long trestle.

  Half a dozen adventurers moved through the room, the air smelling of oil and steel.

  Lia stood among them, speaking to a red-haired man in chainmail while another checked gear near the window. Her presence looked out of place in their midst. Clean, poised, and sharp in contrast to their road-stained armor.

  Heads turned as John stepped in.

  “That him?” one of them asked. A woman with a crooked nose and a longsword strapped across her back.

  “That’s him,” Lia said.

  John gave a small wave. “Hey.”

  A few smirks, one raised brow. Most of them looked him up and down, weighing what they saw against the story they’d heard. One man laughed under his breath. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Maybe the Mother tripped and fell on him,” another offered.

  John let the jibe roll off. “She died of fright when she saw my face.”

  A few smirks. The red-haired man in chainmail, clearly the captain here, caught John's eye and gave him a respectful nod before rapping his knuckles on the table. Maps showed the fields north and the black smudge of forest beyond, the River Venn sketched in blue to the east.

  “We’re spreading to search,” he said. “Trace the path those beasts took, find the breach, close it if we can. Lady Lia—”

  “Is joining you,” Lia said, calmly.

  The men stirred uneasily. All eyes turned to the captain, who looked instead to Garren. The bodyguard’s jaw tightened, but at last he gave a single, reluctant nod.

  The red-haired captain cleared his throat. “Three spokes out of Greyford.” He planted a callused finger on the map. “North gate to the fields and treeline. East to the river and the mill culvert. West along the old orchard road to the barrow-mounds and the lime pits.”

  He straightened, turning to Lia with deference. "Which would you prefer, my lady?"

  Lia turned, gaze fixed on John. “He chooses.”

  The room quieted. The lanterns’ hiss seemed suddenly loud.

  “Go on,” she said. “Where do we begin?”

  John stepped closer to the map, pretending to study it. The parchment was dotted with inked landmarks and scrawled annotations. Farms, mills, roads twisting out into grey lines. Three routes marked in fresh charcoal.

  He already knew none of them mattered.

  The Carrion Mother hadn’t come from a dungeon overflowing. She’d come through the Ward Wall itself. But try explaining that to a room full of knights and mages who thought the world was still playing by old rules.

  So he didn’t.

  Instead, he leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the winding roads until he reached...

  “There,” he said.

  In the game, there was a dungeon, so out of the way barely any players ever discovered it without reading a guide, usually his. But the parchment before him showed nothing.

  A faint smile curved Lia’s lips. “Then that is where we go.”

  The captain began issuing orders, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that made men move without argument. Lanterns were trimmed, packs checked, blades inspected. One of the searchers muttered something about omens; another answered with a quick prayer.

  Lia didn’t look away from John. “Come. We’ll plan our route.”

  She turned, leading him to a smaller table by the hearth where maps and ledgers were stacked. Garren followed, arms folded, eyes never leaving John’s back. The room hummed with the scrape of armor and the shuffle of boots, including a few villagers watching the show with relief.

  Lia spread a thinner parchment over the wood, an older map, edges curling with age. She traced her finger along roads and pathways. “To this ridge here?” she asked, marking the blank valley John had pointed out. “It lies just beyond the mill road, ten leagues north. It’s well outside the ward’s reach.”

  “Exactly right.” John said.

  Lia rolled the map up carefully, sliding it into a leather tube. Around them, the room buzzed. Orders barked, armor buckled, boots thudding against the floorboards.

  Garren’s voice carried above the noise. “We’ll ride at once.”

  John tried to look confident, though his stomach sank. The last time he’d ridden anything was a shopping cart in college.

  John leaned toward Lia, keeping his voice low. “There’s one small problem though.”

  Her brows arched. “What kind of problem?”

  “I can’t ride a horse.”