Act I (Chapters 1–20): Arrival and Adaptation
Chapter 1: Awakening in an Unknown Land
Dante awakens face-down in damp earth, the taste of blood and iron on his tongue as morning light filters through swaying trees.
A heartbeat passes—too loud, too frantic—before breath remembers the rhythm of living. Cold air knifes down his throat, tinged with loam and wood-rot, and every shard of it seems to rattle inside cracked ribs he can't quite remember earning. The ground beneath him is slick, almost greedy; wet moss clings to his cheek as though to anchor him in this bewildering now. Somewhere above, unseen birds trade uncanny calls in a chorus half melodic, half warning, and their songs braid with the hiss of leaves overhead, making the forest feel alive … and ancient.
He blinks grit from his lashes. A translucent band of amber text hovers just inside his peripheral vision—faint, expectant, impossibly out of place. Instinct screams to study it; caution—a reflex polished by too many years of risk-analysis spreadsheets and min-maxed RPG nights—urges him to postpone data until he knows which way the blade points. He squeezes eyelids shut, forcing the intrusive interface to fade, and focuses on smaller victories: flex fingers, test joints, catalogue pain. Each assessment carries its own sensory footnote: wrists slick with cold mud; knees bruised, tasting of coppery blood where teeth bit tongue; heart drumming syncopated panic against ribs.
(Great. I haven't even rolled out of bed and I'm already a case study in multisensory overload, he thinks, the dry, familiar sarcasm a tiny lifeline to sanity.)
"Where … am I?" he rasps, throat raw. The words are small and ragged, swallowed instantly by the cathedral hush of the glade. No answer comes, save for a lazy shift of boughs overhead and the distant, hollow klonk of something heavy striking wood—perhaps a stag testing antlers, perhaps something with sharper teeth measuring prey. His skin prickles.
Vision steadies by degrees. Above dark trunks the horizon glows, a pale ribbon of dawn that curls gold through layers of low mist. If that is east—and planetary physics hasn't gone mad—then daylight is a finite resource, and shelter an urgent line item. He pushes up to hands and knees; moss squishes under palm and surrenders a breath of rich, fungal odor, equal parts comforting and unsettling, like bread just beginning to mold. Nausea rolls in slow tides, threatening to beach him again; he swallows it down, forces wobbling legs beneath him, and stands.
The forest unfolds: towering red-brown boles thick with lichen, vine-wrapped limbs reaching toward impossible heights, and motes of dew that spark into prisms wherever sun-shafts spear through. Somewhere between those titanic silhouettes, a faint hum ripples, almost electrical. Before he can pin it down, a soft chime rings directly in his skull—clarion, unmistakably systemic. The amber panel snaps back into being, sharp now, letters framing a single elegant sentence:
Quest Received – Tier: Basic Survival
Reach a safe haven.
Bonus: Complete before nightfall for double EXP.
A narrow arrow of light flickers, pivots, then locks on the golden haze to the east.
Dante's stomach swoops. In another life—cubicle walls, passive-aggressive emails, weekends spent farming purple loot—this would've been exhilarating. Here, with mud on his tongue and adrenaline burning in his limbs, exhilaration feels a lot like terror wearing a cheap thrill's mask.
(If this is a dream, he muses, my subconscious owes me an apology and hazard pay.) Yet the quest panel thrums with authority, and the promise of somewhere safe thrums louder. He exhales a shaky laugh, half disbelief, half raw relief: guidelines mean structure; structure means survival.
A twig snaps off to his right. He whirls—too fast—and nearly spills back onto the moss. Movement? No. Only a coil of ferns settling after some unseen scurry. Still, the spike of fear is educational: standing still equals target. He pats himself down—no bag, no phone, no weapon, not even the comforting weight of pocket change. Just damp clothes clinging unpleasantly to skin and a heart beating like it wants out.
Priorities, he coaches himself, falling into the analyst's mantra that once kept panic attacks at bay during crunch weeks. 1) Data. 2) Tools. 3) Shelter. He adds a silent 4) Try not to die before lunchtime, because gallows humor is good for morale.
He sets off. At first every step feels rehearsed in a body not entirely his—knees creak, calves protest, equilibrium hiccups—but rhythm grows as the ground slopes gently downward. Droplets patter from high branches onto his shoulders; they carry the memory of night rain, icy enough to earn a wince each time. A squirrel-like creature, all spiral horns and bottle-brush tail, skitters across a log and chitters at him with comic outrage before vanishing into undergrowth. The encounter leaves him grinning despite himself: Evidence #1 that physics has been taking creative liberties.
Minutes—or maybe half an hour; his inner clock is woozy—pass in a hush broken only by the pulse of his footfalls on damp loam and the occasional, disconcerting rustle of something large just outside sight. Each sound sends a prickle up his spine, but when nothing pounces he files the data: unknown fauna, uncertain threat level, avoid until armed.
He rounds a colossal root system that arches like a ribcage above a shallow dell. Sunlight pools in the depression, washing over a cluster of blue-white mushrooms whose caps pulse with gentle bioluminescence. He crouches, curiosity wrestling caution. The UI pulses again, volunteering a tooltip:
Lumegill Fungi
Edible. Restores 10 HP over 30 sec.
Warning: Highly attractive to small herbivores.
Dante snorts—a sound far too loud in the stillness—then plucks two mushrooms, tucking them into an inside jacket pocket. The act is calming, familiar in its own RPG-logic way. Loot table: confirmed.
Another half-mile eastward the trees thin, giving way to a glade of grass as high as his knees. Breeze slides through the stalks, cool and sweet, carrying the scent of crushed mint. For a heartbeat he imagines a field back on Earth, one he used to cross on his way to the university bus stop—except that field never bowed under the weight of a second horizon curving overhead. Yes, far above the sky's robin-egg blue, he sees it now: faint lines of a distant landscape arching impossible degrees until trees meet clouds in a subtler, inverted world. Awe slackens his jaw.
(I am inside something vast, he realizes, chest tightening with vertigo and wonder alike. A sphere? A shell?) The thought expands, dizzying, until a deeper instinct reasserts itself: marvel later, live first.
A rhythmic clack draws his attention downslope: water, flirting with stones. He follows the sound to discover a slender stream threading silver between mossy banks. Kneeling, he cups water that smells—blessedly—of nothing metallic or fetid, and drinks until his stomach stops complaining. When he glances up, ripples skew the reflection of his face: mud-streaked, eyes too bright, a stranger wearing his features.
He breathes, slow and deliberate, letting coolness settle. Okay, Dante. Baseline established: forest biome, hydration achievable, edible flora located, UI functioning. Next—
The arrow glows stronger, tugging his gaze beyond the stream. There, trunks part to reveal a rough game trail etched between patches of golden-leafed bramble. The trail leans eastward like a promise.
A gust stirs through the canopy, rattling branches; somewhere overhead a distant flock erupts in panicked wingbeats. A chill trickles down his spine. Time's wasting. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, smearing mud into a dark bruise along his cheek, and rises.
No sooner does he step onto the path than the UI scrolls another line, crisp and sardonic:
Achievement Unlocked:
Baby Steps – Took your first ten steps toward salvation.
Reward: +10 XP, +1 Stamina.
Dante barks a laugh that turns half-hysterical midway out. "Oh, you're funny," he mutters to the unseen System, rolling shoulders as a fractional warmth pulses through muscles—Stamina already paying dividends. If the world intends to clown on him, he'll clown right back; it's either that or freeze in existential dread.
(Baby steps, then bigger ones. Keep moving, Dante.)
With a final glance at the unknown forest around him, he steels himself and starts to walk toward the faint light of morning, determined to survive whatever this world has in store.
Chapter 2: Trial by Fang
Dante trudges through dense underbrush, dried leaves and twigs crunching under boots that still feel foreign on his feet.
A bead of sweat rolls from hairline to chin, tasting of salt and wood-smoke, and the moment it drops he's already swinging his gaze back over one shoulder. Every whip-crack of a branch, every owl-hoot pitched too low in the dawn hush spikes his pulse as surely as an alarm klaxon. His breaths come shallow, drawing in the wet smell of recent rain—mingled wildflowers, soggy loam, and the faint copper tang of his own dried blood where briars kissed his forearms.
Keep moving, he orders himself, pushing heel first through a mesh of bracken. Yet memory teases: a dim apartment, a flash of white light—then nothing but the echo of a scream that might have been his. Each time the image surfaces it dissolves like fog, leaving only frustration gnawing at the edges of thought.
A translucent status ribbon flickers:
System Notice – Memory Integrity: 2 %
Recommendation: Increase Wisdom or locate Mnemonic Relics to accelerate restoration.
He blinks it away, jaw tight. Wisdom can wait; shelter and breakfast outrank philosophy.
Stepping through a curtain of ferns so saturated they slap wet across his cheeks, he pauses. Rainwater drums listlessly from the canopy, pattering on moss like distant applause—deceptively serene. Then—
A rumble, low and primal, vibrates up through his soles.
A mottled gray wolf emerges between two gnarled oaks, shoulders rolling, lips peeled from teeth as white as snapped bones. Golden eyes lock onto him; instinct screams run, but the forest crowds too tight for flight.
"Back—get back!" Dante yelps, voice cracking as he yanks a fallen branch free of ivy. A quick UI tag identifies his desperate tool:
Improvised Weapon: Alder Limb
Durability 12/20 Damage 3–5 (blunt)
Hardly legendary. The wolf lunges. Dante pivots—boots skidding on damp mulch—and slams wood against muzzle. The crack splinters night-chill air; chips fly like sparks off a grindstone. Snarls, hot and savage, saw at his eardrums while claws rake his coat in a staccato of tearing fabric.
He stabs forward again, again—each impact numbing wrists, rattling elbow, until the branch gives a brittle snap! and halves in his grip. Panic flashes white behind his eyes. The beast circles, hackles quivering, breath steaming in ragged clouds.
Analyze. Exploit. He forces focus: weight shift, hind leg bunching—it's about to pounce. He fakes a stumble left; as the wolf commits, Dante drives his shoulder low and rams full-body into coarse fur. Pain blooms; they tumble, choking on leaf mold and adrenaline. Massive jaws snap inches from his face—sour meat breath flooding nostrils.
An icon—small, pulsing silver—ignites behind his eyelids:
Inventory Slot [1] → Throwing Knife (Stone)
Tap to Materialize.
Instinct leaps where reason hesitates. Dante taps—mentally hammering the icon—and cold weight manifests in his palm: a fist-length dagger, edge rough but hungry.
"Sorry, boy," he mutters, voice quavering. The wolf lunges for his throat; Dante plunges stone into its flank. Once. Twice. A last convulsive jerk, a thin whimper—and the forest falls unnaturally silent except for their mingled breathing.
Blood—hot, metallic—slicks his forearms. He scrambles backward on hands and heels, heart galloping. The corpse glows at the seams, fractures into motes of amber light, and dissolves like melting snow. Where it lay, a neat pile shimmers: a curved fang, three dull copper coins, and a scrap of hide.
UI fireworks blossom:
EXP +65
Level Up! 1 → 2
Health fully restored. Stat points +5.
Skill Node Unlocked: Weapon Proficiency – Knives (Rank F).
Warmth floods battered muscles, knitting torn skin in ripples of numb heat. Somewhere outside time he glimpses a blank dojo-like chamber—clay dummies, floating tooltips—but the vision snaps shut before he can breathe. Reality slams back: birds shriek overhead, a drizzle begins anew, and the ache in his ribs fades to a manageable throb.
Shaking, he wipes crimson streaks from cheek to sleeve—only smears mud deeper. "Guess it's official," he whispers between gulps of chill air. "World's trying to eat me, and I'm on the menu's small-print section." Nimbus of wintry steam escapes his lips; the humor tastes flat, but it keeps the scream lodged behind his teeth.
He kneels, fingers trembling as he plucks the loot. The fang halos, then zip—vanishes into inventory with a musical chime. Tool-tip scrolls:
Gray Wolf Fang
Quality: Common Material: Bone
Crafting Component – Tier 1.
Coins follow, each clinking into a digits counter he didn't know he had:
Money: 0 → 3 Copper.
He exhales slowly, takes stock: lungs burn less, vision steadies, the forest's chorus resumes—the endless creak of limbs, the earthy perfume of turned soil, distant water trickling like glass beads. Storm clouds bruise the sky westward; daylight, already thin, will gutter fast.
Dante tightens his grip on the still-warm dagger. Tangible threats, tangible gains. Play the system, stay alive, grow stronger. Resolve glints sharp as flint behind his eyes.
Shaken yet resolved, he realizes this world's dangers are lethal but tangible, and he steels himself to press onward through the wilderness, now a little stronger than before.
Chapter 3: Nightfall in the Wilds
Night falls swiftly under the canopy, draping the forest in shifting blue shadows and a rising chorus of nocturnal chirrs.
By the time Dante notices how deep the gloom has grown, every tree trunk looms like a column in some abandoned basilica, and the air has cooled enough that his breath begins to mist. Crickets trill in counterpoint to the distant hoot of something too big to be any owl he remembers from Earth, and each call ricochets around his thoughts like marbles in a tin cup. Light's dying, he warns himself, and I'm still miles from any "safe haven" that arrow keeps promising.
A flicker of orange—just the UI's low-battery-red equivalent—blinks at the edge of his sight:
Condition Alert
Fatigue: 72 %
Visibility: Poor
Recommendation: Seek shelter before Exposure debuff triggers.
"Yeah, thanks for the memo," he mutters, boots squelching across sodden mulch. His calves cramp with every uphill step; the leather still hasn't molded to his feet, and raw blisters throb like tiny molten suns along his heels. If the System offered arch supports as loot, I'd grind wolves all night for them.
Another wind sighs through the boughs—cool, smelling of damp cedar and something faintly metallic—and brushes past the back of his neck. Instinct tightens his shoulders, as though unseen talons were reaching. He scans the darkening lattice of branches overhead, but nothing moves beyond the swaying leaves. Still, he lengthens his stride.
And almost barrels straight into it: a crooked hunting cabin half-swallowed by vine and decay, squatting in a shallow dell as if ashamed of its own dilapidation. Slats of weather-beaten wood jut at odd angles, and one corner lists like a drunk mid-curtsy. Yet in the hush it looks like a lighthouse.
Its door hangs ajar, swaying with a forlorn creak.
Good enough, Dante decides, pulse spiking with relief. He circles once—checking for fresh tracks, sniffing for carrion—but finds only the mossy scent of rotting shingles and the faint sweetness of wildflower pollen. No candlelight leaks through the warped planks; no chimney smoke stains the sky. Abandoned. Probably.
He steps onto the sagging porch. The board beneath his weight groans like an old man easing into a bath, but it holds. Inside, shadows huddle thick as tar. He raises a half-soaked torch and flint, knuckles faintly numb. Just spark it, barricade the—
Thock. A chair leg topples behind him in the gloom. He shoves the piece against the doorframe as a makeshift brace, shoulders it twice to test the seal. Another split board joins it, wedged beneath the latch. At each motion, tremors crawl up his forearms—exhaustion, yes, but also raw, unshed jitters from the wolf fight earlier.
The cabin's stale air rolls over him: wood rot, long-cold ash, the ghost of venison grease. Somewhere, a single droplet plinks from a leaky eave into a tin pan: ping… ping—metronome for nerves.
He strikes flint to steel; sparks skid uselessly off a damp torch head. A chill creeps down his spine. He draws breath to curse the weather—
Click.
Metal. Taut. Close.
A cocked crossbow.
"Don't move," snaps a low voice from a corner, so sharp it feels like the bolt is already buried between his ribs. Adrenaline flushes through Dante's veins, cold as meltwater. He freezes, torch still unlit, free hand inching instinctively toward the stone dagger on his belt—but stopping well short.
Moonlight slips through a crack in the roof, painting a silver blade across the floor. In that sliver stands a silhouette: slim but steady, bowstring drawn to ear. The faint glint along the quarrel's point hovers level with his heart.
Time dilates. Dante counts the hammer of his pulse—one, two, three—and raises both empty hands. "I… I don't want trouble," he says, voice hushed yet echoing in the cramped space. "Didn't know anyone was here." A tremor betrays him on here, making it sound like a question.
The figure doesn't answer. For a heartbeat—two—the only sound is the crossbow string humming with tension and a mouse scuttling in the rafters. Dante's mind rifles through options with analyst's speed: Talk? Dive? Throw pocket sand?
Then the System, unhelpful as ever, tosses up a tooltip:
New Entity Detected
Lv 3 Humanoid – Status: Hostile (caution)
Relationship: Unknown
Thanks, he thinks grimly, didn't notice the arrow aimed at my existence.
He risks a slow breath. The air tastes of dust and old smoke. "If you let me light the torch, we can both see each other," he offers, voice steadier now, layering logic over fear. "No sudden moves."
Another tense moment—and then the bowstring thrums as the stranger relaxes her pull. She steps forward into the moon-track: a young hunter, chestnut hair in a messy braid, cheeks smudged with dirt and fatigue. Her eyes—wide, wary, but not cruel—flick over Dante's torn coat, the half-splintered branch still tucked through his belt, the blisters visible at his ankles.
Up close, her crossbow looks battered, as though salvaged from three different models. She lowers it only a handspan. "You bleed on my floor, I kick you back out," she murmurs, voice rough from disuse.
"Deal," Dante replies, swallowing relief like hot tea too fast. His knees threaten to fold; he edges sideways until his shin bumps an overturned crate. A muffled ding pops at the edge of vision:
Quest Update:
"Find Shelter" — Completed (temporary)
Bonus Objective: Establish rapport with cabin occupant (optional, +25 XP)
Optional? He nearly snorts. More like mandatory if I want to wake up un-ventilated.
With measured slowness—as though demonstrating sleight of hand for children—he kneels and strikes flint again. This time the torch flares, sputtering before catching in a reluctant bloom of orange. Shadows retreat, revealing sagging rafters furred with lichen and a stone hearth choked by years of cold soot.
The hunter eyes the flame, then his face, then holsters the crossbow behind her leather-patched pack. "Name?"
"Dante."
She nods once. "Reed." They stand there, torch crackling between them like an unspoken treaty. In the shifting light he notices a shallow gash across her forearm, crusted and angry.
"You need that cleaned," he blurts before thinking. Great, offer medical advice to the person who almost skewered you. But Reed merely lifts the arm, inspecting it with the detached interest one grants a broken tool. "Later," she decides.
She gestures at the hearth. "There's tinder under the crate. If you stoke a small fire, keep the smoke down. Wargs nose around some nights."
"As long as they knock first," Dante mutters, but he moves to obey. Kneeling, he stacks brittle twigs, coaxing flame. Warmth radiates, licks at his chilled fingers, and the cabin takes on a less sinister hue. Reed busies herself checking a snare line hung across the ceiling—three plump squirrels twist at the ends, testament she's been here a while. She tosses one to Dante with a curt, "Dinner."
He catches it, surprised by the simple trust embedded in raw protein. "Thanks." A small notification pings:
Relationship — Reed
Hostile → Wary
Progress: 15 / 100
The bar's meager sliver nonetheless feels monumental. Baby steps, he thinks, recalling the earlier achievement, and a tired grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Soon a modest fire crackles. Grease pops as squirrel meat roasts on Reed's makeshift spit; the aroma—earthy, smoky—makes Dante's stomach growl loud enough to earn a faint smirk from the hunter. She tears a strip, offers it wordlessly. As he chews, savory juices scalding his tongue, a hush settles—not tense now, but companionable in a cautious, first-day-of-class sort of way.
Outside, wind rises, rattling shutters. Rain starts in earnest, drumming the roof with a steady tattoo. Reed glances upward. "Storm'll drown the moon soon. Lucky you found a roof."
"Lucky you didn't ventilate me," Dante counters. She huffs—something between a laugh and a grunt.
Minutes pass. The flames dim to embers; he adds a log, and sparks flit like fireflies before fading. Fatigue presses heavier with every heartbeat. Stats float briefly: Stamina 18 % … 15 %. He wobbles, then plants himself on the floor beside the hearth, cross-legged. Reed rests opposite, crossbow across knees but no longer leveled.
Silence stretches, filled only by wind, rain, and the crackle of burning pine. Dante studies the hunter through half-lidded eyes: the fine tremor in her fingers, the exhaustion etched in the slump of her shoulders. She's no more predator than he—just another soul trying not to die tonight. The realization unwinds a last coil of fear inside his chest.
Torch guttering low, he leans back against rough timber. The room's stale chill gives way to hearth warmth; smoke threads upward, carrying memories of campfires long past. His eyelids droop. Tomorrow will bring quests, monsters, maybe more arrows pointed at his sternum. For now, the soft patter of rain is lullaby enough.
With a cautious nod, the hunter allows Dante to stay, and he sinks down by the cold hearth, pulse gradually slowing as he realizes he's not facing this night alone.
Chapter 4: Strangers by Firelight
Minutes later, a small fire crackles in the cabin's hearth—Lyra (as the hunter introduces herself) strikes flint to steel until the embers catch, illuminating the cramped space in flickering orange.
The tiny flames lick upward, coaxing the damp logs into sullen embers that hiss and pop like distant musket fire. Wood-smoke curls toward the rafters, mingling with the dank odor of mildew and old leather, until the cabin feels less like a tomb and more like a grudging refuge. Dante shifts, easing his weight onto the dusty floorboards; splinters bite through his trousers, but the warmth on his chilled palms is worth every jab. Across the glow, Lyra kneels over the hearthstone, eyes narrowed in concentration as she drags a whetstone down the length of a stub-nosed knife—shhhh-klick, shhhh-klick—each stroke deliberate, musical in its menace.
He clears his throat, the sound absurdly loud under the warped beams. "I'm Dante," he offers, voice soft to keep from startling the skittish fire. The name floats between them, fragile as tinder.
Lyra's gaze flicks up, appraising. In the jagged dance of firelight her irises look like polished amber shot through with fault lines, equal parts wary and curious. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you outright," she replies, continuing her rhythmic sharpening. "These woods aren't safe after dark." Despite the blunt edge of her warning, Dante hears something warmer beneath it—concern wrapped in barbed wire—and his shoulders unknit a fraction.
He studies her in return: the way her braid, black as wet pine bark, hangs loose over a battered ranger's jerkin; the bandage at her right forearm spotted with dried rust-brown; the tiny tremor in her left hand betraying fatigue she refuses to show. Around them, the storm that chased him to this hut mutters against the roof, rain pattering a steady cadence while wind threads through the gaps in the walls like mournful violins.
They lapse into silence broken only by popping sap. Dante's stomach growls—betrayal by biology—and Lyra tosses a thin strip of dried venison across the coals. Its fat sizzles, perfuming the cramped air with salt and smoke until his mouth waters painfully.
"Eat," she says, not unkindly. "You look like you wrestled a briar patch and lost."
He chuckles, the sound shaking loose some of his tension. System Notification blinks translucent behind his eyes:
New Buff Applied – Warm Meal
+5 % Health Regen (1 hr)
Mood: Comforted
While the meat cools, they swap fragments of themselves, careful as traders examining unfamiliar coin. Dante claims—awkwardly—that he's come from very far away. The half-truth tastes brittle, but Lyra merely arches an eyebrow, knife still gliding over whetstone. "Never heard of your accent," she murmurs, "but these forests swallow plenty of lost souls." She slices off a bite of venison, hands it to him on the flat of the blade. He takes it gingerly, noting the scar along her knuckle where a blade once slipped.
When she mentions Arcopolis—the city of lights curving along the inland sea—Dante's brow knits in honest confusion. Lyra pauses her sharpening, reassessing. "You've really never seen the walls?" she asks, incredulity shading her voice. "Even farm folk know Arcopolis."
"Closest thing to a wall I've seen lately was a tree trunk," he admits, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward. It's not quite a smile, but it softens the guarded lines of her face.
Outside, thunder rolls, rattling shutters. In the lull that follows, Lyra sets down her knife and leans back, boots outstretched toward the fire. "Show me your Status," she says suddenly, as casually as asking for the salt. She taps the air before her—swipe—and a pale-green panel blooms outward, its glow painting her features in ghostly jade:
Lyra Thornbloom – Ranger (Apprentice)
Level 5
HP 142/155 MP 43/60
Strength 14 Agility 18 Stamina 17 Intelligence 11 Wisdom 12 Charisma 9
Skills: Marksmanship (C), Woodland Lore (D), Traps (D), Survival (C)
Dante exhales, cheeks warming. "Mine's… not as impressive." Still, curiosity—and a nudge from the System's silent prompt—wins. He focuses on the space before him, and a faint blue grid resolves:
Dante Alighieri – Unclassified
Level 2
HP 73/80 MP 40/40
Strength 9 Agility 12 Stamina 10 Intelligence 14 Wisdom 13 Charisma 8
Skills: Knife Proficiency (F), Basic Survival (F)
Achievements: Baby Steps, Tooth & Claw
A flush creeps up his neck as he dismisses the screen. Expecting mockery, he meets Lyra's eyes and finds only thoughtful consideration. She reaches into her pack, retrieves a bound booklet and charcoal stub. "You're under-leveled," she notes, voice pragmatic rather than scornful. "But your Int and Wis are solid. Means you think before you swing."
He huffs a laugh. "Sometimes I over-think."
"That can keep you alive. Or get you skewered." She scribbles a sigil on the booklet's cover and tears out the page. "Here." She slides it across the floorboards. "Map to a beginner's dungeon. Small cave system with glowcaps and maybe dire rats if the season's turned. Clear it, and you'll hit Level 3 easy. Just… don't solo if you can help it."
Dante turns the scrap over, surprised by the generosity. The charcoal lines—crooked creek, forked pine, jagged cliff—form a crude promise of direction in a world tilting under his feet. Trust her? a wary voice inside whispers. But another voice—quieter, warmer—counters: Trust earned must begin somewhere.
Relationship Update: Lyra – Wary → Neutral (35 / 100)
He tucks the map into his coat. "Owe you for this."
"Pay it forward," she says, shrugging. "And patch your boots before they eat your toes." She gestures to the blistering leather. "Tannery in Arcopolis'll fix them cheap—if we make it that far."
Lightning flickers beyond a knothole, throwing momentary daylight across the cabin. In that flash he sees how exhaustion etches hollows beneath Lyra's eyes, how her shoulders sag once she thinks he's not looking. Without thinking, he digs into his satchel and produces the Lumegill Mushroom he'd pocketed earlier. The cap pulses faint bioluminescence, casting gentle blue halos.
"Eat this," he says, offering it. "Restores a bit of HP, if you trust my tooltips."
Lyra examines it, nostrils flaring at its earthy-sweet scent. After a beat, she bites off a chunk. A shimmer ripples over her skin, knitting the worst of her cuts closed. Her brows lift in frank surprise. "Not bad, stranger."
"Dante," he corrects, smiling for real this time.
"Dante," she echoes, mouth curling into something almost playful. "Suppose I'll keep you around, then. Someone has to distract the wargs."
He snorts, the laugh catching them both off-guard. The cabin suddenly feels… lighter. Hearth shadows sway like dancers across warped boards, and the rain's percussion outside becomes a distant lullaby rather than an omen.
They talk—a little bolder now. Lyra recounts a mishap with pompous city guards who couldn't track a deer if it wore bells; Dante tells a self-deprecating tale of nearly tripping his own wolf snare earlier that day. Each story sparks another until they weave a patchwork of humor and confession, stitched with the pop of resin in the fire and the occasional—"hold up, you really did that?"—interruption.
Somewhere in the middle of Lyra's dry jab about tin-plated soldiers, Dante realizes he's smiling wide enough to ache. The weight of isolation he's carried since waking in this impossible world slips, inch by inch, off his shoulders—replaced by the anchoring warmth of shared breath and flickering firelight.
Outside, the storm ebbs, rain thinning to a whisper. Embers settle into a deep crimson glow, pulsing like the slow heartbeat of the earth. Dante's eyelids droop; Stamina ticks down in the corner of his vision, but he lets the notification dim unsilenced. Across from him, Lyra rewraps her forearm, stifling a yawn she can't quite hide.
He edges a frayed blanket from a trunk, spreads it by the hearth, and lowers himself onto the makeshift bed. The boards creak their protest, but the smoky warmth seeps quickly through fabric and bone until even his blisters sigh.
Lyra settles near the door, crossbow across her lap, eyes half-lidded yet vigil-sharp. "Sleep," she murmurs, voice husky with fatigue. "I'll take first watch."
Trust should be frightening, he thinks—but drowsy contentment mutes the old alarms. He offers a grateful nod that feels too small for the moment, then lets gravity pull him down.
For the first night since his arrival, he doesn't feel completely alone – and as fatigue pulls him under, Dante sleeps knowing an ally watches over him until dawn.
Chapter 5: City Walls at Dawn
At first light, Dante and Lyra emerge from the forest's edge onto a dirt road, the eastern sky streaked with bands of pink and gold.
Dew beads on every blade of grass, flashing like gemstones whenever a breeze tilts them toward sunrise. Dante inhales—cool air spiced with wood-smoke from some unseen hearth—and feels the tight knot of cabin-stale tension loosen between his shoulder blades. Behind them, the forest is a dark-green wall dripping yesterday's rain; ahead, open fields roll out like a promise he can finally sprint toward.
They walk in comfortable silence at first, boots grinding gravel in a rhythm that calms Dante's still-skittish nerves. Each crunch seems to erase another fragment of last night's claustrophobic shadows. A system sidebar flickers into view:
Quest Update – "Road to Refuge"
Objective 3/4: Approach Arcopolis before midday.
Status: On track.
Buff Applied: Companionship (+5 % Stamina Regen while traveling with allies).
He smiles at the tiny heart icon beside the buff—corny, but oddly encouraging.
Lyra clears her throat, points with the tip of her bowstring toward the horizon. "See that pale ridge under the sun? Marble, not stone. The outer parapet." Her voice carries the pride of someone describing the skyline of childhood bedtime stories. A pinkish mist hugs cultivated fields where oxen the color of old parchment pull wooden plows. Wisps of soil drift upward from each furrow, catching dawn's light in rusty spirals.
Dante shades his eyes. Beyond patchwork paddocks and clusters of thatched roofs, the marble walls of Arcopolis rise—monolithic, yet sun-kissed to a warm blush. High banners snap in the breeze, crimson and indigo, each bearing a stylized phoenix. The colossal gates stand half-ajar, and lamplight from guard posts flickers like wary fireflies along the battlements.
A lump forms in his throat. I hadn't realized how hard hope could hit until I could see it. Months—or was it only days?—of confusion, blood, and whispered fear condense into a single hot prick behind his eyes.
Lyra notices. She nudges him with an elbow, soft despite the leather bracer. "Hey. Breathe, hero. First sight's always a punch to the gut. Wait until you smell the harbor at low tide—that will cure you of romance."
He snorts a laugh, wiping at his eyes under the pretense of scratching his brow. "Harbor fumes, noted."
They pass a lone farmhouse where lantern-glow spills through shutters and a stooped farmer coaxes an aging mule into slow, deliberate circles. The earthy perfume of freshly turned soil mingles with the faint sweetness of rising dough drifting from an open window. Dante's stomach responds with a treacherous rumble.
Lyra arches an eyebrow, amused. "Hold tight. Arcopolis has meat-pie vendors every fifty paces. You'll be waddling by sundown."
"Tell me more." He exaggerates the eager lean of a child begging a bedtime story.
So she does. As the road bends beside poppy-dotted hedges, Lyra outlines the pulse of her city: market stalls so packed he'll have to fight for elbow space, guild clerks who stamp quest scrolls with such zeal the parchment curls, watch captains who can spot a concealed dagger at thirty strides and still make time to flirt between arrests. Her words tumble faster, warming with affection—even the con-artists and cutpurses earn a fond mention.
Dante peppers her with questions. "Do I need papers?" "Which guild handles mapping unexplored ruins?" "Is it true the Central Plaza has a twenty-foot talking statue that only tells jokes at midnight?"
She answers most—yes, Cartographers' Consortium, the statue prefers riddles—and deflects the rest with mischievous shrugs. Between stories, she breaks the last of their hard bread, handing him the larger chunk. Crumbs stick to his fingers; he sucks them clean, discovering they taste faintly of rosemary. When Lyra sees his appreciative hum, she flashes a grin broad enough to chase away the last of his unease.
Conversation ebbs and flows, punctuated by the caw of distant crows and the creak of wooden wheels from early traders behind them. With each step nearer the gleaming walls, Dante feels his pulse sync to Arcopolis's slowly unfurling bustle: the clang of a far-off smithy, the braying of a donkey cart, the echo of a guard's shout carried on wind.
The system chimes again:
Discovery!
Arcopolis City Perimeter
XP + 50 Reputation [City Watch] +2
A second pane unfurls:
Alert – Unregistered Male Traveler
Recommended Action: Secure city sponsorship within 24 hrs to avoid Protective Custody.
Lyra peers at the hovering text, lips pursed. "Forgot to mention the paperwork gauntlet. Don't panic; I'll vouch."
Heat prickles Dante's cheeks—half embarrassment, half gratitude. He offers a silent nod that says more than a dozen thank-yous. She answers with an easy slap to his back that almost topples him.
As the morning brightens, golden light glances off the marble and throws motes of brilliance across the road. Travelers converge: a wagon piled with wool bales, three armor-clad mercenaries bantering in lilting dialect, a cloaked scholar astride a shaggy pony reading while riding. Lyra gently guides Dante to the less crowded lane, her ranger instincts mapping choke points and potential pickpocket routes.
They crest a final rise, and the gate towers fill their entire world. Sentinels in steel-rimmed surcoats lift pikes in greeting; seagulls wheel overhead, riding thermals blowing in from the distant river.
Dante stops short, awash in sunlight, sweat, and the electric flutter of anticipation. A breath catches—half-laughter, half-sob. Lyra's hand finds his shoulder, grounding him.
The long road of isolation is nearly behind him – Arcopolis lies ahead, promise and peril both, and he's ready to face it.
Chapter 6: An Uneasy Welcome
Approaching Arcopolis's main gate, Dante finds himself in a jostling crowd of merchants, farmers with mule-drawn carts, and a few armored adventurers returning from early forays.
The great iron-shod doors loom ahead, ribbed in black iron like the spine of some colossal beast, while twin watch-towers bristle with archers whose green-fletched arrows glint menacingly in the climbing sun. Dust swirls up from wagon wheels, turning every sunbeam into a glittering throat of motes, and somewhere far inside the walls a bell tolls the hour—deep, resonant, the city's own heartbeat thudding through stone. Dante shuffles forward, boots scuffing gravel, and each breath drags in a heady mélange: yeast-sweet bread cooling on baking racks, sour horse-manure steaming in the dawn chill, acrid forge-smoke curling from unseen chimneys, and a dozen other scents he can't yet name. His pulse jitters to the rhythm of the crowd's slow advance, and sweat slicks his palms despite the crisp morning air. So close, he tells himself, wiping hands on his tunic. Don't blow it now.
Two guards stand sentinel where the queue funnels into a choke-point, halberd heads crossed like an iron X. Their polished cuirasses flash roselight, each step forward sending faint reflections skating over their breastplates. Lyra's presence beside him is a steadying weight; the ranger scans the bottleneck with a tactician's eye—counting exits, gauging guards' mood, choosing words before they spark.
Condition: Anxious (minor) pops up in Dante's peripheral vision, tinged yellow. He exhales, working the tension from his shoulders the way Seraphine taught him during yesterday's impromptu sparring. A whispered mantra—observe, adapt, survive—beats time with the slow shuffle of feet.
The halberds lift for the family ahead; then it's their turn.
The senior guard, a scar bisecting the bridge of his nose, drops his weapon to bar the way. "Halt. State your name and purpose." The words crack like flint on stone. Sunlight outlines the downturned corners of his mouth, carving them into permanent disapproval.
Dante opens his mouth—and blanks. Papers? Sponsor? A hundred rehearsed explanations scatter like startled finches.
Lyra slips forward, weight balanced on the balls of her feet—relaxed but ready. "He's with me," she says, voice pitched to carry without challenging. "Name's Dante. Here to register at the Adventurers' Guild."
Scar-Nose—Marus, according to the embroidery at his gorget—narrows his eyes. "No papers?" The tip of his halberd dips toward Dante's belt, where only a stone dagger and a battered pouch hang.
"Just arrived," Dante manages, cheeks heating. "I, uh, haven't had the chance."
A younger guard peers around her superior, curiosity bright behind helm slits. "Relax, Marus. Rookie, by the look of him." She indicates Dante's travel-stained coat, the patched knees, the half-healed bite near his wrist. "The guild can stamp him."
Marus grunts, unconvinced. Lyra fishes a finger-length wooden token from her pouch—ranger insignia etched in emerald dye. She palms two copper coins with it, sliding the toll across. Metal clinks; Marus's eyebrows twitch at the subtle bribe, but the halberds sweep apart.
System Message: Arcopolis Entry Toll — 2 Copper deducted (Balance: 1g 15s 8c). A fractional ding echoes in Dante's inner ear.
He steps under the colossal archway; cool shadow envelops him, scented with damp limestone and the faint tang of tar. Torch sconces gutter along the tunnel's flanks, their flames a ragged orange procession that marches deeper into the city's belly. Behind him, Lyra strides in with an easy confidence, mouth quirking when she catches his overwhelmed stare.
The UI flares again:
Quest Complete — "Reach Arcopolis"
Reward: 250 XP, Reputation +5 (Adventurers' Guild)
A pulse of warmth ripples through Dante's limbs—tiny, but enough to unknot the last strand of tension woven into his spine. Overhead, pigeons flutter out of arrow-slits, wingbeats echoing like applause in the vaulted corridor.
Lyra bumps his shoulder. "Welcome to the Great Wahoonie," she murmurs, using the locals' tongue-in-cheek nickname. "Mind the pickpockets, tip the street cooks, and try not to stare at the living statues. They hate that."
Dante huffs a laugh that tastes of relief and wood-smoke. Somewhere beyond the tunnel, street cacophony swells—hawkers' calls, blacksmith hammers, the distant roar of river barges unloading cargo—and the scent of fresh pastry coils around him like a beckoning finger. For half a breath he simply stands, mapping the sprawl with his imagination: twisting alleys, towering spires, guild halls brimming with parchment quests and possibility.
He can't help but smile in relief and wonder, stepping from the bright gate into the shadow of the bustling city beyond.
Chapter 7: Arcopolis Unveiled
Stepping past the gate, Dante is immediately engulfed by the clamor of Arcopolis in full swing.
Cobblestones glimmer with last night's rain, each sun-lit puddle reflecting a kaleidoscope of banners that flutter overhead like captive butterflies. Vendors roar their wares—"Piping-hot gryphon pies!" "Seven-spice nuts, roasted to crackling perfection!"—while the competing smells of honeyed pastries, horse sweat, and alchemical fumes wage noisy war in Dante's nostrils. Two children streak between wagon axles, sticks held high as imaginary swords, their laughter ricocheting off sandstone façades. Behind them, an apprentice alchemist staggers beneath crates that slosh luminous teal liquid with every wobbling step.
A sudden metallic cadence rattles Dante's ribs: an entire patrol of reptilian guards stomps by in scale-mail lacquered emerald, tails swaying with disciplined precision. The squad's serpentine eyes flick past him—one extra heartbeat of suspicion at the sight of a lone male—and then onward. Dante's breath escapes in a shaky puff; Lyra's hand finds his sleeve, steadying.
"Welcome to Arcopolis," she grins, an impish upward tilt to her brows that says, Try not to drown in it.
He means to thank her—but a dwarf barrels into his hip, tomes stacked so high only a bristling auburn beard is visible below the teetering tower. Parchment flutters free, raining glyphs. "Mind where you gawk, long-shanks!" the dwarf snaps before disappearing into the crowd like a disgruntled badger.
Dante exhales a laugh he didn't know he was holding. Overwhelmed flickers yellow in his HUD:
Status Effect — Sensory Overload
Perception +1 (temporary) Focus −1 (temporary)
Tip: Filter stimuli; anchor yourself.
He drags in a grounding breath: wet stone underboot, Lyra's calloused grip, the distant resonance of temple bells tolling vespers even at dawn. Pulse settling, he lets the city's symphony resolve into layered melodies rather than thunder.
Lyra guides him down a boulevard edged by multistory inns—all carved gargoyles and stained-glass mosaics—then beyond a statue-choked fountain where pigeons coo around marble heroines brandishing spears. She pauses before a broad, two-story edifice fronted by granite columns and a crest showing a silver sword crossed with a quill.
"Guildhall," she announces. "Your new homeroom."
Inside, the atmosphere shifts from open-air chaos to tavern-warmth and parchment musk. A mezzanine balcony circles overhead like a wooden halo; beneath it, adventurers of every race crowd quest boards, voices bouncing in a friendly brawl of boasts and bargaining. A halfling bard strums a lute atop a keg while a horned tiefling flips tankards behind the bar with infernal grace.
Dante's nerves prickle at the press of talent: a steel-skinned earth sorceress comparing scars with a spear-wielding centaur; a trio of leather-clad rogues arguing whether to hunt wyverns today or sleep off last night's ale. He tugs self-consciously at the seam of his road-stained coat.
Lyra nudges him toward a polished counter where a bespectacled gnome, waist-deep in ledgers, stamps parchment with tireless rhythm. Ink smudges freckles across his cheeks. Without glancing up he chirps, "Next!"
Dante lurches forward. "Um—registration. New adventurer." His voice emerges smaller than intended.
Quill already scratching, the gnome recites: "Name, race, approximate Level, class if any, and prior affiliations. Please articulate clearly; my ear-cones are not decorative." He flicks one pointed ear for emphasis.
"Dante. Human. Level 2. No class yet. Affiliations… none."
Lyra flashes her ranger token; the gnome's eyes widen a millimeter—professional recognition—then return to half-mast. "Sponsor acknowledged. Fee waived under Guild Reciprocity." He slides a form, quill, and a pewter cup brimming with violet ink. Dante's signature emerges shaky but legible.
A humming crystal orb ascends from a brass cradle. "Place palm beneath verifier, please."
When Dante complies, cool static kisses his skin. Lines of pale code ripple over the sphere.
Scan Complete — Unclassified Adventurer
Vitality: Stable Anomaly: None
Provisional Rank: Copper
The gnome's stamp thuds. "Congratulations, Copper #2471. Badge—don't eat it, lose it, or pawn it. Replacement fee triple." Copper disk slides across the desk, etched with a stylized C and a serial rune that glows faint orange.
Dante accepts, metal warm against sweat-slick fingers. A micro-ding blooms in his vision:
Achievement Unlocked — Officially Official!
Welcome to the Guild. Try not to die where paperwork can't reach.
From a nearby table, a burly knight draped in wolf fur lets rip a thunderous guffaw, pounding the tabletop hard enough to slosh ale. "Copper freshie nearly fainted at the orb!" he crows to companions. Heat floods Dante's cheeks; for a heartbeat he imagines every eye swiveling his way.
Lyra elbows him lightly. "Everyone starts at the bottom. You'll prove yourself soon enough," she murmurs, gaze slicing through his embarrassment with steady confidence.
And just like that, the laughter dulls to background clatter. Determination sparks under his ribs—small, bright, unquenchable.
Buff Applied — Resolve
Willpower +2 (1 hr)
He pins the badge to his coat; its modest weight feels less like tin and more like a key—one that might unlock dungeons, reputations, maybe even a destiny he hasn't dared define.
With guild membership secured and Lyra beaming at his side, he takes his first proper step into this new life, eager to turn potential into reality.
Chapter 8: First Night in Arcopolis
By dusk, Dante finds himself seated at a corner table in The Wandering Stag, a cozy inn not far from the guild.
Golden lamplight paints the timber walls in honeyed stripes, shimmering over carved stag-antler sconces and the brass tankards stacked behind the bar. A kindly barmaid—cheeks flushed, braid swinging—slides between tables with the practiced grace of someone who has dodged drunken elbows since childhood. Steam coils from the bowls on her tray, carrying the layered perfume of carrots sweetening in fat, onions softening to gold, pepper pricking the sinuses, and beef simmered long enough for its fibers to surrender. Dante's stomach tightens in a hollow cramp; when the barmaid sets the bowl before him, the rich broth mirrors lamplight and his own ragged reflection.
Across from him, Lyra raises a mug of amber ale that sloshes against froth-kissed pewter. "To surviving your first day in Arcopolis," she toasts, the gleam in her eyes matching the fire's glow.
Dante clinks his cup of barley tea—hands still scratched from travel but steadier now—and lets the earthy liquid wash warmth through his chest. Achievement: Social Milestone — Shared Toast winks, then fades. He chuckles, spooning stew past lips that sting pleasantly from pepper. Each bite is a small resurrection, muscle by muscle unclenching.
The tavern breathes around them: lute-strings hum by the hearth where a silver-haired minstrel plucks a melody halfway between lullaby and sea-shanty; a trio of spear-sisters at the center table slap coins down for another pitcher, cackling about a "boar the size of a carriage" that shrank conspicuously with each retelling; dice rattle, a bar-back curses cheerfully as a keg escapes his grip and thuds onto sawdust. Heat from the stone fireplace kisses Dante's cheeks, mingling with the cooling sweat at his nape—his body unsure whether to shiver or sigh.
Lyra tips her chair, boot heel hooked on the rung, studying him over the rim of her mug. "You're doing that wide-eyed thing again," she teases. "Like a fawn delivered straight from the gods into traffic."
He snorts, wiping broth from his chin. "It's a lot to process. Yesterday I was fighting wolves with sticks. Today the most dangerous thing in sight is that dwarf's bill." He nods toward a beefy patron waving an itemized parchment and bellowing for "more gravy, less arithmetic."
"Give it time," Lyra says. "Arcopolis has a way of turning dwarven math into murder weapons." Her grin softens. "But it also has the best opportunities on the Sphere. Tomorrow—job board. Find a beginner quest, snag some coin, maybe a shiny new bruise."
Dante swirls his spoon, watching carrots eddy like tiny orange barges. "Any recommendations?"
"Fetching lost heirlooms, clearing cellar vermin—" She makes a face. "—butcher-shop rats are fat with cheese and attitude. Still, decent XP. Or there's courier work: run documents across districts, dodge pickpockets. Less gore, more cardio."
He nods, though a pinch of doubt knots his brow. The tavern noise seems to rise—stories of ogre skull-cracking, the bite of steel, songs of people who belong here. He, meanwhile, is the odd piece slid into the wrong puzzle.
Lyra leans forward until her forearm brushes his. "You've got skills, Dante. Strategy. Observation. You kept your head when that wolf tried to make a meal of you—and when Marus nearly denied you entry. Don't sell yourself short."
A small UI window confirms her words as if the System eavesdrops:
Companion Insight
Confidence +10 % (temporary)
Source: Peer encouragement
Warmth pools behind his sternum, less fiery than ale but deeper. "Maybe…" He toys with the copper guild badge pinned to his collar, the engraved C-2471 catching fire-light. "Maybe you'd—if your schedule allows—come along? For the first quest, I mean."
She taps a finger to her chin in mock contemplation. "Hmm. Babysit a Copper rookie or monitor border snares all day?" She winks. "I'll see what I can do."
Relief gushes through him so fast he almost laughs out loud; instead, he raises his tea in silent gratitude. Lyra clinks it again—lighter this time, conspiratorial.
The night unfolds, unhurried. Stew dwindles to streaks, mugs refill and drain, and conversation meanders: Lyra recounts the time she mistook a mimic chest for free loot—"Lost half my braid before I stabbed the hinge!"—while Dante describes Earth coffee machines, leaving her incredulous that anyone would pay money just to stay awake longer. Each tale is punctuated by gestures: hands slicing air, brows leaping, shoulders shaking with mirth. Around them, the minstrel shifts to a rollicking jig; boots stomp in time, tankards knock wood, and tavern air pulses like a single great heartbeat.
When only embers glow and plates lie abandoned, their words grow softer, sentences stretching with fatigue. Lyra's eyelids droop; Dante's voice rasps. Finally she pushes back her chair. "Duty calls. Patrol at dawn," she murmurs, slinging her cloak.
Dante rises too quickly, almost toppling the chair; he steadies it with one hand and her wrist with the other. "Thank you… for everything, Lyra. I wouldn't have made it here without you." The confession is raw, as startling to his ears as it is sincere.
Her fingers curl around his, firm and warm. "Get some rest, Dante. Tomorrow's a new adventure." She squeezes once—promise more than farewell—then disappears through the door into a corridor washed amber by street lamps.
Silence, thick as wool, settles. A last log collapses in the hearth, sending sparks skittering like fire-flies. Dante exhales, shoulders suddenly heavy with spent adrenaline. The innkeeper, a broad woman with smile-lines etched like crow's-feet, gestures him upstairs.
The rented room is narrow and plain—whitewashed walls, a cot with a sagging rope lattice, a rough-spun wool blanket, wash-basin catching moonlight—but to Dante it feels palatial. He unlatches the small window; Arcopolis breathes outside, a distant murmur of wheels and laughter. Cool night air slips in, carrying the faint bite of river mist and yeast from late-shift bakeries.
Shrugging off boots and coat, he sinks onto the cot. Springs creak protest but hold. With a thought, he calls up his interface; cerulean glyphs bloom over the ceiling.
New Quest Unlocked — Prove Yourself
Objective: Complete your first Guild quest.
Rewards: XP, Copper → Tin Rank eligibility, reputation +?
Failure: None. (But your ego may suffer.)
Instead of dread, excitement quickens in his belly—like the prickling electricity before a thunderstorm, dangerous yet exhilarating. He dismisses the panel; glyphs shatter into motes that float, fade, and leave only the room's quiet hush.
Blanket scratchy against travel-worn skin, he stretches out, eyelids sinking. Somewhere below, a final ripple of laughter swells then softens, as though the tavern itself is tucking him in.
Surrounded by the muffled sounds of laughter and music downstairs, he drifts to sleep with hope kindling bright, ready to face whatever the morning brings.
Chapter 9: Quest for a Newcomer
Morning light spills through the guild's tall windows as Dante scans the bulletin board, heart thumping with anticipation.
Sunbeams slice the lobby's dust-speckled air, turning every grain into drifting gold. Beneath that glow the board looms like an over-stuffed tapestry: neat vellum invitations for "Rare Verdant Aloe—High Pay!" overlap frantic scrawls begging "Rat Catchers Needed—Smells Getting Worse!" Push-pins bristle like porcupine quills; a stray feather quivers where someone's arrow missed its mark. Dante's fingers hover, tracing rough parchment edges while his pulse ticks louder than the clamor behind him—tankards clinking in the tavern annex, steel greaves clattering across maple floorboards, muffled curses as a barbarian discovers her bounty's already claimed.
Most postings promise quick coin in exchange for bruises or boredom. Yet one modest slip draws him like a lodestone:
Collect Moonshade Blooms – Alchemist Guild
Ten blossoms from Silverglade, two miles east.
Pay: 30 copper & minor potion voucher.
Note: Blooms glow at dusk—handle gently.
Peaceful, he thinks—and close. Still, his hand hesitates. The paper feels flimsy, and so does his confidence.
"Thinking of grabbing that one?"
The voice is gentle, edged with the same caution echoing in Dante's chest. He turns to find a lanky young man in ink-speckled indigo robes. A quill tucked behind one ear bobs as the stranger offers a tentative smile.
"I was," the newcomer admits, "but, uh, maybe we could partner up—safety in numbers? I'm Marcus." He extends a long-fingered hand dotted with blotches of violet ink that smell faintly of lilac-sap.
Relief floods Dante, warm as a hearth on a rainy dawn. "Dante," he says, clasping the offered hand. "I'd be glad for the company."
Marcus's shoulders sag, tension draining like wine from a cracked barrel. Together they peel the notice free; parchment snaps, releasing a faint whiff of dried lavender embedded in the alchemist's seal.
A crystalline ding reverberates inside Dante's skull, followed by translucent text:
Quest Accepted – Moonshade Blooms
Gather 10 Moonshade Blooms (0/10)
Party Formed: Dante · Marcus
Bonus: Complete before nightfall for +25 XP
Marcus blinks, clearly reading the same overlay. He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still not used to the system doing that… It's only my second quest."
Dante grins, camaraderie kindling. "First harvest run for me. We'll muddle through."
They head for the registration desk, weaving past a muscle-bound trio arguing over who called dibs on a wyvern contract. The clerk today is an elf whose silver spectacles catch every shard of sun; without looking up she slides them a leather-bound map and an ink-stamped warning: "Return before curfew—Silverglade fog thickens after dusk." Her quill scratches their names into the ledger; a wax seal hisses as it cools.
Outside the guildhall, the city's morning buzz greets them. Horse carts creak over cobbles; a baker's cinnamon steam curls around a corner; somewhere a mage's firebolt whooshes in a training yard, followed by delighted applause. Marcus adjusts a satchel bulging with herb-press boards; Dante checks the edge on his stone dagger, heart lifting with every brisk inhale of crisp air.
"First stop," Marcus says, tapping the map, "the east gate—then straight along the willow brook until the glade."
Dante nods, feeling nerves melt into purpose. The badge at his collar glints like a newborn star, and the road ahead no longer looks daunting—only wide, bright, and waiting.
Stepping out into the crisp morning with Marcus by his side and a purpose in hand, he feels a burgeoning confidence. This is a small quest, perhaps, but it's his quest – the first page of an adventure he can call his own.