Hearth and Home V1

[Badatnaming]

No sensation at all.

An endless white void stretches in every direction.

You stand alone.

"..."

For a few moments, nothing happens.

Then a faint blue light appears before you.

The light grows brighter.

Larger.

Lines begin forming in the air.

A screen.

A massive translucent blue screen materializes in front of you.

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SYSTEM

Welcome, Candidate.

You have been selected for reincarnation.

As compensation for your untimely death, you may choose one starting skill.

Choose wisely.


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Five options appear.

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METEOR

Cast a meteor from the sky.

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TIME STOP

Stop time until released.

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DRAGON LORD

Command dragons.

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CREATION

Create objects from nothing.

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INFINITE TREASURY

Access an endless treasury.

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You stare at the menu.

"..."

"...What?"

The descriptions are absurdly short.

No explanation.

No warning.

No details.

Just five abilities that sound impossibly overpowered.

As if sensing your confusion, another message appears.

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The selected skill cannot be changed.

Your choice will define your future.

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The menu waits silently.

No timer.

No pressure.

No guidance.

Just a choice.

A very important choice.

After around two minutes, you hear the menu speak.

"When you are ready, state your choice."



I select CREATION. Being able to manifest whatever I need seems the most versatile for survival.



The moment the words leave your mouth, the blue screen pulses.

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SKILL SELECTED:

CREATION

Create objects, materials, tools, and structures from nothing.

Currency cannot be created.

Complexity and size affect creation time.

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The screen flashes once — bright, blinding white — and then the void around you begins to crack.

Not like glass.

Like reality itself is splitting open.

Lines of golden light fracture the endless white in every direction. The ground beneath your feet — ground you didn't even realize was there — trembles.

A roar of wind fills your ears.

Color floods in.

Blue sky.

Green earth.

The smell of grass and soil and something faintly metallic on the breeze.

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You blink.

You're standing in a valley.

A wide, sweeping valley surrounded by rolling green hills on either side. Wildflowers dot the landscape. A thin stream winds through the lowland to your left. The sun hangs high overhead — warm, real, alive.

You look down at your hands.

They're your hands. Flesh and bone. You flex your fingers. You breathe.

You're alive.

"..."

For a brief, peaceful moment, the world is quiet.

Then you hear it.

A distant rumble.

Low. Rhythmic. Growing louder.

You turn toward the far end of the valley.

The horizon darkens.

Not with clouds.

With bodies.

A horde is approaching.

Hundreds — no, a thousand — towering green-skinned figures pour over the hilltop like a living tide. Massive, muscular, tusked. Crude axes, jagged spears, and battered swords glint in the sunlight. Tattered red war banners whip in the wind above their ranks.

Orcs.

The ground shakes beneath their march.

They haven't spotted you yet — but at this pace, they will in minutes.

Your heart hammers.

You have no weapon. No armor. No allies.

But you have Creation.

You close your eyes and focus.

Castle. I need a castle. Now.

You feel something stir deep inside your chest — a warmth, a pull, like a muscle you never knew you had. You push everything into that feeling.

The ground beneath your feet begins to vibrate.

Then—

CRRRRRACK.

Stone erupts from the earth.

Not slowly. Not gently. Massive slabs of grey stone launch upward, stacking and fusing with a sound like thunder rolling across the valley. Walls climb toward the sky — ten feet, twenty, thirty — thick and reinforced, with battlements forming along the top like jagged teeth.

But it's slow.

You grit your teeth. Sweat beads on your forehead. A castle is enormous — the largest thing you've ever tried to create, and you've only had this power for seconds.

The walls groan as they rise. A gatehouse begins forming in front of you. Towers push upward at the corners, spiraling stone staircases winding inside them.

You glance over your shoulder.

The orcs have spotted the commotion.

A guttural war cry erupts across the valley — a thousand voices roaring in unison. Their march breaks into a charge.

The ground shakes.

"Come on, come on, come on—"

The walls are thirty feet high now. A courtyard has formed around you. Arrow slits carve themselves into the stone. A keep begins rising at the center.

But the gate isn't finished. There's a gap — a twenty-foot opening where the main entrance should be.

The first orcs are maybe three minutes out. Closing fast.

Your head is pounding. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges.

The castle is maybe sixty percent complete.

You can feel the strain — like holding something impossibly heavy with your mind.

The horde thunders closer.

What do you do?

You abandon everything else.

The towers. The keep. The finishing details. All of it — gone from your mind.

One thought. One single, desperate thought.

CLOSE THE GAP.

You scream through gritted teeth, throwing both hands forward as if physically pushing the stone into place.

Two massive oak doors — thick, iron-banded, reinforced with steel bolts — explode into existence within the gatehouse frame. They swing inward, and SLAM shut with a boom that echoes across the valley.

But you're not done.

You dig deeper.

Something behind your eyes burns.

An enormous iron portcullis materializes above the gate — hundreds of pounds of black metal — and drops with a deafening CRASH, its sharpened teeth biting into the stone floor.

"Hah... hah..."

You collapse to one knee.

Your vision swims. Your hands are trembling. Your nose is bleeding — a thin trickle of warmth running over your lip.

Then the orcs hit.

BOOM.

The entire wall shudders. Dust rains from the battlements. You hear the scraping of crude weapons against stone, the guttural roaring of a thousand furious voices just beyond the walls.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

They're throwing themselves against the gate. Against the walls. You hear axes biting into the oak doors.

But the walls hold.

The gate holds.

The portcullis holds.

You sit there on the cold stone courtyard floor, gasping, bleeding from the nose, head pounding as someone split it open — surrounded by an incomplete but functional fortress.

No roof on the keep. One tower half-finished. The interior is mostly bare stone.

But you're alive.

And a thousand orcs can't get in.

For now.

The pounding continues.

Finishing the castle is the best thing to do. The horde will find a way in eventually, but I can make a hidden room no one can find or enter.


You press your palm flat against the cold stone floor and breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

The pounding against the walls is relentless. You can hear the orcs organizing out there — barking orders in their guttural language, the rhythmic THUD THUD THUD of what sounds like a battering ram being assembled.

You don't have much time.

But you don't need much.

Start small. Work up.

You close your eyes and focus.

The hidden room first.

Deep beneath the courtyard — twenty feet underground — you carve out a space in your mind. A chamber. Ten feet by ten feet. Stone walls, stone floor, stone ceiling. Thick. Reinforced. No doors. No windows. No seams.

The only way in or out — a narrow vertical shaft disguised as part of the courtyard's drainage system, covered by a stone slab that looks identical to every other tile around it.

You feel the earth shift beneath you. A hollow thrum resonates through the ground as the chamber forms below.

Small. Quick. Done.

Your headache sharpens but doesn't worsen.

Good.

Now the rest.

You stand on shaking legs and get to work.

Piece by piece. Layer by layer.

The keep's roof closes overhead — heavy timber beams and slate tiles locking into place with soft clicks.

The half-finished tower spirals upward, completing itself stone by stone.

Arrow slits multiply along the walls.

A second inner wall forms around the courtyard — shorter, but creating a deadly kill corridor between the two barriers.

CRRRACK.

You stumble. Your vision goes white for half a second.

"Ngh—"

You're pushing too hard. The strain is enormous. But you force yourself to keep going.

Boiling oil cauldrons materialize along the battlements — heavy iron pots mounted on swivel frames, already filled and sitting above small fireboxes ready to be lit.

Crossbows — mounted, heavy, loaded — appear in the arrow slits. Simple mechanisms. Pull the lever, they fire.

You're breathing hard. Blood drips from your nose onto the stone.

Outside, a CRACK splits the air.

You look up.

The main gate shudders. A visible fracture runs down the left oak door.

They have a ram.

BOOM.

Another fracture.

The gate won't hold forever. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe less.

But the hidden chamber below is sealed and invisible.

The castle is roughly eighty-five percent complete.

And you have mounted defenses you can operate alone — if you can get to the walls in time.

Your head is screaming.

You taste copper.


You don't hesitate.

Your legs are shaking. Your vision is tunneling. Every heartbeat sends a spike of pain through your skull.

BOOM.

Another crack splits through the gate above. The orcs roar in triumph. They can smell the breakthrough coming.

You stumble across the courtyard, counting tiles.

Seven from the wall. Three from the drain.

There.

You drop to your knees and press your palm against the stone slab. It looks exactly like every other tile — same color, same texture, same weathering. But at your touch, it slides aside with a soft grinding sound, revealing a narrow dark shaft with iron rungs embedded in the wall.

You lower yourself in.

Your arms are trembling so badly you nearly lose your grip twice. The rungs are cold and slick. Darkness swallows you.

Ten feet down.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Your boots hit solid ground.

You look up at the faint square of daylight above and focus one last time.

Close.

The stone slab slides back into place with a quiet click.

Darkness. Total darkness.

"..."

You sink to the floor, back against the wall, and just breathe.

Above you — muffled, distant, but undeniable — you hear it.

CRASH.

The gate falls.

A thousand voices flood into your castle. The thunder of boots on stone. Guttural screaming. The sound of axes smashing into walls, furniture that doesn't exist, doors leading nowhere.

They're searching.

You sit perfectly still in the pitch black, blood drying on your upper lip, heart slamming against your ribs.

Minutes pass.

The sounds above shift. Frustrated barking. Arguments. Heavy footsteps crossing and recrossing the courtyard directly overhead.

One orc stomps right over your tile.

You hold your breath.

It passes.

Hours crawl by.

The noises gradually thin. The roaring fades to occasional grunts. Footsteps become sparse.

Then — eventually — silence.

You sit in the dark for another hour after that. Just to be sure.

Nothing.

They're gone.

Your headache has dulled to a manageable throb. Your nose has stopped bleeding. The exhaustion remains, but the shaking has stopped.

You create a small torch — easy, barely any strain — and the chamber fills with warm orange light.

Ten feet by ten feet. Bare stone. Just you and silence.

You're alive.

Day one in a new world, and you survived a thousand orcs.

"..."

Now what?


You let out a long, shaky exhale and look around the bare chamber.

"Alright... let's make this livable."

You start small.

A bedroll. Simple — stuffed canvas, wool blanket, small pillow. It materializes on the floor against the far wall with barely any effort. The strain is nothing compared to the castle.

Easy.

A wooden stool and a small table appear next. Rough-hewn but sturdy.

Then food.

You focus, and a wooden plate appears on the table — a loaf of warm crusty bread, a chunk of salted meat, and a small wedge of hard cheese. A waterskin filled to the brim materializes beside it.

The smell of the bread hits you, and your stomach screams.

"Oh god—"

You practically lunge at the table.

The first bite of bread is the best thing you've ever tasted. Warm, soft on the inside, crispy on the outside. You tear into the meat next — salty, dense, satisfying. The cheese is sharp and crumbly. You wash it all down with long, desperate gulps of water.

"Mmph—"

You eat like an animal. No shame. No manners. Just survival.

Within minutes, the plate is empty.

You sit on the stool for a moment, belly full, torch flickering on the wall.

"..."

The adrenaline is finally fading. And with it comes the weight. The full, crushing weight of everything.

You died.

You're in another world.

You just built a castle with your mind and hid from a thousand orcs in a hole.

Your hands start trembling again — not from strain this time.

"...What the hell is happening to me?"

The question echoes off the stone walls. No answer comes.

You stare at the torch flame for a long time.

Then exhaustion wins.

You crawl onto the bedroll, pull the wool blanket up to your chin, and close your eyes.

Sleep takes you almost instantly.

When you wake, you have no idea how much time has passed.

The torch has burned low — barely an ember.

But you feel better. Stronger. The headache is gone. Your mind feels clear.

You create a fresh torch and listen.

Silence above.

Complete silence.

You press your palm against the cold stone wall and close your eyes.

Tunnels. Branching. Confusing. A maze.

The stone begins to shift.

It's easier now — after rest, after food, your mind feels sharper. The creation flows more naturally, like flexing a muscle that's finally warmed up.

A corridor opens to your left. Ten feet long. Then it splits — left and right. The left branch curves into a dead end. The right continues, then splits again. And again.

You work methodically.

False doors. Dead ends. Corridors that loop back on themselves. A few passages that narrow to claustrophobic crawlspaces before opening into empty rooms leading nowhere.

The real path to your chamber becomes a specific sequence — second left, straight, third right, down a short staircase, through a low arch.

Anyone else would wander for hours.

You add a few nasty surprises.

Ankle-height tripwires connected to crude spring-loaded crossbows embedded in the walls. Pressure plates that trigger sections of ceiling to drop loose stones. A pit trap covered by a thin stone facade in one of the wider corridors — ten feet deep with jagged rocks at the bottom.

"Heh..."

You step back and admire your work, torch raised.

A labyrinth. Your labyrinth.

The strain is moderate — a dull pressure behind your eyes — but nothing like yesterday's agony.

You're getting better at this.

Finally, you make your way back to the main shaft and look up at the stone slab above.

You listen.

Birds singing.

Wind.

Nothing else.

Morning, probably.

You push the slab aside and climb up into daylight.

The courtyard is a mess.

Broken weapons scattered everywhere. Deep gouge marks in the stone walls. The main gate is destroyed — shattered oak and twisted iron strewn across the entrance. Dark stains on the ground that might be blood.

But no orcs.

The valley beyond the broken gate is empty. Trampled grass, abandoned war banners, and the distant shapes of dead orcs who didn't survive the stampede stretch toward the horizon.

They came. They searched. They left.

The morning air is cool and fresh.

You stand in the courtyard of your battered, incomplete castle, alone in a valley in a world you don't understand.

But alive. Rested. And getting stronger.

Then — faintly — you hear something from the road beyond the eastern hill.

Hooves. Wooden wheels on dirt.

Someone is approaching.

 

[Badatnaming]

You snap into action.

Hide the entrance. Now.

You raise both hands toward the shattered gate and focus.

Stone erupts from the ground — rough, uneven, natural-looking. Not castle walls. Cliff face. Jagged grey rock with patches of moss and dirt, matching the valley's hillside perfectly.

Layer after layer stacks over the destroyed gatehouse. You texture it carefully — cracks, weathering, even a few scraggly weeds sprouting from crevices.

Within two minutes, the entrance is gone.

From outside, it would look like the castle simply... ends. A natural rock formation butting up against ancient stone walls. Nothing to see. No way in.

You create a small hidden gap — barely two feet wide, tucked behind an outcropping — as your personal entrance. Invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.

"Not bad..."

The hoofbeats are getting closer.

You slip through the gap and circle the outside of the castle, keeping low against the wall. You find a position on the eastern side where you can see the road without being exposed.

You peer around the stone.


A wooden carriage with a white canvas top comes rolling over the hill, pulled by two black horses. Simple. Well-traveled. The wheels creak softly against the dirt path.

Four figures.

A tall man in a white tank top drives the carriage — broad-shouldered, brown hair, relaxed posture. Beside him sits a small woman in a black witch's hat, red hair spilling out beneath it, gesturing animatedly about something.

Inside the carriage, you catch glimpses of two more — a blonde woman in a red cloak and a dark-haired woman in black fitted clothing.

They're heading straight through the valley.

The man at the reins suddenly pulls the horses to a stop.

He's staring at your castle.

"...Oi. Was that there yesterday?"

The red-haired woman pushes up her hat brim.

"Huh. That's... definitely a castle."

What do you do?

You press your back flat against the stone and listen.

The morning breeze carries their voices clearly across the valley.

"That is absolutely a castle," the red-haired woman says, standing up on the carriage seat for a better look. "Biro, that was NOT there when we passed through last week."

The big man — Biro, apparently — scratches the back of his head.

"Yeah... no. Definitely not. I'd remember a whole bloody castle."

A quiet voice from inside the carriage. The dark-haired woman in black leans forward, red eyes scanning the walls with sharp precision.

"Look at the ground. Trampled. Thousands of footprints. Orc tracks."

Silence.

The blonde woman in the red cloak peers nervously over the carriage edge.

"O-Orc tracks? A thousand of them? Shouldn't we leave?"

"Tracks are old. Hours at least," the dark-haired woman says flatly. "They moved west. Away from here."

The red-haired woman hops down from the carriage, boots hitting dirt. She adjusts her witch's hat and walks a few steps toward the castle, squinting.

"So... a mysterious castle appears overnight in a valley full of orc tracks. That's not suspicious at all."

"Amane, get back here—" Biro starts.

"Oh, relax, big guy. If something built an entire castle to fight a thousand orcs, I want to meet them." She grins. "That's either the most powerful mage I've ever heard of, or the craziest person alive."

"Could be both," Biro mutters.

The dark-haired woman drops silently from the carriage and begins circling wide, scanning the perimeter.

She's heading in your direction.

Methodical. Professional.

She'll find you in about thirty seconds.

What do you do?


You take a breath, relax your shoulders, and step out from behind the wall with both hands raised.

"H-Hey! Don't shoot! I'm not— I'm just—"

You stumble slightly for effect, squinting in the morning light like someone who just woke up from a terrible nap.

The dark-haired woman freezes mid-step. Her hand is already on the hilt of a short blade at her hip. Red eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"...Contact," she says calmly over her shoulder.

"WHAT?" Amane spins around, hat nearly flying off. "Oh! A person!"

Biro is already on his feet in the carriage, one hand resting on a massive shield strapped to the side.

"Who are you?" the dark-haired woman asks. Not aggressive. Not friendly. Just... precise.

"I— my name's Rory," you stammer, keeping your hands visible. "I'm... I don't really know where I am, honestly. I woke up in this valley yesterday, and there were orcs — a whole army of them — and I just... I panicked."

You gesture weakly at the castle behind you.

"I'm a mage. Sort of. I can make things. Small things, mostly. Walls and... stuff." You pause and rub the back of your neck sheepishly. "I just kept building until they went away."

Silence.

Amane stares at you.

Then at the castle.

Then back at you.

"...You built a castle. Because you panicked."

"It's... not a very good castle," you mumble.

Biro slowly sits back down.

"Mate. That's a thirty-foot wall."

"The towers are uneven," you offer weakly.

The blonde woman — still half-hidden in the carriage — peeks out with wide green eyes, studying you. She seems to be trying to decide if you're dangerous or just strange.

The dark-haired woman hasn't moved her hand from her blade. Her red eyes narrow slightly.

"You survived a thousand orcs. Alone. With no gear. No weapons." Her voice is flat. "And you're saying you're low-level."

"I got lucky?" you try.

Another long silence.

Then Amane bursts out laughing.

"Oh, I like this one!" She marches straight up to you and grabs your hand, shaking it vigorously. "Amane. Fire mage. That's Biro, he hits things. Jasmine back there will probably stab you if you're lying — don't worry about it — and the shy one in the carriage is Misa."

"We're the Venturas," Biro calls from the carriage with a grin. "Adventuring group."

Jasmine still hasn't removed her hand from her blade.

"...We'll see," she says quietly.

Misa gives you a small, cautious wave from behind the carriage canvas.


"If it's alright with you, I kind of just want to fix the castle." I know it was stupid the moment the words came out of my mouth, but this was the first thing I made in a new world it felt like a bad omen for my new life to leave it in ruins.


You immediately regret saying it.

Fix the castle? Really? That's what you lead with?

Four strangers are standing in front of you. One of them still has her hand on a blade. And your first priority is home renovation.

But the words are already out there.

Amane blinks.

"...You want to what?"

"The gate's destroyed," you say, already turning back toward the wall. "And one of the towers is still unfinished. It's... bothering me."

Why are you still talking?

"It's just — it's the first thing I ever built, you know? Feels wrong to leave it broken."

Dead silence behind you.

Then Biro lets out a deep belly laugh.

"HA! The man builds a fortress in a panic, and now he's got sentimental attachment to it!" He slaps his knee. "I respect that. I really do."

You walk back toward the hidden gap in the cliff face. You hesitate, glancing over your shoulder.

"You can... come in if you want. Just don't touch the courtyard tiles."

"Why?" Amane asks, already following you.

"No reason."

Jasmine's eyes narrow further.

You slip through the gap and into the courtyard. The Venturas file in behind you — Amane first, practically skipping, then Biro ducking through the narrow entrance, then Misa clutching her red cloak nervously.

Jasmine enters last. Watching everything.

You stand in the center of the courtyard, roll your shoulders, and raise one hand toward the broken gatehouse.

New doors. Heavier. Reinforced steel core wrapped in oak. Triple-bolted hinges.

The stone groans. Wood and metal twist into existence — two massive doors forming plank by plank, bolt by bolt, until they settle into the frame with a resonant THOOM.

A new portcullis drops behind them.

You turn toward the unfinished tower and extend your other hand.

Stone spirals upward. A staircase winds into place inside. The roof caps itself with slate tiles.

"...There."

You lower your hands and exhale.

When you turn around, all four of them are staring at you.

Misa's mouth is slightly open.

Biro has crossed his arms, eyebrows raised.

Amane's hat has slipped sideways, and she hasn't fixed it.

Jasmine's hand has finally left her blade.

"...'Small things,'" Jasmine repeats quietly. "'Walls and stuff.'"

"...Yeah," you manage.

"You're a terrible liar," she says.

But there's something in her expression that wasn't there before.

Not suspicion.

Interest.

It really is stupidity that is in the driver's seat now because the only thing you can think of is the furniture and all the other things needed to live.

You stare at the empty courtyard, and the bare stone keep behind it.

No furniture. No kitchen. No beds. Nothing.

It's bothering you.

It's really bothering you.

"...One second."

"Wait, what are you—" Biro starts.

You walk into the keep.

The main hall is a hollow shell. Cold stone walls. Cold stone floor. Nothing else. Just an empty room that echoes with every footstep.

Unacceptable.

You raise your hands.

A long oak table materializes in the center — thick, sturdy, with eight carved chairs tucked around it. Iron candelabras appear at both ends, candles already in place.

A stone fireplace builds itself into the far wall, complete with an iron grate and a stack of dry firewood.

You move to the side rooms.

Four bedrooms branch off the main corridor. Each one gets a proper bed — wooden frames, stuffed mattresses, wool blankets, pillows. A nightstand with a candle. A simple wardrobe.

One extra bedroom. Just in case.

A fifth room forms.

You move to what feels like it should be a kitchen. Stone countertops. Iron pots. A wood-burning stove. Wooden utensils hanging from hooks. A barrel of clean water. Shelves lined with plates, cups, and bowls.

A pantry closet fills itself with bread, dried meat, cheese, salt, dried herbs, and a few sacks of grain.

You step back into the main hall, breathing a little harder.

The Venturas have followed you in.

They've been watching the entire time in complete silence.

Misa is touching one of the bed frames with trembling fingers, eyes wide.

"It's... real," she whispers. "It's warm."

Biro sits down heavily in one of the dining chairs. It creaks but holds.

"Solid craftsmanship too," he murmurs, genuinely impressed.

Amane is standing in the kitchen doorway, hat in her hands, for once completely speechless.

Jasmine leans against the main hall entrance, arms crossed. She watches you for a long moment.

"You built a furnished castle," she says slowly. "In two days. Alone. After fighting off a thousand orcs."

She pauses.

"And you called yourself low-level."

You open your mouth.

Close it.

"...The curtains still need work."

Biro howls with laughter.

Amane finally snaps out of it and jams her hat back on.

"Okay. OKAY." She marches up to you and jabs a finger into your chest. "You. Rory. Whatever you actually are. You're coming with us."

"We're the Venturas," Biro adds, still grinning from his chair. "Adventuring group. We travel, take quests, fight monsters, get paid."

Amane grabs both your shoulders.

"And we need you."

Misa peeks out from the bedroom doorway, cheeks slightly pink.

"W-We could use another member... if you wanted..."

Jasmine says nothing.

But she doesn't disagree.

"I can't fight. I didn't fight. I panicked and tried to make a castle but had to stop because the hoard was almost at me. Then I finished the gate and made a room underground to hide in. Then I might have made a murder maze, and that's why you should be careful in the courtyard." I rubbed the back of my head. "I don't know how much of a help I'd be or what I could do for you."


Amane stares at you.

Biro stares at you.

Misa stares at you.

Jasmine's eye twitches.

"...A murder maze," Jasmine repeats flatly.

"Under the courtyard," you confirm.

"That's why you said not to touch the tiles."

"Yeah."

Silence.

Then Biro stands up, walks over to you, and claps both hands on your shoulders.

"Mate. Mate. You don't need to fight."

Amane is nodding frantically.

"Do you have any idea how useful a creation mage is?" She starts counting on her fingers. "Shelter. Food. Water. Equipment. Traps. Fortifications. Emergency walls. Bridges. Literally anything we need on the road."

"Most adventurers die from logistics," Biro adds seriously. "Running out of supplies. Bad weather. No safe place to sleep. Injured with no way to rest safely." He gestures around the hall. "You just solved all of that. In twenty minutes."

Misa steps forward timidly, clutching her red cloak.

"And... and I'm a healer," she says softly. "I don't fight either. I stay in the back and keep everyone alive. You could... stay with me?"

She looks up at you with hopeful green eyes.

Jasmine pushes off the wall and walks over. She studies you carefully.

"You're not a fighter," she says. Not an insult. A fact. "But you're a survivor. You think ahead. You plan. You trapped an entire castle because you were afraid someone would come back."

She crosses her arms.

"That's tactical thinking. We need that."

Amane grabs your arm and starts pulling you toward the door.

"Come on. We're heading to the Adventurers Guild in the capital. One day's travel. We'll get you registered, pick up a quest, and you'll see what we do."

"We split loot evenly," Biro says, following behind. "No tricks. No backstabbing. We're a team."

"You can even keep your murder castle," Amane adds cheerfully. "We travel by carriage anyway. You can come back whenever."

Jasmine walks past you toward the door.

"You're coming," she says simply.

It's not a question.

Misa takes your other arm gently.

"P-Please?" she whispers. "It would be nice to have someone else who... stays safe in the back..."

The four of them are standing around you now — waiting.

The Venturas.

Your first real contact with people in this world.


"Fine, but just so you know, I tend to make architecture when I panic." I start walking toward the exit with them.

You fall into step with the group, but pause at the courtyard threshold.

Almost forgot.

You press your boot against one of the tiles and focus. The stone beneath the entire courtyard thickens — six inches of reinforced granite fusing beneath the surface. The hidden entrance seals itself with an additional layer, requiring your specific touch to reopen.

The murder maze below goes dark. Sealed. Sleeping.

Good boy. Stay.

...Did you just talk to your underground death labyrinth like a pet?

Moving on.

"Architecture when you panic," Biro repeats as you slip through the hidden gap in the cliff face. "So what do you make when you're angry?"

"Let's hope we never find out," Jasmine says quietly.

"I'm hoping for a cathedral," Amane whispers to Misa, who lets out a small nervous laugh.

The carriage is right where they left it. The two black horses snort and stamp impatiently as the group climbs aboard.

Biro takes the reins. Amane claims the seat beside him. Jasmine swings herself into the back of the carriage with fluid, catlike grace.

Misa hesitates at the carriage step, then offers you her hand.

"H-Here. It's a bit of a climb."

You take it and pull yourself up. The carriage interior is modest — wooden benches on either side, a few packs and supply bags, some rolled blankets. Lived in. Comfortable in a worn sort of way.

Jasmine sits across from you, legs crossed, eyes closed. Already resting.

Misa settles beside you, pulling her red cloak tighter around her shoulders.

"YAH!" Biro snaps the reins.

The carriage lurches forward. Wheels creak. Hooves clop against the dirt road.

Your castle shrinks behind you — a grey silhouette against the green valley, disguised cliffside and all.

You feel a strange pang watching it disappear over the hill.

The first thing you ever made in this world.

The road winds through open countryside. Rolling green hills. Scattered trees. The occasional crumbling stone wall marking old property boundaries.

An hour passes in comfortable silence before Amane twists around from the front seat.

"So! Rory!" She grins beneath her hat brim. "Important questions. Critical information gathering."

Biro sighs. "Here we go."

"Favorite food?"

"Amane—" Biro starts.

"Critical. Information."

Misa giggles softly beside you.

Even Jasmine opens one eye.

What do you do?



"Let me think for a second." Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Objectively, this is a silly question, but for some reason I want to give a real answer.


What is my favorite food? Should I pick something I could eat every day and never get tired of?


Or something I could only have on special occasions because it's so difficult to make? Something I can make whenever I want because now I can!


I lift my hands, palms flat, and make a tray on top, like from a cafeteria. A plate with Bœuf Bourguignon. Julia Child's Bœuf Bourguignon. Then a separate plate with fondant potatoes and wild rice stuffing. Then a smaller plate with cheese-stuffed garlic knots. Finally, for dessert, chocolate soufflés.

You stare at the tray balanced on your palms.

The aroma hits the carriage like a wall.

Rich, deep, wine-braised beef. Caramelized onions. Herbs — thyme, bay leaf, parsley — woven through a sauce so dark and glossy it practically glows. The fondant potatoes are golden-brown on top, creamy white where they've been cut. The wild rice stuffing glistens with butter and finely diced vegetables. The garlic knots are split slightly, molten cheese oozing from the centers, flecked with herbs and roasted garlic.

And the soufflés. Two small ramekins of impossibly perfect chocolate soufflé, risen just above the rim, trembling slightly with the motion of the carriage.

The entire carriage goes silent.

Biro's nose twitches. The reins go slack in his hands. The horses, now unguided, slow to a lazy walk.

"...What... is that smell?" he whispers.

Amane has gone completely rigid. Her hat slides off her head. She doesn't notice. Her blue eyes are locked on the tray with an expression usually reserved for witnessing miracles.

Jasmine's eyes are fully open now. Both of them. She's sitting up straight, arms uncrossed, staring at the food like it personally offended her by being that beautiful.

Misa beside you has both hands pressed over her mouth. Her green eyes are enormous.

"Th-That's... you just... from nothing..."

You look down at the tray.

Your chest aches.

Mom made this every year.

Birthday. Graduation. First job. First apartment. Every milestone. Every accomplishment. The smell of her kitchen on those evenings — warm, golden, full of laughter and the sound of her humming while she stirred the pot.

You didn't expect it to hit this hard.

Your throat tightens.

"...I forgot a drink," you say again, quieter this time.

You focus. A small ceramic cup materializes on the corner of the tray. Dark red wine — the same kind Mom always poured herself a glass of while cooking, laughing about how half goes in the pot and half goes in the chef.

You stare at it for a moment too long.

"..."

Amane's voice cuts through, unusually gentle.

"...Rory? You okay?"

You blink. Look up.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry." You clear your throat and hold the tray forward. "This is my answer. Bœuf Bourguignon. Someone... important used to make it for me."

Silence.

Misa's hand brushes your arm. Feather-light. She doesn't say anything.

Then Biro twists around fully, completely abandoning the reins.

"Right. We're stopping. Right now. I am not letting that food get cold bouncing around in this carriage."

"For once I agree with the musclehead," Amane says, already climbing into the back. "Move over, Jasmine."

"I haven't agreed to—"

"Move."

Jasmine moves.

Biro pulls the carriage to the side of the road beneath a large oak tree. Within minutes, the five of you are sitting in a loose circle in the grass, the tray set in the center like a sacred offering.

You create four more place settings. Plates. Forks. Knives. Small


I smile faintly. "Enjoy. It's best while it's still warm, and I've got plenty more where that came from."


Everyone reaches in.

Biro goes for the beef first. He cuts a thick chunk, drags it through the sauce, and puts it in his mouth.

He stops chewing.

His eyes close.

"..."

"...Biro?" Amane asks, garlic knot halfway to her lips.

"Shh," he says. "Shh. I'm having a moment."

Amane rolls her eyes and bites into the garlic knot.

The cheese stretches. The garlic hits. Her pupils dilate.

"Oh. Oh no." She puts a hand over her heart. "Oh no, this is the best thing I've ever eaten. This is a problem."

Jasmine has silently served herself a small portion of everything. She eats methodically, precisely, giving nothing away.

But she takes a second helping of the fondant potatoes.

Then a third.

She catches you noticing and looks away.

Misa takes small, careful bites beside you. After her first taste of the bourguignon, she makes a tiny sound — almost inaudible — and her eyes get glassy.

"It's... it's so warm," she whispers. "It tastes like... like someone made it with love."

Your chest tightens again.

Yeah. Someone did.

"Rory," Biro says, pointing his fork at you with absolute seriousness. "If you ever try to leave this group, I will physically carry you back."

"I'll help," Amane adds, mouth full of rice stuffing.

"Agreed," Jasmine says quietly.

Then come the soufflés.

You create enough for everyone. Five ramekins, each one trembling and perfect.

Amane takes one bite and falls backward into the grass.

"I'm dead. This killed me. Tell my family I died happy."

Biro is scraping his ramekin with a spoon, making sounds that should probably be private.

Misa is eating hers with tiny bites, savoring every single one, eyes closed.

Jasmine finishes hers in silence, sets the ramekin down, and looks at you.

"...Thank you," she says simply.

The afternoon sun filters through the oak leaves above. A warm breeze rolls through the grass. The horses graze lazily nearby.

For one quiet moment, sitting in the grass with four strangers who don't feel quite like strangers anymore, the ache in your chest softens.

Just a little.

Amane suddenly bolts upright.

"Wait. You said you had plenty more?"

"Amane, you'll explode—"

"PLENTY. MORE. He said PLENTY MORE, Biro."

Misa laughs. Actually laughs. A soft, bright sound.

Even Jasmine's lips twitch.

The road to the capital stretches ahead. One more day of travel.

But for now, under the oak tree, full and warm and surrounded by laughter — it almost feels like home.


I stand up and brush off my pants. "We should keep moving. If we stay here too long, we might never actually get to the capital."


You extend a hand to Misa, helping her up from the grass. She takes it with a small smile, brushing crumbs from her red cloak.

"He's right," Jasmine says, already on her feet. She moves toward the carriage with silent efficiency.

Amane groans from the grass.

"Five more minutes."

"No," Biro says, scooping her up by the back of her cloak like a kitten. She dangles there, hat askew, utterly defeated.

"This is tyranny."

"This is scheduling." He deposits her on the front seat and climbs up beside her, taking the reins.

You clean up with a thought — the plates, the ramekins, the tray — all dissolving back into nothing. The grass where you sat looks untouched, as if the meal never happened.

Misa watches the plates vanish with wide eyes.

"That's... still incredible," she murmurs.

You climb into the back of the carriage. Misa settles beside you again — a little closer this time, you notice. Jasmine takes her usual spot across from you, legs crossed, eyes half-closed.

"YAH!"

The carriage lurches forward. The oak tree shrinks behind you.

The afternoon passes slowly. The road winds through farmland — golden wheat fields, low stone fences, the occasional farmhouse with smoke curling from its chimney. Twice you pass other travelers — a merchant with a mule cart who waves, and a pair of armed men on horseback who eye the carriage but keep moving.

As the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet, Biro calls back from the front.

"We'll reach the capital by midmorning tomorrow. Need to find a spot to camp for the night."

Amane twists around, grinning at you.

"Sooooo... Rory... any chance you could—"

"Amane," Jasmine warns.

"What! I was just going to ask if he could maybe make us a small shelter! Tiny! Modest!"

Biro chuckles from the front.

"Last time we camped, it rained, and Amane's spellbook got soaked. She's been traumatized ever since."

"It took me THREE DAYS to dry those pages, Biro. Three days."

Misa tugs gently on your sleeve.

"Y-You don't have to... but it would be nice to sleep somewhere safe. After the orc tracks and everything..."

The carriage rolls to a stop near a clearing beside the road. A small stream runs nearby. Trees provide decent cover.

A good campsite.

 

[Badatnaming]

You step down from the carriage and survey the clearing.

Okay. Small shelter. Modest. Tiny.

You crack your knuckles.

...Absolutely not.

You start with the wall.

A low stone perimeter — about chest height — rises from the ground in a wide circle, enclosing the clearing and a stretch of the stream. Rounded river stones, mortared together, with a simple wooden gate facing the road. Sturdy enough to deter wildlife. Cozy enough to feel like a garden fence.

Inside the wall, the cottage begins.

Warm honey-colored stone. A steep thatched roof with moss creeping along the ridgeline. Dark timber framing. Leaded glass windows with diamond-shaped panes that catch the fading sunset light. A rounded wooden door with iron hinges and a brass knocker shaped like a sleeping fox.

Then the wizard tower.

A narrow cylindrical tower sprouts from the cottage's left side, spiraling up about twenty feet, capped with a conical slate roof and a tiny weather vane shaped like a crescent moon. A single arched window near the top glows faintly as a candle materializes inside.

"Oh my god," Amane whispers from behind you.

You're not done.

The stable forms against the inside of the wall — simple timber construction, two stalls with fresh hay, a water trough that feeds directly from the stream through a small stone channel. A hitching post out front.

The well appears near the cottage door — circular stone base, wooden crossbeam, iron bucket on a rope. Purely decorative since the stream is right there, but it completes the picture.

And finally — tucked discreetly behind the cottage, partially hidden by a trellis that's already growing ivy because you can — a small wooden outhouse with a crescent moon carved into the door.

You step back, breathing slightly harder.

The clearing has transformed into a page from a storybook.

Warm light spills from the cottage windows. The stream babbles through the walled garden. Fireflies — wait, did you make those? You don't think you made those. They just... showed up.

Nature approves, apparently.

Silence behind you.

You turn around.

All four Venturas are standing in a line, staring.

Biro's mouth is open. Actually open. The reins are still in his hand. The horses are trying to walk toward the stable on their own.

Amane has removed her hat and is holding it against her chest like she's at a funeral. Or a wedding.

"It has a tower," she breathes. "Rory. It has a wizard tower."

Misa has both hands pressed to her cheeks. Her green eyes are shimmering in the cottage light.

"It's... It's like something from a fairy tale..."

Jasmine stares at the cottage. Then at the wall. Then at the outhouse. Then at you.

"You were asked for a small shelter."

"This IS small," you say defensively. "There's only one tower."

Jasmine closes her eyes. You think you see her shoulders shake once. Just once.

Did Jasmine almost laugh?

Biro finally unfreezes. He leads the horses toward the stable, shaking his head the entire way.

"One tower. Only one tower. The man says it like he's showing restraint."

Inside, the cottage is warm and golden.



Five bedrooms branch off a central hallway — each one small but perfect. Quilted beds, nightstands with candles, woven rugs on stone floors. Each door has a different carved animal — a fox, a bear, an owl, a rabbit, and a cat.

The dining room sits at the cottage's heart. A round oak table with five chairs. A stone fireplace already crackling with a warm fire. Iron pots hang from hooks. The kitchen is stocked.

Amane immediately claims the wizard tower room, sprinting up the spiral staircase with her spellbook clutched to her chest.

"MINE. THIS IS MINE. NOBODY TOUCH IT."

Biro takes the bear door. Obviously.

Misa gently touches the rabbit door, blushing slightly, and slips inside.

Jasmine studies each door, then silently takes the cat.

That leaves you with the owl.

You stand in the hallway, listening to Amane's muffled squealing from the tower, Biro's bed creaking under his weight, and the soft sound of Misa humming behind her door.

Jasmine pauses at her doorway and glances back at you.

"...Not bad," she says quietly.

Then she closes the door.

You smile.


You close the owl door behind you and exhale.

Finally. Quiet.

The room is small and warm. A quilted bed with deep blue covers. A nightstand with a flickering candle. A woven rug beneath your feet in shades of cream and brown. The window looks out over the stream, moonlight rippling across the water.

You sit on the edge of the bed and let yourself just... exist for a moment.

Two days ago you were dead.

Now you're in a fairy-tale cottage you built with your mind, traveling with four strangers toward a kingdom you've never seen.

"...What a life."

You create a small desk against the wall — simple, sturdy, with a wooden chair. Then parchment. Ink. A quill. A ruler. A compass for drawing circles.

You pull the chair in and get to work.

You don't know much about this world yet. But you know what you saw today.

The valley. The road. The farmland. The stream. The direction of the capital based on the sun's position and Biro's navigation.

You start sketching.

A rough map takes shape — the valley where you spawned marked with a small square for your castle. The road winds east through farmland. The oak tree where you stopped for lunch marked with a tiny circle. Your current campsite marked with a star.

You leave the area ahead blank. Tomorrow you'll fill it in.

Then you start a second page — tactical layouts. Defensive positions. Choke points you noticed along the road. Places where an ambush could happen based on terrain.

A third page becomes a supply list. Things you might need to create quickly. Weapons. Shields. Barriers. Medical supplies. Rope. Light sources.

If I can't fight, I can prepare.

A knock at your door interrupts your thoughts.

"Rory?" Misa's voice. Soft. Hesitant. "Um... Amane made tea. Well... she heated water with fire magic, and I think she singed the kettle a little... but it's still tea. Would you like some?"

You glance at your desk. Three pages of notes. Ink on your fingers.

You hadn't realized an hour had passed.


I stand up, stretching my arms, and beam at her. "Tea sounds perfect. Let me just tuck these away, and I'll be right out."


You gather the parchments, tap them into a neat stack, and slide them into the desk drawer. You wipe the ink from your fingers with a small cloth you create absentmindedly — it vanishes the moment you're done with it.

Misa watches the cloth disappear and blinks.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

You grin and follow her down the hallway.

The dining room is golden and warm. The fireplace crackles softly. The round oak table now holds a mismatched collection of cups — some ceramic, some wooden — surrounding a slightly scorched iron kettle.

Amane is sitting cross-legged on her chair, hat off, red hair spilling everywhere. She's cradling her cup with both hands and looking extremely proud of herself.

"I made tea."

"You burned the tea," Biro corrects from across the table. He's leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, holding his cup with one massive hand. He takes a sip and winces almost imperceptibly.

"It's smoky. That's a flavor profile, Biro."

"It tastes like a campfire."

"You're welcome."

Jasmine sits in her usual reserved posture, both hands wrapped around her cup. She hasn't taken a sip. She appears to be studying the liquid with quiet suspicion.

You settle into your chair. Misa slides a cup toward you and sits down beside you, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

You take a sip.

It is... aggressively smoky. There's a faint hint of actual tea somewhere beneath what tastes like charcoal and enthusiasm.

Amane leans forward, blue eyes wide.

"Well??"

You pause. Swallow carefully.

"...It has character."

"HA!" She slaps the table and points at Biro. "CHARACTER. He said CHARACTER."

"That is not a compliment," Biro mutters into his cup.

Misa giggles quietly beside you — a small sound, almost hidden behind her cup. You catch it, though.

The firelight plays across the table. The five of you sit in comfortable warmth, the sounds of the stream murmuring through the walls.

Amane launches into a story about the last time the Venturas camped — something involving Biro sleepwalking into a thornbush and Jasmine refusing to help him out of it.

"I assessed the threat level," Jasmine says flatly. "Thornbush. Non-lethal."

"I was BLEEDING, Jasmine."

"Superficially."

Misa covers her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

You lean back in your chair, smoky tea warming your hands, and let the evening wash over you.

Eventually the conversation slows. Amane yawns enormously. Biro stands and stretches, his shoulders popping.

"Early start tomorrow. Capital by midmorning if we leave at dawn."

Amane groans.

"Dawn is a concept, not a requirement—"

"Dawn," Jasmine repeats. Final.

One by one, they drift toward their rooms. Amane waves sleepily. Biro claps you on the shoulder as he passes.

"Good maps?" he asks quietly.

You look at him, surprised.

He shrugs. "Saw the ink on your fingers. Figured you were planning."

I shrug my shoulders.

"They just show where we've been. I can't make a map of places I haven't been to." I take a moment to stretch myself. Thinking for a moment. No, that's something I can't do.

"Looks like it's bedtime." Looking at the table, I have a thought.

"I'm going to try something real quick." I can't make a map of a place I haven't been, but with everyone going to bed, I remember my own habit of reading before bed. I don't know if this will work, but I think of my favorite story, 'Reserved for the Cat' by Mercedes Lackey.



Heck, I loved all of her books, but for some reason that had always been my favorite. I picture a leather-bound book embossed with a picture of a ballerina doing a pirouette with a cat curled around her foot.



You hold out your hand.

This is different. Not a tool. Not a structure. Not a material.

A story. Someone else's words. From another world.

You focus. The leather cover. The embossed ballerina, mid-pirouette, graceful and frozen in motion. The cat curled lazily around her foot, tail wrapped like a comma. The weight of it in your hands. The smell of the pages.

Your palm tingles.

Something resists.

It's like pushing through water — not impossible, but heavy. Your skill strains in a way it hasn't before. Creating stone, wood, metal — those are shapes. Patterns. Physical things with physical properties.

But this is meaning. Language. Ideas that came from a mind in a world that no longer exists for you.

Your fingers twitch.

A book materializes.

It's leather-bound. Dark brown. The ballerina is there — embossed in gold, pirouetting beautifully. The cat curls at her foot, every whisker detailed.

You open it.

The first page reads:

Reserved for the Cat

Your breath catches.

You flip further. Chapter one. The words are there. Mercedes Lackey's words. Your memory of them, pulled through whatever impossible mechanism lives inside your skill, pressed into ink on pages that didn't exist three seconds ago.

But — you notice — some passages feel slightly off. A sentence here or there that you can't quite remember perfectly. The skill filled in gaps with something close. Very close. But not exact.

It's your memory of the book. Not the book itself.

Still. You hold it against your chest for a moment.

A piece of home.

Biro is still standing in the hallway, watching.

"What's that?"

"A story," you say quietly. "From a long time ago."

He nods slowly. Doesn't push.

"Goodnight, Rory."

"Goodnight, Biro."

You settle into the blue quilted bed with the book propped on your knees. The candle flickers on the nightstand. The stream murmurs outside.

You read.

The words aren't perfect. But they're yours. Your memory. Your comfort.

Somewhere around chapter three, your eyes grow heavy.

The book rests against your chest as sleep takes you.

You wake to Amane banging on doors.

"DAWN! DAWN IS HERE! I HATE IT! EVERYONE SUFFER WITH ME!"

Pale gray light filters through the diamond-paned window. The stream catches the first hints of sunrise.


I stay under the covers for a second, groaning. If I create a wall of pillows to block the noise, does that count as a hostile act?


You seriously consider it.

Pillow wall. Floor to ceiling. Soundproofed.

Another bang on your door.

"Rory! I can HEAR you being awake in there! Don't you DARE be comfortable!"

You groan louder, pulling the quilt over your head.

This is tyranny. Biro was wrong yesterday. THIS is tyranny.

But the smell of something cooking drifts under the door. Something savory. Eggs? Bread?

Your stomach makes the decision for you.

You stumble into the dining room, book tucked under your arm, hair doing something architectural.

The scene that greets you is controlled chaos.

Amane is standing at the fireplace, hat crooked, wielding a pan over the flames with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. Small controlled bursts of fire magic lick at the pan's underside.

"I am COOKING. Nobody criticize me. I am FRAGILE right now."

Biro sits at the table, arms crossed, watching her with the expression of a man who has seen buildings collapse.

"You're burning the eggs."

"They're CRISPY."

Misa is quietly setting the table, placing cups and plates with careful precision. She looks up when you enter and offers a small morning smile.

"Good morning, Rory."

Her eyes catch the book under your arm.

"Oh — you have a book? What is it about?"

Jasmine is already seated. Dressed. Armed. A cup of water in front of her. She looks like she's been awake for three hours.

She glances at your hair.

One eyebrow rises approximately two millimeters.

That's a Jasmine laugh. You're sure of it.

Amane slides a plate onto the table. The eggs are... present. They are brown in places that eggs should not be brown. The toast is actually decent. There's some kind of dried fruit on the side.

"BREAKFAST IS SERVED. You're all WELCOME."

Biro picks up his fork, stares at his plate, and sighs from somewhere deep in his soul.


"It's about a ballerina who accidentally angered the prima ballerina of her company, so she gets fired and can't find a new job. When she's at her most desperate, her cat tells her the only thing she can do is leave the country; she figures that she doesn't really have an option. That the cat is either really talking to her, in which case at least someone has an idea, or she's already crazy, so she might as well roll with it. She ends up stealing the identity of a famous ballerina and becoming the star of a small theater, falling in love with the stage magician who gets hired to help with a new production made for her to star in; only it turns out that the magician and theater owners are actual elemental masters, and they think her father was one too because the cat is talking, and they think she's on the run from whoever killed her father."

I ramble out, taking bites of egg. Amane made breakfast for everyone. I like that no one assumes I'll do it. Maybe she wants to show they won't take me for granted. That alone makes it taste much better.


"It's a retelling of Puss in Boots, the longer version with the troll included." I realise I might have just gone on a bit of a ramble. Clearing my throat, I can feel myself blush. "I really like it."



The table is quiet for a moment.

You become acutely aware that you just delivered an entire book synopsis in one breath while eating brown eggs.

Amane is leaning forward on her elbows, blue eyes enormous.

"Wait. The cat talks? The cat is just — talking? And she just goes with it?"

"I mean, she was desperate—"

"I love her already. I would also follow a talking cat. Without question. Biro, if a cat talked to me—"

"You'd follow it. Yes. I know. You'd follow any animal that talked to you, Amane."

"That's not — okay, that's fair."

Misa has stopped setting the table. She's standing with a cup in her hands, completely still, green eyes wide.

"The... the stage magician," she says softly. "Does he find out she's not really who she says she is?"

You nod, taking another bite of toast.

"Eventually, yeah."

"And he still...?"

"Yeah."

Her cheeks turn pink. She sets the cup down very carefully and sits, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"That sounds really lovely," she murmurs.

Jasmine has been watching you the entire time. Not the story — you. The way you talked about it. The blush. The rambling. Something shifts behind her red eyes. Something almost imperceptibly warmer.

"Puss in Boots," she repeats.

"It's a fairy tale from — from where I grew up."

"A fairy tale about deception, identity theft, and elemental magic." The corner of her mouth twitches. "Your homeland had interesting children's stories."

Biro chews his eggs thoughtfully. Swallows.

"I'd read it."

You blink.

"Really?"

"A man who does real magic pretending to do fake magic on a stage?" He shrugs his massive shoulders. "That's clever. I like clever."

Amane gasps and slaps the table.

"Rory. Rory. Can you make copies? Can you make us ALL copies? I want to read about the talking cat. I NEED to read about the talking cat."

Misa looks at you with quiet hope.

Jasmine says nothing.

But she hasn't said no.

I smile warmly at Misa.

"Yeah, I can do that." A warm spot fills my chest; they want to read it because I like it.

"Just to warn you, the book is mostly the original story, but it's not a perfect recreation. Just my memory. Oh, and it's book five of the Elemental Masters; the original writer of it has two series retelling old fairy tales. 'Reserved for the Cat' is just my favorite." I make four more copies, with the house cat being a different breed for each person.



You hold out your hands and focus.

Four books materialize one after another, each identical in size and binding to your own copy — dark brown leather, gold embossing, the ballerina mid-pirouette.

But the cat changes each time.

For Amane — a wild-looking orange tabby with bright eyes and a crooked tail, mid-pounce. It matches her energy perfectly.

For Biro — a thick, broad-chested Maine Coon with a serious expression, sitting upright and dignified at the ballerina's feet.

For Misa — a delicate white Persian with soft green eyes, curled gently around the ballerina's ankle, tail draped like ribbon.

For Jasmine — a sleek black cat with sharp red-tinted eyes, perched on the ballerina's shoulder, watching the reader with quiet intelligence.

You slide them across the table.

Amane snatches hers immediately.

"IT'S ORANGE. THE CAT IS ORANGE. Rory, did you make it orange for me?"

"Maybe."

"I'm going to CRY."

She doesn't cry. But she does clutch the book against her chest and make a sound that is not entirely human.

Biro picks his up, turns it over in his large hands. He studies the Maine Coon on the cover and huffs a quiet laugh.

"Looks like my uncle's barn cat." He opens to the first page, nods once, and tucks it carefully into his pack.

Misa receives hers with both hands, like it's something fragile and precious. She traces the white Persian with her fingertip.

"It's beautiful," she whispers. "Thank you, Rory."

Jasmine picks hers up last. She examines the black cat on the cover. Studies it for a long, silent moment.

Then she looks at you.

"...You matched them to us."

It's not a question.

"Seemed right," you say.

She holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than usual. Then she slides the book into her bag with precise, deliberate care.

She says nothing else.

She doesn't need to.

Amane is already three pages deep when Biro clears his throat.

"We can read on the road. Capital by midmorning, remember?"

"RIGHT." Amane snaps the book shut. "Everyone pack up. Rory, do you need to — what happens to the cottage when we leave?"

You look around at the warm stone walls, the crackling fireplace, the round table where five people shared burnt eggs and stories.


You press your palm flat against the warm stone.

The wall hums faintly under your fingers — the faintest echo of the skill that made it. As if the cottage remembers being created. As if it's grateful.

You're going to make a lovely home for someone. I'm sure you'll keep them safe.

The fireplace dies. The candles in every room extinguish softly, trails of smoke curling upward like sighs.

You step through the rounded door with the sleeping fox knocker and close it gently behind you.

The morning air is cool and clean. Dew clings to the grass inside the stone wall. The stream catches early light, silver and bright.

Biro has already hitched the horses to the carriage. They look rested and well-fed from the stable, coats gleaming. He pats one on the neck and murmurs something to it.

Amane walks out backward, staring at the cottage.

"Goodbye, wizard tower. You were the best room I ever had. I'll never forget you."

"Amane, it's been one night."

"The BEST night, Biro."

Misa pauses at the gate, looking back. Her hand lingers on the stone wall.

"Someone will love this place," she says quietly. Almost to herself.

Jasmine passes through without looking back. But her pace slows — just slightly — at the threshold.

You climb into the carriage. The familiar creak of wood. The smell of hay and leather. Misa settles beside you. Jasmine across. Both already have their books out.

"YAH!"

The carriage rolls forward. The cottage shrinks behind you — honey-colored stone and a single wizard tower against the pale morning sky, framed by the stream and the trees, waiting patiently for whoever comes next.

The road widens as you travel. More farmhouses appear. More travelers. A patrol of soldiers in blue tabards passes on horseback, nodding to Biro. The traffic thickens.

Then Amane stands up on the front seat.

"THERE."

Over the next hill, the capital reveals itself.


A sprawling trade city built in tiers around an enormous castle that towers over everything. Stone walls. Banners. Hundreds of rooftops packed together — markets, guilds, temples, taverns. The morning sun catches the castle's highest spire and turns it gold.

Smoke rises from countless chimneys. The distant hum of thousands of lives reaches you even from here.

Biro grins over his shoulder.

"Welcome to Veldaryn, Rory."

Misa lowers her book and looks at you.

"Ready?"

 

[Badatnaming]

The carriage descends the hill and joins a stream of traffic flowing toward the main gate.

Merchant wagons loaded with barrels and crates. Farmers with handcarts piled high with vegetables. A group of adventurers on foot — armored, armed, laughing about something. A woman leading three goats who seem philosophically opposed to moving forward.

The walls of Veldaryn grow larger as you approach. Massive stone blocks, weathered and ancient, patched in places with newer masonry. Guards in blue tabards stand at the gate, checking wagons and waving through travelers.

One of them glances at the carriage, sees Biro's adventurer card held up casually, and waves you through without stopping.

"Perks of the job," Biro says.

Inside the walls, Veldaryn hits you.

The noise. The smell. The sheer density of life.

Cobblestone streets packed with people. Market stalls overflowing with fabrics, spices, weapons, potions, fruits, meats, and things you can't identify. Street performers juggling fire. Children darting between legs. A blacksmith's hammer ringing from an open forge.

The buildings climb over each other — timber and stone, three and four stories tall, laundry lines strung between upper windows like festival bunting. Signs hang everywhere. The Copper Flagon. Maren's Medicinals. Blades & Bindings.

And above it all, the castle looms. Closer now, impossibly tall, its banners — deep blue with a silver stag — snapping in the wind.

Misa watches your face.

"First time in a big city?" she asks gently.

Amane twists around, hat nearly flying off.

"The Adventurers Guild is in the central district! Three blocks past the fountain with the ugly mermaid!"

"It's not ugly," Misa protests.

"Misa, it has six fingers."

Biro navigates the carriage through the crowd with practiced patience, pulling into a public stable near a wide plaza.

"We walk from here."

You step down onto Veldaryn's cobblestones. Your book is still in your hand.

The city breathes around you — vast, ancient, alive.

Somewhere in these streets is the Adventurers Guild. Your first rank. Your first quest.

Your first real step into this world.

Biro locks the carriage and turns to the group.

"Alright, Venturas. Guild first. We get Rory registered, then we eat. Sound good?"

"FOOD," Amane agrees emphatically.

Jasmine adjusts her blade and scans the crowd once. Twice. Then nods.

Misa falls into step beside you as the group moves into the city.

"Stay close," she murmurs. "The central district can be... overwhelming."


I nod at Misa, keeping my grip on the book steady. 'I'm ready. Let's see if this city has stories as interesting as the ones in our hands.' I look over to her.

"Well, tell me what you think of 'Reserved for the Cat' so far. Do you think I should try to make the others in the series?"



Misa brightens immediately.

"Oh — I've only read the first two chapters, but..." She clutches her copy against her cloak, the white Persian cat catching the sunlight. "The way Ninette loses everything so quickly. Her position, her reputation, her home. And she doesn't even do anything wrong. It's just... someone with more power deciding she doesn't matter."

She's quiet for a step.

"That felt very real."

You glance at her. There's something in the way she said it — not academic. Personal.

She catches your look and flushes.

"I-I mean — the writing! The writing feels real. That's all."

She walks a little faster, hair swinging.

"And yes," she adds, almost too quickly. "You should absolutely make the others. If each one retells a different fairy tale, I want to read all of them."

Ahead, Amane is walking backward through the crowd with the supernatural confidence of someone who has never once considered consequences.

"I'm on chapter FOUR. The cat just told her to pretend to be a Russian ballerina. This is the greatest plan ever conceived. This cat is a GENIUS."

"Watch where you're—"

She bumps into a fruit cart. An apple rolls off. She catches it without looking, sets it back, and keeps walking backward.

"— a GENIUS, Rory. I want a talking cat. I want one SO BAD."

Biro sighs from the front of the group.

"You set things on fire in your sleep, Amane. No cat would survive."

"That happened ONE TIME."

"It happened last month."

Jasmine walks in silence beside Biro, but you notice her book is cracked open in one hand. She's reading while navigating a crowded street.

Without bumping into anything.

Of course she is.

The group rounds a corner and enters a wide plaza. A large stone fountain dominates the center — a mermaid pouring water from a shell.

You count her fingers.

Six.

Amane points triumphantly but says nothing. She doesn't need to.

Misa sighs.

Beyond the fountain stands a large building of dark timber and grey stone. A massive wooden sign hangs above double doors, carved with crossed swords behind a shield.

VELDARYN ADVENTURERS GUILD

People stream in and out — armed, armored, scarred, laughing, arguing. Every shape, size, and apparent danger level. A woman with a battleaxe taller than Misa walks past, nodding to Biro.

Biro nods back and holds the door open.

"After you, Rory."

Inside, the guild hall opens up — cavernous, bustling, loud. A massive quest board dominates one wall, covered in pinned notices. Long tables fill the center where adventurers eat, drink, and argue. A registration counter stretches across the back, staffed by clerks in neat uniforms.

And mounted above the counter — a crystal. Pale blue. Faintly glowing. The size of a human head.

The ranking crystal.

Amane nudges your shoulder.

"That's where you get your card. You just touch the crystal, and it reads your power." She grins. "Don't be nervous. Even if you're D-rank, we'll still keep you. Probably."

"Amane," Misa scolds.

"I said *probably!"



I walk up to the crystal.


"Misa, will you support me even if I'm just a lowly Z-ranked adventurer?" I ask dramatically, raising a hand to my forehead in a mock swoon, taking a moment to listen to their reaction before placing my hand on the crystal.

You sweep toward the counter with theatrical grace, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead.

"Misa... if the crystal deems me unworthy... if I am ranked so low they must invent a new letter..."

Misa's eyes go wide.

"Th-there's no Z rank—"

"...will you remember me? Will you tell the others I died with honor?"

Misa opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"You're not going to die, it's just a crystal—"

Amane is already wheezing. She grabs Biro's arm for support.

"He's — he's doing a bit — Biro, he's doing a bit at the ranking crystal—"

Biro crosses his arms, grinning broadly.

"Let the man have his moment."

Even Jasmine's mouth twitches. She looks away quickly, pretending to study the quest board.

The clerk behind the counter — a thin man with spectacles and the expression of someone who has seen everything and been impressed by none of it — stares at you flatly.

"Hand on the crystal, please."

"Of course. My final act."

Misa makes a small, strangled sound that might be a laugh she's trying to suppress.

You place your hand on the crystal.

It's warm.

Then hot.

The pale blue glow intensifies. Brighter. Brighter. The light shifts — blue to white to something almost golden. The crystal begins to hum. Then vibrates. The wooden counter trembles.

The clerk's spectacles slide down his nose.

The entire guild hall goes quiet.

Adventurers at the long tables stop mid-conversation. A woman lowers her tankard. A man with a scarred face stands up from his chair.

The crystal blazes gold.

Then it pulses — once, twice — a deep resonant thrum that you feel in your chest, in your teeth, in the floor beneath your feet.

The clerk stares at the crystal. Then at his reference chart. Then at the crystal again.

His hands are shaking.

"...S rank," he whispers.

The silence in the guild hall is absolute.

Then the clerk looks up at you, spectacles crooked, face pale.

"Sir. You are... S-rank."

Behind you, four distinct reactions.

Amane drops her book.

Biro uncrosses his arms.

Misa's hands fly to her mouth.

Jasmine turns from the quest board. For the first time since you've met her, she looks genuinely shocked. Red eyes wide. Lips parted.

Every adventurer in the hall is staring at you.

The clerk swallows hard, pulls out a blank card with trembling fingers, and begins inscribing it.

"Y-your name, sir?"

What do you do?


I blink before looking at Misa. "Is that bad? Isn't S lower than D? It was a joke. I was doing a bit. I didn't think I'd do that badly." I shift my gaze to Biro.

"You won't kick me out, will you? You know I'm useful." I can feel panic welling up in my chest before forcefully clamping my mouth shut, before I can dig this hole any deeper.



The silence stretches.

Then Amane makes a noise like a teakettle reaching a boil.

"HE THINKS — HE THINKS S IS BAD — BIRO HE THINKS —"

She doubles over, hat falling off completely, wheezing so hard no sound comes out.

Biro stares at you.

Then he starts laughing. Deep, rumbling, from-the-belly laughter that turns heads across the entire guild hall.

"Kid." He puts both hands on your shoulders. His eyes are watering. "S-rank is the top. The absolute top. There are maybe two S-ranked adventurers in this entire kingdom."

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

"...Oh."

Misa still has both hands pressed over her mouth. Her green eyes are enormous. But they're not horrified — they're shining.

"You — you thought —" She can't finish. Her shoulders are shaking. A tiny squeak escapes between her fingers.

Jasmine has recovered her composure. Mostly. She's leaning against the quest board with her arms crossed, watching you with an expression that is doing considerable work to remain neutral.

"He panicked," she observes.

"HE PANICKED," Amane screams from the floor, where she has apparently collapsed. "AN S-RANK ADVENTURER PANICKED BECAUSE HE THOUGHT HE FAILED THE RANKING CRYSTAL—"

The scarred adventurer who stood up earlier sits back down slowly, looking deeply confused.

The clerk adjusts his spectacles with trembling hands.

"Sir. Your name. For the card. ...Please."

You clamp your mouth shut.

Stop talking. Stop talking right now. Every word is making it worse.

Your face is burning. You can feel it radiating heat like one of Amane's fire spells.

Biro squeezes your shoulder, still chuckling.

"Breathe, Rory. Just give the man your name."

Misa finally lowers her hands. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes still glistening with suppressed laughter. She steps forward and stands beside you.

"It's okay," she says softly. Gently. Like she's soothing a startled animal.

Which, honestly, is accurate.

She looks at the clerk.

"His name is Rory."

The clerk writes it down. His hand is still shaking, but now possibly for different reasons.

He slides the finished card across the counter.

It's dark silver with gold lettering. Your name. Your rank.

S.

Amane has retrieved her hat from the floor and is using it to fan herself.

"I will never forget this moment. This is the single greatest thing that has ever happened in my entire life. I am going to tell this story at every tavern from here to the coast."

"Please don't," you manage.

"TOO LATE. It's already canon."

Biro takes his hands off your shoulders, still grinning.

"Welcome to a very small club, Rory."

Jasmine pushes off the quest board and walks past you toward the counter. She pauses at your side.

"For the record," she says quietly, barely above a murmur.

"I knew you weren't D-rank."

She keeps walking.

The guild hall slowly returns to its normal buzz, but you can feel eyes on you. Curious.


Wary. Calculating.

Whispers ripple through the long tables like wind through wheat.

"...new S-rank..."

"...never seen him before..."

"...who is he with? The Venturas?"

"...they're C through A rank at best. How did they find an S-rank..."

You tuck the card into your pocket and resist the urge to create a hole in the floor to disappear into.

Biro notices the attention. His expression shifts — still warm, but alert now. The easygoing demeanor tightens just slightly.

"Let's grab a table," he says casually. "Somewhere toward the back."

Jasmine is already moving, cutting a path through the crowd with quiet authority.

Misa walks close beside you. Closer than usual.

"People will talk," she murmurs, glancing sideways at a table of armored adventurers openly staring. "An unknown S-rank appearing out of nowhere... It's going to attract attention."

Amane falls into step on your other side, hat back on, grin still plastered across her face.

But her blue eyes sweep the room once.

Sharp. Watchful.

She's not just the funny one, you realize.

Biro pulls out a chair at a corner table.

"Sit. We need to talk about what just happened."

What do you do?


You drop into the chair like a puppet with cut strings. "Okay, but I think after our talk, we get a quest and leave."

The silver-and-gold card sits in your pocket like a hot coal.

Biro settles across from you, his chair creaking under his weight. Jasmine takes the seat with the best sightline to the door — you notice she does this automatically. Misa sits beside you. Amane drops into the remaining chair and immediately leans forward on her elbows.

The corner table offers some privacy, but not much. The guild hall buzzes around you. You catch glances from other tables — quick, sideways, poorly disguised.

Biro folds his hands.

"Right." His voice is low. Serious Biro. "Rory. You told us you were a low-level mage."

"...Technically I said I wasn't much of a fighter."

"You're S-rank."

"...Yes. Apparently."

Silence.

Amane tilts her head.

"So... were you lying? Or did you genuinely not know?"

The question hangs there. No accusation in her voice. Just honest curiosity.

Misa's hands are folded in her lap. She's watching you carefully, but there's no anger in her expression. Something closer to concern.

Jasmine says nothing. Her red eyes are fixed on you, unreadable.

Biro leans back.

"I'm not upset, Rory. You've been nothing but helpful since we met you. The castle. The food. The cottage. The books." He taps the table once. "But S-rank changes things. For you and for us. People are going to ask questions. Guilds are going to take notice. Maybe kingdoms."

He lets that settle.

"So. What do you want to tell us?"

The table waits.

Four people who fed you burnt eggs this morning. Who laughed at your fairy tales. Who gave you a seat in their carriage without knowing what you were worth.

They deserve something.

Misa touches your sleeve. Barely. Just fingertips.

"You don't have to tell us everything," she says softly. "Just... enough so we can help."

I rub the back of my neck. "I truly didn't know. My memories are... fuzzy. Don't misunderstand me; I remember most of everything I think I should remember, but the days before we met are mostly blank. I definitely didn't know my rank, and I honestly didn't know S-rank was important. I think I worked at a Library or a bookshop."



You stare at the table.

It's not entirely a lie. Your memories of your previous life are there — books, stories, the feeling of pages under your fingers — but the specifics of dying and the void and the System's selection screen... those feel like a dream you can't quite hold onto.

And you genuinely didn't know about the ranking system.

That part is embarrassingly true.

Biro studies your face for a long moment. He's looking for deception. You can tell he's done this before — assessed people, weighed their words.

Then he nods. Once.

"Memory loss isn't uncommon. Head injuries. Magical trauma. Curse residue." He glances at Jasmine, who gives an almost imperceptible nod of confirmation. "We've seen it before."

Amane's expression has shifted from curiosity to something softer.

"A bookshop," she repeats. She looks down at her copy of Reserved for the Cat, poking out of her bag. The orange tabby on the cover stares up at her. "...That actually makes a lot of sense."

"It explains the book," Misa agrees quietly. "The way you talked about it last night. Like it was something precious you were afraid of losing."

Something tightens in your chest.

Because it was.

Jasmine speaks for the first time.

"Your creation ability."

Everyone looks at her.

"You built a furnished castle in minutes. A cottage with a defensive wall in seconds. Books from memory. Food from nothing." She uncrosses her arms and leans forward slightly. "That skill alone puts you at S-rank. Maybe beyond it."

Her red eyes hold yours.

"You may not remember where it came from. But someone — or something — gave you that power deliberately. People with memory gaps and extraordinary abilities don't just appear in valleys by coincidence."

The table goes quiet.

She's right, and everyone knows it.

Biro exhales slowly through his nose.

"Alright. Here's what I think." He holds up a finger. "One. We don't advertise the S-rank. You've got the card, but we don't wave it around. As far as anyone in this guild knows, you're our new support member. A creator-type mage. Useful but not threatening."

Second finger. "Two. We take quests at our level. B-rank, maybe A-rank. Nothing that draws the attention of guild leadership or the kingdom yet. We build your reputation slowly."

Third finger. "Three. If your memories come back — when they come back — you tell us. Whatever it is. Even if it's bad."

He looks around the table.

"Agreed?"

"Agreed," Amane says immediately.

Misa nods.

Jasmine holds your gaze for one more heartbeat.

"...Agreed."

Biro extends his hand across the table.

"You're a Ventura, Rory. That means we protect our own. S-rank or Z-rank."

Amane snorts.

"Z-rank. I'm never letting that go."

Misa covers her mouth again, shoulders shaking.

Even Jasmine closes her eyes briefly.

You take Biro's hand and shake it.

His grip is firm. Warm. Steady.

"Now then." He releases your hand and stands. "You said you wanted a quest. Let's go look at the board before every adventurer in here figures out why that crystal almost exploded."

He cracks his neck and heads toward the quest board.

Amane hops up, hat bouncing.

"B-rank, B-rank, something fun, something with monsters, something that gets us OUT of this building before people start asking questions—"

Jasmine is already at the board, scanning with efficient precision. Her fingers trail across pinned notices, dismissing each one in half a second.

Misa stands and looks at you.

"Are you okay?"

You blink.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You looked... relieved. When Biro said we'd protect our own." She smiles — small, genuine, a little sad. "You don't have to carry everything alone, you know."

She turns and follows the others before you can respond.

You sit there for exactly two seconds.

Then you pocket your book, push back your chair, and join them at the board.

Dozens of notices. Torn parchment, neat calligraphy, desperate scrawls. Monster exterminations. Escort missions. Missing persons. Dungeon explorations. Herb gathering.

Jasmine taps one notice.

"This one."

B-RANK QUEST: INVESTIGATE DISAPPEARANCES IN THORNWALL VILLAGE
Multiple travelers missing along northern trade road. Possible monster activity. Reward: 80 gold.

Biro reads it twice.

"Thoughts?"

I nod slowly. "Is Thornwall far from here? Does anyone know anything about the area? What kind of monsters are common to the area?"

I don't want to mention the non-monster options.


"We'll be able to get more detailed information from the residents, but it doesn't mention anyone from Thornwall itself going missing. Unless there's another quest we haven't seen?"



Biro raises an eyebrow.

"Good questions."

He leans closer to the notice, reading the fine print at the bottom.

"Thornwall is about half a day north. Small village. Maybe two hundred people. Sits right on the edge of the Greymire Forest." He taps the parchment. "The northern trade road cuts through forest for about six miles between Thornwall and the next settlement. That's where the disappearances are happening."

Amane peers around his arm.

"Greymire Forest. That's goblin territory, isn't it?"

"Goblins, wolves, the occasional troll," Biro confirms. "Nothing that should be snatching travelers off a maintained road, though. Not regularly."

Jasmine's eyes narrow at the notice.

"He's right."

Everyone looks at her.

"The quest says travelers. Merchants. Couriers. People passing through." She traces the text with one finger. "No mention of Thornwall residents. No mention of attacks inside the village itself."

She looks at you.

"You caught that."

"It stood out," you say.

"It should." She crosses her arms. "Whatever is taking people knows the road. It's hunting between settlements, not inside them. That's not typical monster behavior. Goblins raid villages. Wolves attack wherever they're hungry. Trolls don't discriminate."

Misa hugs her book tighter against her chest.

"So... something intelligent?"

"Or something territorial," Biro says carefully. "Something that considers the road its hunting ground but avoids populated areas."

"Which means it's either smart enough to avoid retaliation," Jasmine continues.

The unspoken conclusion hangs over the group.

Or it's something that doesn't want to be discovered.

Amane adjusts her hat.

"Well. That's unsettling."

Biro looks at the board, scanning for related postings. He shuffles through nearby notices, checking dates and locations.

"No other quests mentioning Thornwall specifically. But..." He pulls a tattered notice from behind another posting. Older. Water-stained. "This one expired two weeks ago. D-rank. Escort request for merchant caravan traveling northern trade road. Posted by a merchant named Halden."

He frowns.

"Nobody took it. Or if they did, it was never marked complete."

Misa's face pales slightly.

"You think the merchant—"

"Could be nothing," Biro says firmly. But his jaw tightens.

He looks at the group.

"So. We have a half-day ride north. A forest with known monster activity. Disappearances targeting travelers specifically. And at least one potentially missing merchant."

He turns to you.

"You asked the right questions, Rory. Most people just read the reward and grab the notice." A beat of respect in his voice. "Anything else before we commit?"

Jasmine glances at the quest counter where clerks process accepted missions.

Amane is already bouncing on her heels, ready to move.

Misa stands quietly, waiting for your input.


I look away from the board, my voice dropping. "Honestly, this feels like bait. What if we report the missing merchant lead first instead of heading out? Also, I think we should follow the route the merchant was supposed to take and see if we can find some clues."


Biro's expression shifts.

He straightens up and looks at you — really looks at you — like you've said something he's been thinking but didn't want to voice.

"Bait," he repeats quietly.

Jasmine's eyes flicker.

"Explain."

You keep your voice low. The guild hall is noisy enough to cover the conversation, but you're careful anyway.

"Think about it. The disappearances are only on the road. Only travelers. Nobody from Thornwall. The quest has been sitting on the board long enough for that escort request to expire without completion." You gesture at the water-stained notice in Biro's hand. "Whoever — or whatever — is doing this knows the pattern. They know people will eventually come looking. Adventurers. Investigators."

You tap the B-rank notice.

"And here we are. Looking."

Silence at the table.

Amane's bouncing stops.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, that's... not fun anymore."

Misa pulls her cloak tighter.

Biro folds his arms across his broad chest. The muscle in his jaw works for a moment.

"You're not wrong. Wouldn't be the first time a quest was used to lure adventurers into an ambush. Bandits do it. Cultists do it." He pauses. "Worse things do it."

Jasmine is already moving. She steps toward the quest counter, then stops and looks back.

"The merchant. Halden. The guild keeps records of posted quests — who posted them, contact details, last known route." Her voice is clipped, efficient. "If we report the potential connection between the expired escort quest and the disappearances, the guild is obligated to flag it. That puts it on record. If something happens to us, there's a trail."

"Cheerful," Amane mutters.

"Practical," Jasmine corrects.

Biro nods slowly.

"Alright. Here's what we do." He holds up the two notices. "We take the B-rank quest officially — that gets us paid and gives us guild backing. But before we leave, we report the expired escort quest to the clerk and ask for Halden's registered route. If the guild has any additional intelligence on the northern road, we want it."

He looks at you.

"And we follow the merchant's route, as Rory suggested. We don't just ride straight to Thornwall and start asking questions like tourists. We go slow. We watch the road. We look for signs of what happened to the people who vanished."

He glances around the group.

"We treat this like an A-rank until proven otherwise. Full awareness. Travel formation. Nobody wanders off alone."

Amane raises her hand.

"Can I still set things on fire?"

"If something tries to eat us, yes."

"Deal."

Biro claps you on the shoulder — heavy, warm, the kind of gesture that says you've earned something.

"Good instincts, Rory. Bookshop or not, you think like a tactician."

Jasmine is already at the counter, speaking to a clerk in low, precise tones. You watch the clerk's expression shift from boredom to mild concern as she connects the dots between the two notices.

Misa steps beside you while the others handle logistics.

"You said it feels like bait," she says quietly.

"Yeah."

"Are you scared?"


I force a small, tired smile. "I'm more frustrated than scared. People are missing, and if this is a trap, we have to flip it on them."

I look at Biro. "And I think I just read too many mysteries. If you want, I can make a copy of 'Storm Front,' the first book of the Dresden Files; it's about a wizard private detective, or 'Guilty Pleasure,' it's the first of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series." Maybe saying I worked in a bookshop is making me want to talk about books more. "But that one gets a little spicy."



Misa blinks.

"A wizard... detective?"

"He solves magical crimes in a modern city. He's in the phone book under 'Wizard.'" You can't help it. The enthusiasm leaks through. "He's sarcastic, underpowered compared to most of his enemies, and wins through sheer stubbornness and creative problem-solving."

Misa's concern softens into something warmer.

"That... sounds like someone I know."

You open your mouth to respond, but Amane materializes at your elbow like she was summoned.

"Did I hear spicy?"

"No," you say immediately.

"You absolutely said spicy. I have ears like a bat. What's spicy? Is it a book? Make me the spicy book."

"Amane—"

"I want the spicy book, Rory."

Biro turns around from where he was reviewing the quest details.

"What's happening?"

"Rory is withholding spicy literature from me, and it's a crime."

"It's really not," you say.

Misa is turning pink.

Biro stares at you with the expression of a man who has weathered many storms and recognizes a new one forming.

"...We're not doing this in the guild hall."

"I'm just saying, if it gets spicy—"

"Amane."

"Fine."

You rub your face and quietly create a copy of Storm Front instead. The cover materializes in your hand — dark, moody, a silhouette against Chicago's skyline. You've adjusted the cityscape slightly, replacing skyscrapers with towers and spires that feel more appropriate, though the essence remains.

You hold it up.

"Mystery. Magic. Detective work. Not spicy."

Amane takes it, examines the cover with narrowed eyes, then tucks it into her bag.

"This is a temporary compromise."

Misa quietly accepts a copy you make for her as well, holding it against her chest like she did with the last one.

Jasmine returns from the counter. She carries a folded piece of parchment and her expression is carefully neutral — which, you're learning, means she has information she doesn't love.

"The clerk flagged the connection. Guild will send a follow-up notice to the kingdom garrison." She unfolds the parchment. "Halden's registered route. He was transporting textiles from Veldaryn to a settlement called Brannford, north past Thornwall. His expected travel date was eighteen days ago."

She sets the parchment on the table.

A simple map. The northern trade road, clearly marked. Veldaryn at the south. Thornwall midway. Brannford at the north. The Greymire Forest flanks both sides of the road for a long stretch between Thornwall and Brannford.

"Eighteen days," Biro says heavily. "If he made it to Thornwall, someone there might remember him passing through. If he didn't..."

"Then he disappeared in the same stretch as everyone else," Jasmine finishes.

She looks at the group.

"The clerk also mentioned something the quest notice doesn't say. The last party that took a quest related to the northern road was a C-rank group. Three adventurers."

A pause.

"They haven't reported back."

The table goes very still.

Amane's hand drifts unconsciously to the brim of her hat.

"A C-rank party," she repeats. "Three people. And they just... didn't come back?"

Jasmine shakes her head once.

"Eleven days overdue."

Biro exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

"That settles it. We go prepared for the worst." He folds the map carefully and tucks it into his belt. "Full supplies. Rope. Emergency signals. Rory—"

You look up.

"Can you create light sources? Markers? Anything we can use to leave a trail if we go off-road into the forest?"

"Yes."

"Good. Make some before we leave. Something that won't be obvious to anyone watching but that we can find again."

You nod, already thinking. Small stones with a faint luminescent vein. Visible only from a low angle. Easy.

Biro looks around the table one final time.

"We leave within the hour. Stock up on food and water. Stay together in the streets." His blue eyes are hard now. Soldier's eyes. "Whatever took those people — travelers, a merchant, and now a party of adventurers — it's getting bolder."

He stands.

"Let's make sure we're the last thing it tries to swallow."

Amane cracks her knuckles, fire dancing briefly between her fingers.

"Now that's more like it."

I look at Misa, then at Biro. I walk to the counter to buy a small vial of ink. 'I'm mapping our trail as we go. If we die, at least they'll find it.'


You walk to the counter while the others gather their gear.

The clerk — a tired-looking woman with ink-stained fingers and silver-threaded hair — glances up from a ledger. She's already seen you once today. Watched the ranking crystal glow gold. Her expression is carefully professional now.

"Can I help you?"

"Ink. A small vial. Waterproof, if you have it."

She reaches beneath the counter without question and produces a stoppered glass vial about the length of your thumb. Dark, thick ink sloshes inside.

"Two silver."

You place the coins on the counter. She sweeps them into a drawer and hands you the vial.

"Mapping?"

"Yes."

Her eyes flick to the quest board, then back to you.

"Smart." A pause. "The northern road used to be safe. Five years ago, you could walk it alone at midnight with a coinpurse hanging from your belt."

You pocket the vial carefully.

"What changed?"

"Nobody knows. Or if they do, they're not saying." She taps her quill against the ledger absently. "Just... be careful. Whatever's out there doesn't leave bodies. Just empty roads and unanswered questions."

She returns to her ledger before you can respond.

You rejoin the Venturas.

Biro has his pack slung over one shoulder, checking the straps with practiced efficiency. Jasmine is adjusting her belt, redistributing weight across hidden pouches and weapon sheaths. Amane is bouncing on her heels again, but her eyes are sharper now — focused.

Misa approaches you with her healing satchel secured across her body.

"You bought ink," she says softly.

"For the map."

"That's good." She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. "Rory... if something happens out there. If we get separated. If it's bad—"

"We won't."

"If we do," she insists gently. "I want you to know. You're not alone anymore. You haven't been since we found you in that valley."

Her green eyes hold yours.

"Whatever you can't remember. Whoever you were before. It doesn't matter. You're a Ventura now."

She squeezes your arm once, then steps back as Biro calls the group together.

"Everyone ready?"

Nods around the circle.

"Alright. We pick up the carriage from the stable, load up supplies from the market, and we're gone. Jasmine takes point on navigation. Rory, I want you next to Misa in the carriage — work on those light markers and your map while we travel. Amane, you're with me on the driver's bench."

"Aye aye, captain," Amane says, giving a mock salute.

Biro ignores her.

"Jasmine. Route?"

"Northern gate. Follow the trade road exactly as Halden would have. We stop every mile to check for signs — broken branches, disturbed earth, scorch marks, blood." Her voice is clinical. "We don't camp in the forest. If we can't make Thornwall by nightfall, we camp on open ground with sight lines."

"Agreed."

The group moves as one toward the guild exit.

You pass other adventurers on the way out. Some stare. Some whisper. One — a scarred man with an axe across his back — watches you with calculating eyes.