The icon pulsed once, twice, then detonated in a soundless flash.
Kevin’s stomach lurched as the floor vanished beneath him. The crushing pressure of the white void gave way to something else entirely: a violent tug that yanked every tendon, nerve, and hair toward some distant center. His skin prickled like he’d been plunged into freezing water, and then the cold cracked open into warmth—dense, layered warmth that smelled of woodsmoke and roast meat. His eyes adjusted to color again.
He stumbled forward onto a flagstone floor, knees nearly buckling. The room around him wasn’t sterile light anymore; it was alive, crowded with texture and scent. He blinked rapidly, dazed. He was inside what looked like an inn: high-beamed ceiling of dark oak, walls of lime-washed stone, a central hearth throwing gold light across long tables. Shadows danced where firelight licked at the rafters.
The first sound to register was laughter, loud and rough, followed by the clatter of mugs colliding. Then the scrape of a chair leg, the hiss of something cooking in the kitchen beyond, a dog barking once before falling quiet. It all struck him at once, like being tossed into a busy pub after a lifetime in silence.
Kevin stood frozen in the doorway, feet numb against the flagstones. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure if they should shield his face or reach out for proof.
No one screamed. No one pointed. The people inside barely glanced at him. A few looked his way—some with curiosity, others with that vague acknowledgment you give a stranger stepping through the door of a place you’ve sat in all your life. Then they turned back to their drinks, their dice, their conversations.
It was as though he had always been expected. Or maybe there was nothing special about a person just materialising out of thin air, half naked and probably as visibly afraid as his shaking legs gave away.
A fire roared in the hearth, spitting sparks into the guard screen. Above it, a stag’s antlers hung, polished smooth by years of smoke. The air was thick with stew—meat, onion, and some spice he didn’t recognize but that made his empty stomach tighten in longing.
He let his gaze flick nervously across the crowd. A human barmaid with russet hair carried a tray of foaming mugs. At a corner table, two broad-shouldered dwarves in leather aprons argued over something sketched in chalk on the tabletop. Near the fire, an elf with silver-thread hair strummed a lute, voice low and lilting, mostly drowned out by laughter. Further back, a pair of orcs arm-wrestled while a ring of onlookers cheered.
Mixed races—Kevin’s mind supplied the phrase automatically, but here it didn’t feel fantastical, just… normal. These people belonged to this place in the same way the tables and hearth did.
“Don’t just stand gawping, lad,” a voice called, rich and carrying, like a bell struck from bronze.
Kevin snapped his eyes toward the bar. Behind it stood a man thick around the waist but broad in the shoulders, his arms bare to the elbow where rolled sleeves revealed a forest of dark hair. His jaw was framed by a short-trimmed beard streaked with grey. His shirt was plain linen, but the apron tied over it was heavy leather, stained by years of spills.
The innkeeper.
The man grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “First time in The Laughing Minotaur, is it? You look like you walked in from a storm.”
Kevin swallowed, his throat rough. “Something like that.” His voice cracked with nerves.
“Well, you’ll not find storms here. Sit yourself down, warm those bones. No charge for the first bowl of stew—house custom.”
The warmth in the man’s tone disarmed Kevin for a moment. He stepped forward, still trying to make sense of how no one was asking questions about his sudden arrival. The crowd simply absorbed him, like a river taking a new droplet.
Kevin slid onto a bench near the fire. The heat bled into his bones, thawing his toes. His eyes flicked around again, cataloguing:
A few groups of men and women—the shape that he wouldn’t be surprised to see in a pub or bar back home—Humans. A few attempting to control small children charging around the loosely straw covered floor of the inn.
A huddle of Dwarves, all obsessing with either their noses in parchment or arguing over scrawled chalk drawings of what looked like machinery, the likes of which Kevin could not begin to comprehend.
Elves, orcs, half-breeds of kinds he couldn’t name and even some races he had no idea how to begin to catagorise, all shoulder to shoulder in easy camaraderie.
A bowl thumped onto the table before him, steam curling. Thick stew—potatoes, chunks of meat, green herbs floating like flecks of emerald. A wooden spoon followed.
The innkeeper leaned his heavy arms on the table. “Name’s Garric. You’ll find what you need here, so long as you’re not looking for trouble.”
Kevin nodded, gripping the spoon with clammy fingers. “Kevin, sir.” He said. “Kevin… Macleod.... Kevin Macleod. And thank you...”
“Kevin,” Garric repeated, like he was weighing the word. Then he gave a satisfied grunt. “Eat.”
Kevin obeyed. The stew was scalding, the flavors dense and earthy. It tasted real—so real he nearly groaned. After days, years, of instant noodles and tap water back in his flat, it felt like being punched by memory: family dinners from years ago, warmth, belonging.
When the bowl was half empty, Kevin wiped his mouth and asked, cautiously, “How… how do I get a… umm… a quest?”
The words sounded wrong even as he said them, too “video game” for the realness around him. But Garric didn’t even blink, continuing to wipe up the many spills and polish the pewter cups behind the bar.
“A quest?” the innkeeper said, as if Kevin had asked where the washroom was. He chuckled. “You’re green as spring grass, aren’t you? Work comes from the board. Though if you get talking, there’ll surely be some people that need things done.” He pointed with a thick finger to a wall near the bar where a wide plank had been nailed up. Sheets of parchment fluttered on it, scrawled in different hands. “Bounties, errands, jobs, hunts. Take one down, bring it back when it’s done. Some pay in coin, some in goods, some in favour. The real hard ones might even reward something… more special…”
Kevin turned to look. The parchment shifted in the warm draft from the hearth. From here he couldn’t read the words, but he could see sketches—one looked like a wolf, another like a bundle of herbs.
He nodded slowly. “Right. The board.”
Garric grinned, amused by his seriousness. “Don’t fret. Everyone starts with odd jobs. Fetch this, mend that. You’ll build your strength soon enough.”
Kevin’s chest tightened. “Strength,” he echoed. “And… if I wanted to increase my… crafting skills?”
The innkeeper barked a laugh. “Straight to trades, are you? You’ll fit right in.” He gestured with his chin toward the dwarves in the corner. “That’s Borik and Tharn, leatherworker and smith. Borik’ll show you how to cut hide proper, if you’ve the patience. Tharn’ll have you hammering nails ‘til your arms fall off, then call you ready for real work. Jewelcraft? Speak to Lirae, the elf by the window—she strings gems fine as spider silk. Cooking, well, half the town will teach you if you’ve coin for ingredients.”
Kevin followed the directions with his eyes, trying to map names to faces. His heart was racing. It was all real. Trade skills, just… life skills here.
“Hmm… Coin? What kind of currency do you use here?” Kevin asked.
“Ahh, well, gold is the most valuable, maybe behind platinum, but you’ll be lucky to see one of those in any of our lifetimes here. A thousand gold in a platinum. And a thousand silver to a gold. We deal mostly in coppers here, a thousand of those for a silver.” Garric said. “For some perspective, that bowl of stew right there,” Garric gestured to the bowl that Kevin was tipping into his mouth, “two copper a bowl.”
“And spells?” Kevin asked before he could stop himself.
That word changed the air. Garric’s grin thinned, though not unkindly. “Spells are for scholars. Don’t go poking at them unless you’ve the wit and will. You’ll find Mistress Anwen at the tower across the square. She teaches the basics to those with coin or promise—though it's mostly kids that she takes in for promise.”
“Abilities?” Kevin pressed, searching through his UI.
“Abilities,” Garric said, wiping a spill from the table with his rag, “come from practice. Swing a blade enough and you’ll learn to make it sing. Study enough and you’ll know when to keep your mouth shut. No shortcuts, lad. Just sweat and repetition. Solid hard work, I can respect someone that puts in the work for their skills. Honestly, spells and magic? Shortcuts and cheating in my books. Ask around, mine’s not a rare opinion ‘round these parts.”
Kevin leaned back, stew warm in his belly but nerves hotter still. This was it. Quests, crafting, spells. All here, woven into the fabric of this place. No one thought it strange.
“And dungeons?” he asked, almost whispering.
The inn’s hum dipped. Not silenced, but quieter. Garric’s eyes hardened slightly, like shutters sliding over windows.
“Dungeons,” he said slowly, “are where fools go to die. They’ll”
Kevin swallowed. “But—”
“Not until you’re ready.” Garric straightened, his bulk blotting out the firelight. “Not until you’ve strength in your arm, coin in your purse, and sense in your head. Mark me, boy. You step through a dungeon door too soon, you won’t be stepping back.”
Kevin felt the weight in those words settle in his stomach, heavier than the stew.
The room resumed its chatter. Dice clattered, mugs clinked, laughter rose again. But Kevin couldn’t shake the way the air had shifted when he asked.
The board of quests waited. The craftspeople muttered over their work. The spell tutor’s tower lay somewhere beyond the door. And the dungeons—waiting for a true opponent.
Kevin stared into the fire, trying to convince himself this was safety.
But in his gut, he knew: this was only the beginning.
Kevin stayed by the fire for some time, long enough for the stew bowl to empty and his t-shirt to take in the warmth. But the restlessness in his chest wouldn’t leave. He kept glancing toward the board Garric had pointed out. The parchment sheets swayed slightly whenever the door opened, each tug of air turning one page or another to show a wolf’s snarl, a sketched herb, a stylized coin.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled a little, not from weakness but from the sense of being the only one here who didn’t know how the rules worked.
He approached the board.
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Close up, the parchment sheets carried ink in several hands—some neat, some scrawled. A few had wax seals pressed into their corners. Kevin scanned them hungrily, trying to reconcile what his mind expected with what his eyes read.
Wanted: Greyfang - Wolf.
Last seen near the northwood. Claims two goats each night. Proof of kill required.
Gather: Starroot Herb.
Bring fresh sprigs to apothecary Renna before market day. Payment in coin and tinctures.
Help Wanted: Broken Roof.
Thatch fallen in east quarter. Pay in silver, meal included. No shirkers.
Kevin’s mouth went dry. These weren’t “quests.” These were jobs. Real, dirty, practical jobs.
A voice spoke at his elbow. “Don’t take the wolf one. Not yet.”
Kevin turned. The speaker was a half-elven woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark curls escaping her braid. Her hands were rough with callus, smudged with charcoal. She was shorter than Kevin by a head but looked sturdier than anyone he’d known back home.
“Why not?” Kevin asked, wary.
“Because Greyfang’s a bastard,” she said simply. “Killed two hunters last month. Left their hands at the village gate. Take it now, you’ll end up the same.”
Kevin blinked. “Then… why’s it still posted?”
The woman shrugged, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Because some fool always thinks they’ll be the exception. Sometimes they are. Most times, they’re not.” She leaned past him and tapped another parchment. “Start with something like this. Nails and thatch don’t bite back.”
Kevin’s throat bobbed. “Right. Thanks.”
She gave him a once-over, her eyes lingering on his boxer pyjama shorts—which Kevin just realised he was still wearing, in the middle of all this. “Name’s Lirae. Jewels, gems, settings—anything worth wearing, I shape it. If you’ve stones, I’ll show you how to cut them. Or I’ll buy them, if your hands are clumsy. Or you can pay me to cut them for you, but mind—my rates aren’t cheap.”
Kevin remembered Garric’s words. “You’re the jeweler?”
“Mm.” She folded her arms. “And you’re new. Green as spring.”
He wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. He was exactly that.
Lirae tilted her head. “You look like you’re carrying more questions than sense. Go on, ask them. Best to get the gawking over with early.”
Kevin swallowed, summoning all of his prior knowledge about RPG and MMO games from his world. Gathering skills. Crafting. His eyes bulged at the implications, the possibilities.
“If I… wanted to learn jewelcrafting, how would I… start?”
Her mouth quirked in faint amusement. “Same as any trade. Apprenticeship. You spend hours shaping things poorly until you shape them less poorly. You cut your fingers. You ruin gems. You listen when someone older tells you what you did wrong. Then, one day, you get it right.”
Kevin tried to imagine opening a crafting menu, selecting “cut gem.” The thought felt childish here.
“And what do I get for… increasing my skill?” He pressed.
Lirae barked a laugh. “What do you get? You get rings that don’t snap when worn. You get pendants that sit true on a chain. You get buyers who come back because you didn’t waste their coin. That’s what you get.”
Kevin nodded mutely, chastened but strangely comforted. She wasn’t explaining mechanics; she was explaining life.
He thanked her and stepped away, letting his eyes drift to the dwarves Garric had named earlier.
Borik and Tharn were still hunched over their chalk-scribbled table, arguing in low voices. Kevin approached cautiously.
Borik, the leatherworker, glanced up first. His beard was thick and auburn, braided into three cords. His apron was stiff with age, dotted with cuts where knives had slipped. “You’re staring,” he grunted.
Kevin flinched. “Sorry. I… Garric said you’re the ones to talk to about crafting.”
Tharn, broader and scarred, snorted. “Crafting, he says. Like it’s one thing. Boy, leather and steel aren’t the same. You want to stitch boots or swing hammers?”
Kevin hesitated. “Both?”
Borik rolled his eyes. “Ambitious fool.” But his tone wasn’t cruel, just tired. “You’ll need hides for leather. Thick ones, not the scrap those goat herders bring. Cut against the grain, stitch tight, oil after. Do it wrong and the seam’ll tear first wear.”
Tharn jabbed a thick finger at his chalk sketch. “Steel’s worse. Too hot and you burn it. Too cold and it shatters. You don’t just ‘craft.’ You earn it one swing, one mistake at a time.”
Kevin nodded quickly. “Thank you… And if I need a temporary intervention?” He said gesturing down at his attire.
“We’d be willing to craft you some gear… You know… for a price of course.” Borik and Tharn cackled warmly.
Kevin’s stomach tightened. Everything here boiled down to survival.
By the window, Lirae had returned to stringing tiny gems onto wire, her hands deft and sure. Near the hearth, the elf with the lute shifted songs, weaving something melancholy. Garric poured mugs, slapping backs, laughter rolling.
It all felt too real.
Kevin turned toward the door Garric had mentioned: the tower. The spell tutor.
The inn’s door creaked as he pushed it open. Outside, the air was sharp with cold. The safe zone wasn’t just the inn; it was a small square surrounded by buildings of stone and timber. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, their glow soft and steady. The cobbles underfoot were damp, reflecting the orange of firelight.
The tower stood across the square, taller than the rest, its upper windows glowing faintly blue.
Kevin crossed the square, feeling eyes follow him from doorways and windows. Not hostile, not even suspicious—just curious.
He reached the tower door and pushed. It swung open soundlessly.
Inside, the air smelled of parchment and old smoke. Shelves crowded with tomes lined the walls, their spines inked with runes Kevin couldn’t read. A spiral staircase coiled upward. Candles burned with steady blue flame, untouched by drafts.
At a desk near the base of the stair sat a woman. Her hair was black streaked with silver, braided into a coil. Her robe was plain but finely made, ink stains dotting the cuffs. She looked up as Kevin entered, her eyes dark and sharp.
“You’re new,” she said. Her voice was calm, like a bell rung softly.
Kevin nodded. “I… wanted to learn about spells.”
Her brows rose slightly. “Spells. Do you even know what that means?”
Kevin hesitated. “Magic. Abilities. Power.”
She studied him, then gestured to a stool. “Sit.”
He obeyed.
“Spells,” she said, folding her hands, “are words carved into the fabric of the world. Not just spoken aloud, but learned, shaped, carried in the mind until they burn there. You do not ‘learn a spell’ the way you learn a song. You earn it. With time, with pain, with failures that leave your head ringing.”
Kevin swallowed. “And… how do I start?”
Her lips quirked faintly. “You read. You memorize. You meditate until your thoughts bleed into the patterns. Then, when the moment comes, you risk speaking it aloud. Or with skill books, though they are rare or expensive.”
Kevin shivered. “And if I get it wrong?”
“Then the world takes its due,” she said simply. “A failed spell can burn your throat, blind your eyes, break your mind. Do not treat them as toys.”
He nodded quickly. “Right. No toys.”
She leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Why do you ask? Few come begging for spells before they can even swing a sword.”
Kevin hesitated. “Because… I don’t know what else I have.”
Something softened in her gaze. “Then you will have to find out. I am Anwen. When you are ready, bring me coin, and I will start you on letters of fire. Until then, practice patience.”
Back in the square, the night had deepened. The inn glowed warm. Kevin’s feet were numb again, but his mind whirled.
Quests. Crafts. Spells. All of it real. All of it dangerous. And somewhere beyond these walls, the dungeons waited. Kevin turned back toward the inn. The warmth of the common room hit him like a tide when he stepped inside. Garric glanced up, gave a nod.
“You’ll find your way, lad,” the innkeeper said. “Bed upstairs for ya. Get some rest, looks like you need it bad.” he pointed to a set of stairs leading above the inn.
He climbed the stairs to a small room, bare but clean: a bed, a chest, a shuttered window. He sat on the bed’s edge, head in his hands.
His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. “Don’t be important. Be alive.”
He lay back, staring at the beams above, listening to the faint hum of voices below. The fire’s warmth seeped through the floor.
For the first time since the countdown hit zero, Kevin felt almost safe. Almost.
But his dreams that night were filled with doors.
The courtyard was flooded with daylight in the morning. Dancing with the leaves as they fluttered with the breeze. Kevin found his way to the exit of the inn, a beautiful archway trellis lined with countless varieties of flora intricately and deliberately grown together. He stepped through.
Area Discovered
The Great Forest of Gnash
Level Recommendation: 1
“Oh, that's useful.” He said staring opposite the inn—a great and dense row of trees and bushes. In the upper left corner of his vision a stack of bars appeared for the first time
Kevin—The Classless
Health—190
Mana—110
Stamina—100
“I guess that's what the stats did for me on the face of things…” He said.
“A new notification has been added.” Said the voice of the AI.
“Read notification.” Kevin said instinctively.
“Go read it yourself!” The AI barked.
Kevin sighed, willing open the menu he had been ‘taught’ to use. He noticed a new icon—a church bell with a number one layered over top of it. He mentally clicked it.
Unique Quest
Solve the Mystery of Gnash & Gnaw - 0 / 1
Reward: Potion of Experience - 100 Copper coins - Choice of 1 Uncommon Equipment.
Accept?
“Oh wow,” Kevin exclaimed, “so the quests on the board aren't the only quests around… and those rewards, one hundred copper coins could keep me going for a while in the inn. I wonder what Uncommon Equipment means… And Spell Essence?” he muttered.
“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” The AI’s voice sounded in his ears. “Go look at your current equipment…”
Kevin's brow furrowed, what equipment, he thought. He looked down at his pyjamas. “Wait really? My pyjamas are equipment here?”
The AI made no reply, but somehow he knew if it had eyes to roll, they just did.
The equipment screen reeled open. There were various slots surrounding a silhouette of his likeness, seemingly the typical that you'd expect from an RPG type video game:
Equipment—Humanoid:
Head—empty
Shoulders—empty
Chest—Pinstripe Pyjamas of Grandeur
Legs—White Boxers of the Breeze
Boots—empty
Bracers—empty
Gloves—empty
Rings—empty
Neck—empty
Belt—empty
Gear Rating: Really? You want me to Rate THAT?
Kevin drew his attention to his chest slot “Pinstripe Pyjamas of what now?” He exclaimed. A new popup appeared from the slot—a tooltip:
Pinstripe Pyjamas of Grandeur:
These aren't just your regular old pyjamas—well maybe they are—but they don't half look fetching, go on, give us a twirl!
Armour Rating: 0
Dodge Rating: 0
Magic Absorption: 0
+1 to Charisma
Hmm, handy. He thought.
He switched his gaze to his boxers:
White Boxers of the Breeze:
Gosh, you mustn't be able to feel… ehm… anyway, +1 to Dexterity…
Armour Rating: 0
Dodge Rating: 5
Magic Absorption: 0
+1 to Dexterity
Dodge rating? He found himself all the more perplexed. Everything around him felt too real for all this video game terminology. “There's no way these stats actually make any difference, right?”
“Of course they do… get enough of them and maybe you'll see the difference…” sighed the AI. “Get on with it already!”
Kevin closed the popups and equipment screen, the quest notification remained. “I wonder if that has something to do with the forest?” Kevin wondered as he clicked accept on the quest popup.
He walked forward, then turned back to the inn—it had vanished, none but the trellis archway sat in the middle of a clearing in the forest. The sight was odd though, through the trellis opening he could still see the inn, but surrounding it, even walking behind it, there was no inn. Through the archway he watched as the innkeeper, and a few dwarves walked in the courtyard beyond. His heart flipped, this demonstrable show that truly, this wasn't his world at all anymore.
