The room was the kind of place that looked like it sighed in its sleep. Wooden walls with little gaps that couldn't keep secrets, much less sunlight. The roof, a messy patchwork of hay, did its best impression of a ceiling but wasn't exactly winning any awards.
Morning light snuck in through every crack like it had a personal vendetta against sleeping in, gently poking at the shadows clinging to the corners.
It wasn't dramatic. Just quiet, slow, like the house yawned along with the day.
Then came the knock. A soft one, like whoever was outside didn't want to startle the door.
It wasn't even done echoing before a voice slipped in after it, light and sweet, the kind that probably convinced people to do chores they didn't want to do.
"Big brother, Gideon, wake up. Sun's already up."
The knock hadn't been aggressive, but the voice? That was tactical. Sweet enough to make someone feel guilty for ignoring it.
The blanket flopped to the side like it gave up on convincing him to stay. Gideon sat up with the grogginess of someone still debating whether waking up was truly necessary.
He stretched slow, like the universe might give him bonus sleep if he looked pitiful enough—his spine popped once, then twice, just for dramatic effect.
Sunlight crawled in from the wall slats, catching faintly on his black hair, which was sticking up in directions that suggested he'd had several arguments with his pillow and lost all of them.
His eyes—dark, still half-lidded with sleep—glanced lazily around, not fully convinced the day was worth participating in.
He stood with the slow confidence of someone who didn't mind taking his time. Not bulky, not slim—just average in that forgettable, familiar kind of way.
Except, well, there was some secret definition there, the kind that hinted he either lifted firewood daily or had a personal rivalry with a push-up routine.
He grabbed a shirt and tugged it on, plain and loose enough to pretend it wasn't hiding a surprisingly firm set of abs. No bragging. No posing. Just quietly erased behind fabric like a polite secret.
Then came the smile—unbothered, slightly lopsided, like it had woken up a few minutes before the rest of him.
He opened the door, and right on cue, Alice was there. She had that early-morning energy of someone who either didn't need sleep or had formed an alliance with the sun itself.
[NPC: Alice.]
Alice stood there with that effortless calm only kids and retired cats seemed to master.
Her face carried the same features as Gideon's—like the universe had just copy-pasted most of the work and added a bit of brightness to hers for flair.
Her black eyes were clearer though, less sleep-stuffed, more curious. Her long black hair flowed down her back in that way hair did when it had never been stressed out by adult responsibilities or a bad haircut phase.
Unlike her older brother's pale shade that looked like he owed the sun an apology, Alice's skin had this smooth, soft glow—white, but with that gentle warmth kids always seemed to have, like they were made from fresh milk and good intentions.
She was eleven, which meant she had just enough wisdom to correct adults with confidence, but not enough to do dishes without being bribed.
"Good morning, my precious little sister."
She gave a smile like she'd heard this greeting a hundred times and still found it mildly entertaining. It was the kind of smile that said, "Yes, yes, you're the dramatic one, I remember."
"Come on. Mom made breakfast. I already smelled it before you even woke up."
Without waiting for applause, Alice turned and wandered off down the hallway—a narrow little path that tried its best to connect the house without bumping too many elbows.
Her steps were light, like she didn't want to disturb the dust too much. Or maybe she just knew the floor creaked and wanted plausible deniability.
Gideon followed, still stretching the last bits of sleep from his limbs as he trailed behind her. They moved through the house like old pros, dodging creaky spots and low beams without a second thought.
The dining area greeted him like an old friend—small, plain, and humbly doing its best.
The kind of room built for conversations with your mouth half full and furniture that squeaked if you breathed too hard near it.
Definitely nothing fancy, but it had the quiet comfort of a place that had seen a lot of family dinners and at least one spilled bowl of soup someone never fully admitted to.
[NPC: Cecily.]
[NPC: Greg.]
Cecily stood by the table like she'd been born with a ladle in one hand and the power to fix any morning grumpiness in the other.
Her red hair—long, a little wild, and very much the odd one out in a house full of black-haired children—was pulled back just enough to stay out of breakfast, but still had that soft look like it was too stubborn to fully behave.
She wore a plain tunic dress, the kind that said "I cook, clean, and lift sacks of potatoes before noon, and I do it in style."
Her smile was warm enough to toast the bread.
"Come now, Gideon. Eat while it's still warm."
The kind tone didn't ask twice. It didn't need to. It carried the full weight of "I made this and you're going to enjoy it like a good son."
Gideon plopped himself into one of the slightly wobbly wooden chairs, landing beside his father, Greg, who had already made peace with the morning and looked halfway through a cup of something hot.
Greg was basically the template the kids were printed from. Same black hair, same black eyes, and that same calm face that said he'd survived enough surprises in life to not flinch at spilled milk or mysterious thuds from the roof.
His smile was soft and quiet, the kind that stayed even when he wasn't talking.
Nothing flashy—he was wearing a plain tunic and a vibe that suggested he'd once wrestled a cow to save a cabbage and didn't brag about it.
The table was filled with the gentle clinking of wooden utensils and the kind of soft laughter that didn't need a punchline.
Four chairs, four people, and a breakfast that wasn't fancy but somehow still tasted like home. Warm bread, some stew, maybe an egg if the chickens had been generous—nothing worth bragging about, yet somehow impossible to improve.
It was, in every sense, the image of a perfect family morning. Smiles passed like secret messages. Alice swung her legs under the table like it was a game, Greg nodded slowly like chewing was a sacred ritual, and Cecily moved with the quiet grace of someone who knew just how much seasoning was too much.
They lived like this every day. No drama. No crises. Just the simple rhythm of a commoner's life, repeated with the kind of consistency only starter towns could offer.
In the great wide world of The Dungeon, their little home was one of the dots on the map that never moved, never changed, and never caused trouble.
And Gideon? Gideon lived as an NPC.
That meant doing the same things at the same time, every single day. Help new players. Help his father. Smile at the neighbors. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
The loop didn't feel like a cage, though—it felt safe. It was the kind of life that didn't ask questions and didn't need answers. He was content, even if it was a kind of contentment that came wrapped in a predictable schedule.
Their creator, the unseen god behind it all, had given them just enough: feelings that felt real, thoughts that connected, hearts that could care.
Not full freedom, but enough of it to make their world feel like it mattered. Enough to laugh at breakfast, to enjoy a quiet walk, to dream a little before bed.
And for Gideon, that had always been enough.
He never wished for more. Not power, not adventure, not change. He had a family. He had peace. He had eggs, probably.
At least, that was what he believed.
But belief, like toast, had a way of getting flipped when you weren't watching.
•••••
Gideon stepped out of the house with a stretch that said I'm awake now, but I'm not thrilled about it. He waved over his shoulder, grinning as his family waved back from the doorway like it was their part-time job.
Alice waved both hands at once like she was trying to launch into flight. Cecily gave her usual soft smile, and Greg raised one hand with the slow ease of a man who respected gravity too much to rush.
Another normal day.
He headed down the narrow path, and like clockwork, the neighbors chimed in.
"Morning, Gideon!"
"Off to work again, huh?"
"You're still single, right?"
He waved back at each voice, giving nods like he was royalty on a very casual parade route.
The villagers always waved first—like they had a radar for his footsteps. There was something about him, maybe the way he never missed a day or the fact that his hair somehow always looked like it had just survived a pillow fight.
Either way, they liked him. And he liked them right back.
Their little village sat nestled in a quiet pocket of forest—trees that didn't judge and birds that probably knew everyone's schedule.
It was the kind of place no one bothered to map because nothing ever happened there. Not too far from the beginner town of Inizio, the so-called Land of All Beginnings, where new adventurers showed up with stars in their eyes and questionable fashion choices.
The walk to town was peaceful, filled with the sounds of birds doing auditions and bugs holding tiny drumline practice in the bushes. Gideon didn't rush. He never needed to. The path was familiar enough to walk blindfolded—not that he'd ever tried. Yet.
After a few minutes of non-urgent strolling, the trees began to thin, and the edge of town peeked out like it had been waiting for him.
Cobblestone roads stretched ahead, uneven but proud. Carriages creaked by with that slow, purposeful pace of "we'll get there when we get there."
Buildings of stone and timber lined the streets—some slightly leaning, some freshly patched, all looking like they had stories but were too polite to share them unless asked nicely.
This was Inizio. Where every grand tale started… usually with someone buying a rusty sword and tripping over a slime.
And here was Gideon. Just another NPC in the background.
Or so the world thought.
•••••
Gideon strolled into town like he'd done it a thousand times—which, to be fair, he had. Every step was muscle memory. Every wave, preloaded in his internal greeting system. He didn't have to think about it anymore.
"Hey Gideon! Morning!"
The blacksmith's arm lifted, heavy with soot and biceps that probably came with their own stats.
Gideon returned the wave without missing a beat, like it was part of his code.
"Good luck today, Gideon!"
The town synthesizer—who smelled faintly of potions and responsibility—flashed a quick smile, her hands still glowing from whatever mysterious concoction she was babysitting.
Gideon waved back, a bit more carefully that time. Never interrupt a synthesizer mid-bubble. Lesson number one.
As he continued forward, greetings popped up like text boxes in a visual novel. Farmers, shopkeepers, random NPC kids who may or may not have full dialogue trees—they all called out to him.
Gideon answered each one with a nod, a grin, or the classic two-finger salute. Friendly. Efficient. Slightly charming. Standard tutorial protocol.
Eventually, the road widened, and the chatter thinned.
He reached the center of Inizio. The heart of it all.
A massive stone circle stretched across the plaza, carved with old runes and lightly worn from the boots of countless clueless adventurers.
It shimmered faintly, humming with the quiet energy of new beginnings and the occasional system hiccup.
This was the Summoning Circle—capital S, capital C. The spot where players from another world appeared like confused ducklings, usually with starter gear and zero survival instincts.
And waiting at the edges of that circle… were the others.
Dozens, no—hundreds of NPCs lined the sides like polite chaperones at a chaotic school trip. Some stood in tidy rows, others lounged against crates like they hadn't moved in centuries. A few were already rehearsing their lines.
They were the tutorial squad.
Just like Gideon.
Their job? Greet the players. Smile like everything was fine. Walk them through their first steps. Remind them not to punch chickens. Make sure they didn't wander off into high-level zones wearing only sandals and optimism.
This was their purpose in The Dungeon. Not to fight. Not to explore. But to guide.
And Gideon, ever the reliable NPC, took his spot among them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Because it was.
Somewhere in the background noise of rustling capes and awkward NPC small talk, a voice rose just a little louder than the rest. Bright. Sharp. Familiar.
"Gideon!"
He turned instinctively—his head already halfway tilted before his brain even caught up.
And there she was, weaving through the crowd like the universe had just handed her center stage.
[NPC: Marie]
Her name popped into his vision like it always did. Same font. Same glow. Same understated, system-approved tag that didn't even come close to capturing the full experience that was Marie.
Blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail that had bounce and attitude. Stray strands danced around her face like they had lives of their own and refused to follow orders.
Her top sat casually off one shoulder, like it just gave up halfway through trying to behave. The jeans shorts she wore—definitely not regulation NPC gear—made her look less like a villager guide and more like she'd walked out of a festival in the wrong dimension.
She waved with both hands, no shame, no hesitation. As if shouting across a crowd full of other tutorial NPCs was the most normal thing in the world.
Which, for her, it probably was.
Gideon spotted the glint of metal before anything else, and sure enough—Marie was wearing steel gauntlets. Not dainty wristbands. Not fashionable cuffs.
Actual punch-delivering, bone-rattling gauntlets, as if she'd just rolled out of bed and decided diplomacy was optional today.
He smiled, somewhere between amused and impressed. Mostly amused.
"I see someone's in her punch-everything mood. Brawler class again, huh?"
Marie raised her arms with a grin like she'd just been caught sneaking cookies and was proud of it.
"How about you? What class are you pretending to be today?"
Gideon rubbed his chin like he was deep in philosophical thought, even though he already knew the answer. Half the fun was in the performance.
"Thinking I'll go with Esper. You know, psychic flair, mysterious vibes. Real subtle brainpower energy."
He paused, then gave a shrug that practically sighed.
"Not that it matters. I mean, let's be real—the weapons we carry are just there to look cool for the players. If I so much as try to lift a rock with my mind, the system gives me that passive-aggressive notification again."
Marie laughed, probably because she'd gotten the same message once.
[This action is not allowed. Please return to your designated script.]
Still, she flexed her gauntlets, which clicked together with a satisfying clunk that made a few nearby NPCs flinch.
Fake or not, Marie made it work. And Gideon? Well, he'd mastered the art of looking like he could do something, even if the system would politely slap his wrist for trying.
Such was life when your entire job was to look capable and say, "Please follow me to the quest board."
Gideon reached into his pocket with the dramatic flair of someone who had absolutely practiced this moment in the mirror.
His fingers closed around something smooth and round, and out came a small pink stone—glowing faintly like it was embarrassed to be this color and still trying its best.
He held it up, gave a casual flick of his wrist, and with a soft hum of light, a metal gauntlet materialized over his hand. Sleek. Shiny. Very not-brawler. The kind of accessory that screamed I don't punch things, I think at them very hard.
With just a thought—and a bit of mental eyebrow-wiggling for flair—a narrow blade of pure pink energy slid out from the gauntlet's wrist like it had been waiting for the right entrance cue. Smooth edges. Soft glow. Zero damage.
The psyblade shimmered for effect, humming gently like it was trying to be impressive but also didn't want to be too loud about it.
Marie gave him a nod and a smile that said Yep. Classic Gideon.
"Esper it is."
Before Gideon could strike a second pose, a monotone voice echoed from somewhere above—neutral, automated, and just slightly too cheerful for its own good.
[New batch of players incoming. Escorts, please prepare. Be sure to give our fresh out-of-world adventurers a warm and entirely scripted welcome.]
Gideon let out a quick breath and grinned wide, the psyblade flickering with dramatic timing as if it also understood the assignment.
"Well then. Show time."
He turned slightly, blade still active, smile too big for someone whose job mostly involved explaining how to open inventory menus.
"It's time to go to work."