They walked.
No dramatic background music. No epic montage. Just the steady crunch of gravel beneath Ren's boots, mist curling with every breath, and the occasional whistle of wind through the stoic mountain pines.
Hey Soren. Just a heads up – Camp Columbus is probably going to be packed. Like elbows-to-face, lag spike hell, packed.
"I shall carve us a path."
Yeah, let's not do that.
…
Ren rounded the final bend – expecting a tidal wave of players – only to be greeted by the wind.
Camp Columbus stretched out below them – quiet, still, and very much abandoned. Half the hide-stitched tents had caved in on themselves, the fires were nothing but pathetic piles of sooty ash, and even the once-mighty wooden penis had been reduced to a pair of splintered balls and a pile of crumbling timber.
The only signs of life were a few low-level players clicking through tutorials, or flailing at dummies, and a handful of AFK players.
Ren squinted.
Where the hell is everyone?
"So much for your camaraderie of knights."
Shut it. I'll figure out what happened here.
Ren jogged over to a lone player – a Level 2 Mage, mid-cast of what might generously be called a fireball.
"Yo. Quick question. Where'd everyone go?"
The guy blinked like a startled deer.
A chat bubble popped over his head.
Of course. No mic. Brilliant.
After a moment of intense internal computing… the chat bubble disappeared. Then reappeared. Then vanished again.
"No dude, you have to pull up the UI–"
Bubble. Gone. Back. Gone again.
"In the menu. There's a chat featu-"
The noob sent a yellow-faced smiling emoji.
Ren let out a long, pained exhale.
"Just point me to where they all went."
The noob gestured towards a sign, then went back to casting his enthusiastic sparks.
"Who was that jolly, yellow-faced apparition?"
Pain, Soren. Pain.
Ren reached the sign:
ZONE LIBERATION ANNOUNCEMENT: VELDENREACH LIBERATED!
That explains it.
"It does not."
It's tradition. New shiny place opens, everyone migrates over. Pretty sure half the player base is already knee-deep in loot over there.
"Do they have no discipline? In my day, a stronghold was defended to the last man – not abandoned for shiny spoils of war."
That's just how it is Soren.
Well, we better start making our way there.
***
The UI pinged:
> WELCOME TO VELDENREACH
> STATUS: LIBERATED
Guess this is it, Soren.
"..."
Soren?
"Heavens!"
You… good?
"Apologies – I simply dozed off."
Ren chuckled.
The legendary Knight Commander Sir Cassian Soren needed a nap?
"It is far more nuanced than that! I simply was conserving energy for the next stage of our plan."
Which is…?
"The blacksmith – at once!"
Ren's eyes glistened.
Wait. Does this mean I'm going to get a sick ass sword?
"You could say that."
Jackpot.
Lightning-fast, Ren weaved through the chaos of Veldenreach, boots skidding over cobbled stone slick with muddy footprints. The town felt like something torn straight out of Tudor England – narrow twisting alleys, black-timber framed buildings with sagging thatched roofs, balconies crammed with drying laundry and potted herbs.
Chimneys coughed out ribbons of smoke. Lanterns glowed gold under arched windows. Ornate iron signs creaked overhead with every gust of mountain wind.
"Somebody seems excited."
Hell yeah, I am!
Ren reached the square which was littered with players – bartering, spamming global chat, forming parties. It was pure, beautiful MMO chaos.
Scanning sharply through the square – he found it.
Wading through the flood of bodies, dodging rogue spells, sidestepping pets – including one guy on a leash who looked way too into it – and swatting away party invites, he finally reached it:
> VELDENREACH BLACKSMITH
He barrelled through the front door.
So, Soren – what are we getting? A dragon killer? A demon slayer? Maybe just a huge-ass sword?
"Do not despair Ren, the sword I bestow upon you shall train you to wield all of those… and more!"
Ren could already picture it:
Him, gripping a giant flaming greatsword in one hand, a severed dragon's head in the other, all whilst standing atop the still-smoking corpse of a basilisk.
"Walk up to the blacksmith…"
Ren stepped forward, practically buzzing.
"Now, repeat after me…"
"Sword 1-7-7-2."
Ren cleared his throat. "Hi there! I'd like sword number #1772, please."
The blacksmith didn't even blink. "Sure bud, coming right up."
Suspense? Palpable.
Excitement? Astronomical.
Coolness factor? Seconds away from going nuclear.
He was so ready to be That Guy.
PLONK!
"Here ya go, bud."
On the counter sat… a wooden sword.
"..."
"..."
"...What the fuck is this?"
"Sword number #1772. Just like you asked." The blacksmith said cheerfully, giving a thumbs-up, before turning to help the next customer.
> - 5 PELDS
> WOODEN SWORD ADDED TO INVENTORY
Soren… Please tell me this is some kind of quest. Like, I get the real one after using this to prove myself or whatever.
"No quest. That is your blade."
Is this some sick joke?
"Sick? No. Joke? Yes – it was delightful watching your anticipation mount.
You evil, evil bastard.
***
> WELCOME TO VELDENREACH CASTLE
> LOCATION: TRAINING GROUNDS
Veldenreach Castle wasn't some towering capital or royal keep – more like a fortified manor with delusions of grandeur. Moss crept along its stone walls, the kind that had seen more rain than war, and its squat towers were just tall enough to be unimpressive.
The courtyard was wide but plain, with patchy grass, uneven cobblestone, and dozens of poorly crafted straw training dummies leaning at off-putting angles.
A handful of unenthusiastic players loitered around the courtyard, half-heartedly swinging swords and casting spells.
A faded banner hung limp over the entryway, proudly bearing a crest Ren didn't recognise – and probably wouldn't remember.
So… what now, Soren?
Ren gave an exasperated sigh.
"Don't feel so disheartened– once we are finished here, you shall wield whatever sword you desire."
Yeah, well… it's hard not to be. Look at this thing!
And he wasn't wrong. It was difficult to justify calling it a 'sword'. It was just wood. Plain, ugly, splinter-giving wood. The kind of thing a toddler might swing around at a medieval-themed daycare – and even then, that probably would've been better than this scrapwood. One side slightly chipped, the hilt wrapped in what looked suspiciously like duct tape.
Ren walked up to a straw training dummy, then gave it a half-hearted swing. It squeaked.
Like. Squeaked.
Did this thing used to be a chair?
"It is the gold-standard for the Knights of the Eastboarden Vanguard – knights renowned for their skill and deadly efficiency."
Oh. So you guys sucked.
"On the contrary. We were the ones that protected the capital when the great western earth dragon laid siege!"
Probably because he got bored and left.
Soren ignored his comment.
"Now. Begin."
Ren raised the wooden sword again, adjusting his grip the way he imagined anime protagonists did before unleashing a seven-hit combo.
He swung.
THWACK.
The sword bounced off the dummy in a pool noodle-esque fashion.
"You overextended. Again."
Ren tried again. This time the blade caught at an angle, skidded off, and made the dummy wobble with offence.
Your stance. Weight forward. Feet wrong. Again.
Ren sighed. Focused. Swung.
WHUMP.
This time, it landed clean – center-mass. The dummy shifted half an inch.
Silence.
…Soren?
"Acceptable."
Did I just get a Sir Soren-certified approval?
Then the dummy's head fell off and rolled away like a sad, straw-filled bowling ball.
I think I just killed Sir Strawsworth.
"Again. You must commit this to muscle memory."
He swung again. And again. Over and over. Parry after parry. Until sweat dripped down his back and his arms burned with every lift.
"Ren."
Huh? Yeah I'm here. Listening.
"Your sword is not a tool. It is an extension of yourself. A knight does not simply swing – he speaks. Through steel. I believe that you have earned a break."
Oh thank god.
"Go find us something to eat."
Don't gotta tell me twice.
***
> LOCATION: VELDENREACH SQUARE
So, Soren. What are we thinking? Meat skewers? Soup? Bread?
"I am not picky. A knight must be prepared to eat whatever is available."
Alright then – meat skewers it is!
Ren limped over to a stall – navigating by smell alone – that sold meat skewers.
"Hello there, could I get…"
Soren, should I order one for you?
"We share the same body. I do not believe that is necessary."
"... one meat skewer, please?"
"No problem pal, one meat skewer, coming right up! It'll be about five minutes, is that alright?"
"Yeah, that's fine. Thanks."
Ren stepped aside to wait, rolling out his sore shoulder.
Something fluttered in the corner of his eye.
He turned – one of the vendor stalls nearby had long racks of cloaks and capes billowing gently in the wind. Velvet, wool, even one that looked like it was woven from leaves.
"Oh… Now that is a fine display."
Soren whispered with complete reverence.
What?
"The capes. Look at them. Such movement… such drama…"
Ren squinted.
You're telling me that gets you more hyped than meat skewers?
"A cape completes a knight. It does not just flow – it commands."
You're actually serious.
"I once wore an emerald cape. Sturdy wool, not some showy noble's velvet. It didn't flutter – it commanded. Rain-soaked, battle-tested, fastened with glistening gold clasps – me and her were one."
I've lost you. Haven't I?
"We must acquire one."
We literally have no money.
"Then we must earn one."
Ren glanced at the UI. Ten pelds. He was broke.
We've got, like, nothing. We barely have enough for a skewer.
"Priorities, Ren."
Are you seriously suggesting we blow all our starting money on a cape?
"Not just a cape. The cape. An emblem of our station. A symbol of honour."
It's cosmetic.
"It is iconic."
Ren let out a long, miserable sigh.
Soren, meanwhile, was already on a mission.
"This one has a good cut, but the hem is fraying… No. Too pedestrian. And this – heavens, that shade of red is an offence to the very concept of crimson. Who made this? A tailor or a war criminal?"
It continued.
"Too short. Too stiff. Too frilly. This one has tassels, Ren. Tassels. We are not court jesters."
Ren stood there, arms crossed, and simply watched as his body became Soren's vessel for Medieval Fashion Week.
Eventually, Soren stopped – paused.
"This. This is it."
A sleek, emerald-green knight's cape. Modestly cut. Slightly tattered at the edges in a cool, weathered way, with just the right amount of dramatic swoosh – perhaps even too dramatic.
Ren glanced at the price tag. His heart sank.
Ten credits.
That was everything.
No food. No potions. No gear. Just fashion.
Five minutes later...
> - 10 PELDS
> EMERALD-GREEN KNIGHT'S CAPE [COSMETIC ONLY] ADDED TO INVENTORY
The meat skewer guy called out behind him, "Hey buddy, your food's ready!"
"Can't afford it anymore!" Ren shouted back with the saddest wave in VRMMO history.
***
Strange kid.
The meat skewer guy thought to himself.
Oh well – means more for me!
***
"We look majestic!"
Ren tugged at the cape's collar.
His stomach grumbled.
This sucks.
"Don't fret, Ren. The next stage of my training shall banish all such petty concerns!"
I hate how happy you sound right now. So – what'll it be? More drills? More swings? More parrying in the air like a lunatic?
"Oh, quite the contrary."
A dramatic pause.
"Over there."
Ren followed his gaze to a large, overly grand cathedral building ripped straight from the Vatican and dropped into impoverished Tudor England.
VELDENREACH ADVENTURER'S GUILD
Oh boy.
***
> SYSTEM NOTICE – PUBLIC RAID
> LOCATION: OUTSKIRTS OF EASTBOARDEN MOUNTAINS
> OBJECTIVE: DEFEND THE MOUNTAIN PASS
> REWARD: 30 PELDS | 1000XP | 1X RANDOM UNCOMMON CHEST | HARVESTABLE MAGIC CRYSTALS
> LAST STRIKE BONUS: + 100 PELDS | + 500XP | + 1X RARE ITEM
The raid zone was wild.
Players shouting over each other. Spells lighting the horizon. One guy trying to organise a formation like it was an actual military operation – no one listened.
Ren stood quietly at the back, clutching his wooden sword, watching the chaos unfold. He was technically just there to fill the party quota.
A mid-level dual wielder passed him and snickered. "Yo, did you spawn with that twig or did you lose a bet?"
Asshole thinks he's Kirito or something.
"Careful," another chuckled. "He might give you a splinter."
Ren gripped the sword tighter.
"Disregard them. Their cavalier attitude shall get them killed."
> SYSTEM NOTICE – RAID BEGINNING
The trees broke.
Orcs thundered out. Frontliners surged forward to meet them, all swagger and flashy moves – until the brute arrived.
Massive. Towering. Mace in one hand – shattering the frontline.
This one's… different to the one we fought in the cave, huh?
"Yes. Look at its forehead."
A glowing red rune pulsed across the brute's brow.
> ENRAGED ORC BRUTE [THREAT LEVEL: HIGH]
That's not just cosmetic, is it?
"No. He is being enraged – magically. Cut the source."
Ren scanned the battlefield. His eyes landed on a frail, hunched orc off to the side, staff raised, glowing with the same red aura.
Found you.
He broke into a sprint – weaving through fleeing players, leaping over a burning cart, ducking a wild lightning bolt. The enrage-caster saw him too late.
Ren didn't hesitate.
Slide. Swing. CRACK.
Wooden sword met temple. The caster dropped dead.
The rune on the brute's head flickered… and vanished.
The shift was instant. It roared in confusion, swinging wide and off-balance.
"That's your edge! Now!"
Ren dove in.
"To the right. Strike between the elbow. Twist. Backstep. Now!"
Aye, aye captain.
Ren moved. His wooden sword moved.
The hit landed – clean, solid – and the brute's mace clattered to the ground with a heavy thud.
The dual-wielder gasped. "Wait, was that the twig kid?"
"No way he just disarmed that thing." Another added.
Ren didn't have time to revel in it. The brute roared – now unarmed but far from harmless – and lunged with sheer, terrifying force.
He ducked the wild swing – barely. Air howling as the brute's arm cleaved empty space where his head had just been.
"Parry left. Roll!"
Ren shifted. His wooden blade caught the brute's forearm – a jarring clash. Pain buzzed up his elbow. Twist. Roll. Reposition. He came up behind it with fluid precision.
The brute turned. Slower now. Sloppier.
That rage-fueled accuracy? Gone.
"You are wearing him down. Wait for an opening. You have the form. Stay fluid."
Ren nodded once, heart hammering. He focused.
Not faster. Not stronger.
Just sharper.
Darting in – quick, economical – he delivered a strike to the thigh. The brute staggered.
"Bro, wooden sword dude is winning?!"
"Someone send him a party invite."
Ren barely registered them. He didn't need cheers. He had rhythm. Timing. Hours and hours of swings under a grumpy medieval knight. Soren's training was paying off.
He blocked a desperate swipe – no wasted movement. Countered with a low kick to the shin. Danced around another swing. No flash. Just form.
Then – his foot hit something solid.
The brute's discarded mace. Its rune-scarred handle glinting beneath the dust.
Another lunge. Instinct.
An opening.
Ren stepped sideways, pivoted clean, swept a leg behind the brute's knee, then drove his hilt into the back of its head.
Momentum carried it forward, toppling – heavy and fast – landing square on the jagged head of its own weapon.
CRUNCH.
A single spasm. Slump. Lifeless silence.
> RAID COMPLETE
> + 30 PELDS
> + 1000XP
> 1X UNCOMMON CHEST ADDED TO INVENTORY
> LAST STRIKE BONUS
> + 100 PELDS
> + 500XP
> ENRAGED RUNE ADDED TO INVENTORY
> ABILITY: BLOOD FRENZY ADDED TO ABILITY TREE
A beat of tension.
Then – chaos.
"No fucking WAY."
"He soloed with a stick, bro. A stick!"
"This guy is cracked – wtf???"
Ren didn't hear the rest. His legs gave out, dropping him to the ground.
Arms out. Sword clattered beside him.
Chest rising and falling with intensity.
"Well done, Ren. Your blade moved as one with your body. That is the mark of a knight."
Ren exhaled, barely able to lift his arm.
I want… ramen.
Everything went black.
…
"I'm proud of you."