A pale shaft of morning light filtered through the slats of the ruined attic, casting long lines across the dust-smeared floor. It was the kind of light that hesitated to touch, as though the memory of death lingered too thick for warmth.
Liam stirred.
His fingers twitched first, then his chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath.
He blinked, red irises catching the faint gold of dawn. For a moment, there was panic. An old, reflexive kind—the instinct of someone used to waking up somewhere unfamiliar, uncertain if the walls were part of a scene or a cell.
Then… clarity returned.
He remembered the house.
The ruined town.
The silence.
The system screen that had appeared before his eyes, cold and welcoming all at once.
He exhaled, slow and steady, as though releasing the last fragments of a dream.
"I'm still here," he muttered, voice hoarse from sleep.
Alive.
Whatever that meant in a world where death came before the tutorial had even ended.
He sat up, stretching carefully. His body felt strange—slimmer, younger, but sturdier than before. A boy's form, tempered by hardship and quiet hunger. No softness. Only lean survival.
With mechanical routine, Liam climbed down the attic's half-rotted ladder and stepped into the remains of the house. He moved through the ritual motions with the focus of a man balancing on glass.
He fetched water from the rain barrel outside—stale, but usable—and returned inside, where he splashed it on his face with a small, gasped shiver.
The cold bit.
Reality bit harder.
He wiped his face with the corner of a worn cloth, then reached into the satchel he had packed the night before. From within, he pulled a folded set of clothing—charcoal gray trousers with silver pinstriping, a starched white undershirt, and a black vest with ornamental buttons dulled by time. A long coat, midnight blue, followed last—its silver embroidery faded but intact.
He regarded it for a moment.
"Stolen" was perhaps too coarse a word.
"Unclaimed by the dead" felt more honest. The house he had taken them from bore no bodies, no signs of recent habitation. Only the scent of old perfume and dried lavender lingered, like ghosts too polite to linger.
"Not like they need it anymore..." he mumbled, dressing with slow, methodical care.
By the time he had laced his boots and strapped the satchel over his shoulder, the morning light had shifted. The sun had risen, veiled behind thick overcast. A low fog curled around the outskirts of the town, creeping along the roads like hesitant fingers.
Liam sat at the broken table and retrieved a slice of dried bread and a small jar of springroot extract. He dipped the bread into the bitter liquid—barely food, but enough to wake his stomach—and chewed in silence.
It was bland.
But it was real.
After finishing the meal, he stood and gave the house one last glance.
No sentiment.
Only silence.
He pulled the hood of his coat over his hair, took one breath—and stepped beyond the threshold.
---
The road out of town was cracked, overtaken in places by ivy and frostroot grass. The path twisted between abandoned fields and burnt trees, where crows watched him from gnarled branches with eyes too intelligent for comfort.
Liam walked in silence, his boots crunching softly against the grit. Each step away from the village felt like treading on glass-thin reality—fragile, ready to crack at the first sign of error.
The forest beyond awaited.
Not the kind from fantasy tales with singing elves or ancient wisdom.
No, these trees stood still and hungry.
The Gravebark Woods, if he remembered correctly.
A boundary between town and civilization.
There was a reason players avoided entering until grade reaches F+.
Unfortunately, he was Grade F-.
He tightened the satchel strap and quickened his pace.
I have until sundown.
According to what he recalled from the world map and starter regions, the nearest settlement was Redfern Hollow, a mid-tier village built along the base of the Hollowing Hills. It was used in early quests for herbal gathering and delivery work.
Most importantly: it had walls. A tavern. Civilization.
If he didn't reach it by dusk, he'd be forced to make camp beneath the canopies.
In this world, sleeping alone in the wild was an invitation.
And his luck—even God-given—was not foolish enough to tempt fate so openly.
As the sun climbed behind the veil of gray, Liam moved with steady urgency. He passed the crumbled ruins of a wayshrine, its marble statues eroded into blank visages. Further down the trail, he spotted a broken cart, long-abandoned, its wheels split and moss-covered.
He didn't stop.
Curiosity gets people killed.
Yet every creak of wood or snap of twigs set his nerves on edge. The woods did not howl. They whispered.
And behind those whispers, something watched.
He could feel it.
Not a threat. Not yet. But the weight of attention.
A hunting instinct restrained only by distance—or disinterest.
[God-Given Luck] pulsed faintly at the edge of his awareness. .
As midday waned, Liam slowed his steps to conserve energy. The satchel bounced against his side in rhythm. He passed two more crossroads, both overgrown. He chose the left each time—left was always safe in tutorial zones, he remembered. Superstition, maybe.
But superstition and luck had a strange marriage in this world.
He stopped only once to sip water and adjust his boots. His breath hung in the air now—colder than expected.
He cursed under his breath.
Even the weather wasn't following the script anymore.
By the time the sun had begun to dip westward, Liam spotted a faint trail of smoke on the horizon—thin, disciplined, controlled. Not wildfire.
Civilization.
His lips parted in quiet relief.
He pressed forward, boots aching, heart tight.
If he could reach Redfern Hollow before nightfall, he could rest. Gather information. Perhaps even hear whispers about why his town, Emberglow, had been erased from the board so early.
There were answers buried beneath this world's fiction.
And Liam Ashborn would live long enough to find them.
Even if he had to fake every step of the way.