By the book, I should've been rescued by a passing merchant, carried to the nearest town, and tucked into a warm bed with a bowl of soup.
Reality check: I woke up still in the snow—frozen awake, not saved.
My mana pool was bone-dry, but the half-finished healing array I'd etched earlier gave me just enough juice to stagger upright. Shoulders numb, legs shaking, I stared across an endless white canvas.
"…Great. Mid-winter, no supplies, and I'm already talking to myself."
A dry laugh puffed into frost.
"Well, time to survive this tutorial from hell."
Call it luck or sheer stubbornness: I stumbled upon a hollow cedar big enough to crawl into. Firewood? Plenty—so long as I didn't accidentally turn the whole tree into a chimney.
I snapped my fingers and a small flame blossomed on the first try. My mana had refilled faster than it should have. Weird, but that's a later-problem.
A plump snow-fowl wandered too close. One Rock Bullet later, dinner was secured. When I reached for the carcass, frostbite screamed down my arm—cold sweat in sub-zero air. One crisis at a time.
Normal Demon Continent wood doesn't burn without alchemy. This cedar did. Conclusion: I'm on the gray border between demon and human lands—lawless, tax-free, and very stabby.
I tried to remember why I knew that. The name "Rudeus" floated up—
ZNNNG—!!
A spike of pain drove iron needles through my skull. Every muscle locked; I had to force-blank my mind just to breathe. Ten minutes later the agony ebbed, leaving cold sweat on my brow.
Short version: amnesia confirmed, skill tree intact—silent-cast basics, advanced theory, zero complex chants—mana cap commoner-tier but creeping upward, slowly.
Three days of limping later, the "town" appeared: rotting palisade, no gate guards, and a minotaur in an alley sharpening a red-stained cleaver. Gray-zone hospitality.
Two hippo-headed thugs blocked my path.
"Oi, kid—muttering human? That's rude in demon territory!"
I switched to Demon Tongue mid-bow.
"Apologies, sirs. Could you point me to the Adventurers' Guild?"
They deflated—no kidnapping bonus today—and waved me toward a leaning shack with a cracked sign.
Inside: one counter, one gorilla lady whose shoulders were twice mine. Perfect bouncer-body, zero flirt-risk.
"Stop staring!" she barked.
"Sorry—you look familiar…"
"Flirt and I'll bench-press you. Married."
I asked the fee.
"One green ore—oh, broke? Fine. Flyers first, membership free."
I spent the afternoon handing out leaflets:
"Dragon-God LLC – You wanna get strong? Join us!" Obvious pyramid scheme.
"Missing Cat – Black, answers to 'Void'." My first real quest.
One flyer, however, read:
"If you see a blue-haired girl with a white hound, offer aid. Dragon-God LLC will cover all costs."
I folded it around my lunch—good paper, better than the scam.
Day three, stable duty again. A bleeding adventurer bursts in:
"Healer! Anyone?!"
I step forward—
The gorilla-clerk beats me to it.
"Healing!" Mid-tier spell flares—no effect. The man's half-severed arm is green-veined with corrosive poison.
"Upper-tier won't stop it," I mutter.
"Unless you've got Saint-tier detox, amputate now."
I walk out. They can't pay for Saint-tier, and I'm running on fumes.
Next morning the squad finds me in the stables. Turns out my blunt advice saved their friend's life. They offer two free carries to raise my adventurer rank—paid boosting without the cat quests.
The one-armed guy shrugs:
"No big deal. I'll buy a Crisa-brand magi-arm in the capital—people voluntarily chop off arms for those."
During a goblin sweep:
"You sure you're a rookie?"
"Amnesiac. Only remember the name Rudeus."
"Well, Rudeus, silent-cast healing, detox, and attack magic? That's one-in-a-hundred talent."
My mana pool is still commoner-tier, but creeping upward. Time to dust off sword forms—three styles, all intermediate.
With their help I graduate from weed-pulling to "catch twenty ice-trout" commissions. Hey, it's technically higher rank.