06:00 p.m. - At Village
(If this is a game and he has to do something for the village, he might as well do it.)
Rain hit the square hard, a cold sheet that blurred faces and turned everything to mud. The dragon's shadow had already cut the day in two—wings like a storm—and smoke curled from broken roofs. People moved with panic in their steps, clinging to what they could. Ryan stood in the middle of it, his clothes soaked, heart racing, lungs full of wet air.
Selene (rushing forward): "Help us!"
She came out of the smoke with her clothes singed and eyes wide. Her hands clawed at the splintered timbers, fingers black with ash. Jonas lay under a collapse of wood. Selene's breath came in short, sharp pulls.
Ryan (kneeling): "Where is he?"
Selene (pointing): "In there! He was trying to save the children when the roof fell. You have to help him!"
A small boy pushed through the crowd, dirt on his cheeks, eyes huge and fierce for a child.
Aelric (insisting): "I need to help my dad!"
Selene (scolding): "Stay back! It's too dangerous!"
Ryan looked from Selene to the boy, seeing the stubborn set of the child's jaw. The boy was no older than eight, and his courage lit the wet square.
Ryan (deciding): "He can help. We need all the strength we can get. But he stays behind me. Can you do that?"
Aelric (nodding): "Yes!"
Ryan (counting): "Okay. On three. One... two... three—lift!"
They heaved. The wood groaned. Rain stung their faces. Muscles burned. For a moment the world narrowed to the salt taste in Ryan's mouth and the shove of hands at his shoulders. A voice answered from beneath.
Jonas (weak): "I'm here!"
Selene (crying out): "There! He's alive!"
They pushed again and the beam shifted enough for Jonas to crawl free, coughing and sore, but breathing.
Selene (embracing Jonas): "Thank you! I thought I'd lost you."
Jonas (breathing hard): "I thought I'd never get out."
For a few breaths, the ruined square felt softer. People moved with a little less wildness; hands that had clutched at nothing found things to do. Then someone ran in, shouting like a thrown stone through the calm.
Stranger (running in): "They're coming! The Drakensvale army!"
Panic rose quick as smoke. Mothers grabbed children. Men pulled bags and tools. The headman was dead, someone said. Without a leader the fear grew teeth. All eyes swung toward the strange man in a bright jacket and odd shoes—Ryan—because his glasses caught the rain and darkened like small mirrors. To the villagers the lenses looked like sorcery that hid his eyes and made him look like someone from another place.
Rugged Man (crossing his arms): "Who are you?"
Ryan felt the stare like a weight. He hated being looked at. He didn't like speaking in front of crowds. Still, words were needed.
Ryan (short): "I'm Ryan. I'll help."
He said it quick, the kind of short line people used in emergencies. It wasn't warm. It wasn't a story. It was enough to stop the immediate questions.
Rugged Man (skeptical): "A merchant? At a time like this?"
Ryan (muttering to himself): "Uh… did I just get isekai'd, or did my brain finally crash from sleep deprivation?"
He heard his own voice and felt oddly small, like an actor who forgot his lines. He wanted to tell them he was a coder, not a commander. He wanted to dissolve into silence. But faces needed orders, not explanations.
Rugged Man (urgent): "You can speak. Stall them. Buy us time."
Young Woman (fierce): "If you don't, we'll all die! Just hold them off!"
Ryan felt the pressure like a hand on his chest. He wanted to refuse, to shrink away. Instead he took a breath and tried to shape his panic into simple steps.
Ryan (firm, to the villagers): "Check the wounded. Move the children to the back. Make traps from branches and rocks. Knights, watch the approaches."
A burly knight stepped forward.
Burly Knight (nodding): "I'll take a group to scout. We'll tell you how close they are."
Ryan (nodding): "Return fast."
Selene (eyes on Ryan): "I'll gather supplies and tend the injured."
Aelric (eager): "I'll collect sticks and stones!"
Ryan (smiling without meaning to): "Stay close to your mother, Aelric. Good job."
The boy beamed and ran off. For the first time since the dragon's shadow fell, Ryan felt something ease—small, like a crack of sunlight through clouds. He moved among the villagers, giving quick orders. They made crude traps, pulled stones for a barricade, covered the injured. The plan was rough but it was a plan.
Ryan fumbled at his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit the same as anywhere else—a tiny square of normal. He opened the video he had taken of the dragon. For a second, the two worlds overlapped and it felt like watching a bad film while standing inside the set.
Ryan (to himself, low): "Back home, I was a twenty-four-year-old office worker. Not a knight. Not a hero. Just… me."
He checked for signal. Nothing. The battery ticked down another percent. The phone was a useless charm.
Ryan (swearing quietly): "Damn it."
People moved faster when given a shape to move in. Teams formed: some to carry the hurt, some to set traps, some to fetch blankets. The rain made everything harder, but the village found a rhythm.
Once Jonas was sitting against a charred wall, wrapped in a coat Selene had found, there was a short quiet. The worst panic had passed; the tasks became steady hands. In that lull, Ryan let his shoulders drop and allowed a few seconds of breath.
Ryan (soft, to himself): "If this is a game, I might as well finish the quest."
He looked up. The stares at him had softened. People still read authority into his glasses, but now the look had a bit of trust beside it. He had said his name in the rush; now he could ask theirs.
Ryan (clearing his throat): "I'm Ryan. What are your names?"
Selene (wiping soot): "Selene."
Jonas (nodding slowly): "Jonas Dawnstar."
Aelric (standing close to his mother): "Aelric."
Ryan (mutters with a small, surprised smile): "All right. Selene, Jonas—glad I met you. Aelric, you did good back there."
Aelric (beaming): "I wanted to help my dad."
Their names settled like stones he could build from. Having them made giving orders easier—the small human detail that turned strangers into people with faces he could picture in his head.
Ryan (quiet, to himself): "Note to self: do not sleep at bus stops. Risk of unexpected dimension travel is apparently non-zero."
A few people laughed—soft, shaky laughs that broke the edge off the night. It felt almost like the old world for a blink. But the rumble on the horizon grew, and the shape of the coming army moved the blood out of Ryan's toes.
Ryan (to the knights): "Set posts at each path. Two men each. Keep quiet. We move at my signal."
The knight barked orders and left with his small group. Ryan watched them go, feeling like an imposter who had been given a uniform. He still had no idea about powers, domains, or any game menus. He only had his head and his hands and a very loud sense that people depended on him now.
Jonas (looking at Ryan): "We may be outnumbered, but we won't go quietly."
Ryan (soft): "Good. If we can slow them even a little, it'll matter."
The sun sank lower, pushing long shadows across the mud. The forest at the edge of the village looked like the promise of safety. People piled into the hollow spaces between houses. Traps were hidden in leaves, rocks stacked for quick release, and men took places with wet cloth over their mouths.
Ryan tied a cloth around his wrist, a small, useless flag, then sighed and wiped his hands. The rain kept falling and the air smelled of smoke and wet earth. For now, this fragile plan would have to be enough.
Ryan (to himself, steadier now): "Debugging life, one bug at a time."
05:00 p.m. - At The Castle of Aurelthorn (One month before Ryan's arrival)
The throne hall of Aurelthorn hummed with a low, ugly tension. Stone walls rose high, carrying the old tapestry of House Aurelthorn like a wounded banner. Torchlight jumped and fell across faces, making every line look deeper. At the far end, King King Aldric Thaloren stood over a worn map. His steel-grey eyes moved slowly, tracing borders as if they could be pressed back into place by will alone.
A long wooden table lay between him and the gathered council. Parchments and reports were spread out like a broken plan. The map showed the north in red and dull gold—places marked with crosses and scorch marks. Ten tiny marks next to Eryndral told the story plainly: ten villages razed. The air smelled faintly of smoke that was not here anymore, like a memory of fire.
King Aldric (standing): "Ten villages razed. The roads are quiet. Eryndral is burning in every report."
He kept his voice low. It filled the room without rising. Every man and woman around the table felt the weight of the words. Some collars tightened. A child's laugh would have been impossible here.
Lord Draemyr stood at King Aldric's side, armor creaking softly when he shifted. The silver stag on his chest caught the torchlight and threw it back in a sharp, steady gleam. Draemyr's posture was a clean line of purpose. He leaned over the map and pointed with a finger that did not tremble.
Lord Draemyr (leaning): "Their dragon knights push like a flood. If they reach Eryndral we lose the north. It is not only land we lose—two-fifths of our hold slips from our hands."
A murmur rose. A councilor looked worried enough that his hand shook like a leaf. He rubbed his brow and spoke into the room.
Councilor (rubbing his brow): "If we answer them in force, we will lose more than men. Their numbers are larger. A direct fight is suicide."
King Aldric's jaw moved. He listened to every voice. The crown on his brow felt heavier than metal. He moved his hand along the map where the Darkensvale route bent like a dark tongue toward the heart of Aurelthorn. The torches threw long shadows that met the map's edge, where the painted sea met painted hills. It felt like the real horizon had leaned in close.
King Aldric (quietly): "Eryndral is our heart. If it goes we lose more than territory. We lose our people's faith. We lose what keeps the kingdom together."
Draemyr did not step back from the map. He traced a line with a fingertip, the motion steady and sure.
Lord Draemyr (pressing a finger down): "Then we do the thing they will not expect. We pull them deeper into our land and strike from the dark. They will come full of pride. They count on meeting a weak foe. We make them think we have nothing left to fight with."
The council rustled like a disturbed hive. Some protested. A few believed. King Aldric lifted a hand for silence and held it a moment, collecting the room with his eyes.
King Aldric (measured): "Backstabbing the enemy… it is dishonorable. The lives in Eryndral are not mere tokens. Mothers and children live there. Their suffering will weigh on me."
His voice softened. For a second the king seemed like any man with a heart. The old tapestry on the wall framed him—worn threads making a soldier who had once stood like this. He closed his eyes and for a blink the hall was no longer a throne room but a field where he heard, in memory, screams and oxen bells.
(They are counting on me to save them.)
That thought sat under his ribs like a stone. He opened his eyes and the map waited.
Lord Draemyr's voice tightened. It carried the cold edge of a blade, not cruel but practical.
Lord Draemyr (quiet, certain): "Their pride will be the trap. We give them a weak face, a bait of smoke and empty camps. They will press forward. When they are overextended, we strike with every hidden blade and every man we can hide in shadow. If we do it cleanly, we can cut them to pieces before they even know what hit them."
For a moment he spoke like a man delivering a sermon. Then he leaned back and let his words hang.
Lord Draemyr: !(Let them taste their own pride. We will break their lines and show Drakensvale that Aurelthorn bites back.)
The room changed. The air had weight now—danger sharpened into a plan. Some faces went hard. Others registered fear. A few felt relief; there was at least a way forward.
A veteran captain, scar across his cheek, rose slowly. He set both palms on the table as if steadying himself against old memories.
Captain (placing both palms on the table): "Ambushes work if we can hide enough men. But Eryndral has folk in it. Do we take the risk? How many of our own do we send to die as bait?"
King Aldric stared at the captain. The map seemed to absorb his gaze. The horizon painted on the wall behind them—rolling hills and a pale sun—felt suddenly like a thin lie. Outside, beyond the castle stones, the real horizon had a steel edge. Smoke could be seen some nights at the line where sky met field.
King Aldric (looking at the map): "I will not throw away lives without cause. But neither will I watch the north burn while we do nothing."
He moved his hand and slid a red pin into the map at Eryndral's mark. The action spoke louder than his next words.
King Aldric (deciding): "We use the land. We pull them in. We take only what we must. We try to save as many of Eryndral as we can before they are crushed."
There was a quiet that followed. Some in the circle nodded, others did not. A soft cough broke the pause—no one wanted to show more doubt than the king.
Lord Draemyr's jaw was set. He seemed to find a strange comfort in the cruelty of necessary choices. His voice went hard but sure.
Lord Draemyr (to the council): "We will prepare false camps. Scouts will make fires in the wrong places. Our riders will feint and disappear. The dragon knights fight like a wave; we will turn them into prey in the reeds."
He touched the table, and the torchlight made the stag's eyes on his chest shine like cold stars.
A young scribe, pale and nervous, lifted a hand and asked a question in a voice too small for the hall.
Scribe (nervous): "If we bait them, how long till we move to rescue what we can? The villagers—what if they are already gone?"
King Aldric met the scribe's gaze. There was sorrow but also steel there.
King Aldric (softly): "We cannot save everyone. But if we can strike them where they overreach, we can take back what their arrogance leaves us. We must move fast, and we must be clever."
He tapped the map where the old road bent toward the river. That road could be a knife if used right. The torches made the inked lines look alive, as if troops could spill from the mounts at any moment.
Outside the narrow windows, the world slanted toward a dark horizon. The kingdom's farms and lone watchfires waited beyond the stone. Night would fall soon and bring with it the cold and long breath of warfare.
Lord Draemyr (earnest): "If they believe we are beaten, they will step harder into the trap. We will be quick. We will be clean. And if we fail—"
He let the rest hang unspoken. Everyone in the room felt the weight. Failure tasted like iron and ash.
King Aldric (resigned): "We will not fail if we do this with care. We will give orders tonight. We will move tomorrow at dawn. Prepare the men to appear scattered and weak. Mark the riders for feints. Keep a force hidden for the strike."
The plan began to take shape like a shadow. Men left the hall to deliver orders. Some looked as if the decision had aged them by years.
As the council broke, King Aldric stayed a moment more with the map. The tapestry behind him looked down like an old judge. He closed his hands into fists for a heartbeat and then let them fall.
King Aldric (to himself): "We make the hard choice. For the kingdom."
The torchlight flickered. The stones cooled. Outside, the land kept its low, steady breath. The horizon was a thin line now, not an answer but a place where the war would meet them.
The hall emptied in drips: men and women taking their pieces of the plan into the night. The map lay open, the red pin at Eryndral shining like a small wound. Somewhere in the north, smoke would find the sky again. In the castle, beneath the tapestry of House Aurelthorn, a king and his lord chose a dark path to save what they could.
The plan was set. The cost had been acknowledged. Now the kingdom had to move, and the horizon waited—uncertain, unforgiving, ready to be met.
06:00 p.m. - At Deep Eryndral Forest
Beyond the village, the storm drowned the forest in shadows.
Wings thundered overhead as a Drakensvale dragon swept low, flames scorching treetops and painting the canopy in blazing gold.
Then—the air changed. The forest stilled, as though every branch held its breath.
The dragon roared, uneasy now, its flame spilling into the storm. The firelight flickered against something vast moving between the trees.
A shape uncoiled from the shadows—massive, sinuous, wrong. Branches snapped like twigs beneath its weight, yet its movement was fluid, almost reverent, as if the forest bent willingly aside.
The dragon shrieked and twisted, fire lashing wildly. For a heartbeat, molten light revealed a maw filled with serrated teeth, eyes burning gold in the rain.
Then silence. The dragon vanished between those jaws, its flame snuffed in an instant.
A low growl rippled through the night, vibrating through the trees, through the ground, through bone. Even the storm faltered before it.
And then… nothing. The forest returned to stillness, but every shadow seemed alive, waiting.