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Chapter 4 - CH : 003 Arrival At The Town

The evening settled gently across the wilderness, the sky painted in strokes of crimson and gold as the fire crackled between them. The scent of grilled fish mixed with the earthy aroma of damp soil and pine resin. A small campfire flickered beside two weary adventurers — one human boy, thin and pale beneath the shadows of flickering flames, and one stout, broad-shouldered dwarf whose beard gleamed with oil and ash.

Their freshly washed armor and weapons lay drying on a flat boulder nearby, still dripping under the faint moonlight. Kagan tore another piece of bread and chewed noisily, voice muffled as he spoke.

"Tomorrow by noon we'll reach the Friendly Arm Inn. Sell the loot, get ourselves a good drink, and rest for a proper week. Your arm should heal nicely by then. I'll take the watch tonight."

Henry smiled faintly. "No need. I've already hired a guard."

The dwarf frowned, glancing around. "A what?"

Henry pointed at a nearby oak. A small squirrel perched on a branch, its beady eyes glinting curiously in the firelight. It twitched its tail proudly, almost as if understanding its mention.

Considering the dwarf's snoring last night and his own tendency to fall asleep without realizing it, he used his druid ranger ability to understand animals to communicate with the little creature. He ultimately traded a handful of pine nuts for the squirrel's help with the night watch.

"You… hired a squirrel?"

"I paid in pine nuts," Henry said, voice calm. "While you were grilling the fish, I noticed plenty lying around. Turns out our little friend here was watching us the whole time. I offered food in exchange for standing watch."

Kagan blinked, then burst into laughter that shook his shoulders. "Ha! If you hadn't told me, I almost forgot that you are a druid. It's great that I don't have to keep watch. I didn't sleep well last night because I was worried about you and had nightmares all the time. I went to bed after dinner." The dwarf said happily when he heard the news. "A squirrel for a sentry. Hells, I've heard elves talk to trees, but this—this is new!"

Henry only smiled, his expression quiet, almost tired. "My mind works in mysterious ways."

The dwarf grinned and patted his shoulder. "You'll fit right in at the Friendly Arm, boy. Those mages love talking to themselves, too."

After a hearty laugh and another mug of ale, Kagan slumped back and soon began snoring loud enough to frighten the birds. The squirrel twitched its tail again, taking its post high in the branches, eyes glowing faintly in the light of the moon.

Henry watched them both — dwarf and squirrel — and finally whispered, "Start."

A familiar shimmer pulsed from his hand as a faint glyph glowed on his skin. The system window opened silently in his vision, its ethereal light reflecting off his young face.

\\

Name: Henry

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Age: 14

Alignment: Neutral

Occupations

Primary Class: Mage – Level 1

Experience: 88 / 2,500

Secondary Class: Druid – Level 1

Experience: 87 / 2,000

\\

The numbers flickered faintly before his eyes, and Henry sighed. "Only 175 experience from the hobgoblins… and it's still barely anything."

The five hobgoblins he encountered during the day contributed 175 experience points, which were split evenly between his two classes. Each Hobgoblin contributed 35 points, which was roughly similar to the game.

He felt a pang of frustration looking at the massive amount of experience needed to level up; the D&D series was always difficult to level in. Spellcasters, in particular, were even worse.

He leaned back against a fallen log, staring up at the stars. They were brighter than anything he had ever seen on Earth — thousands of glittering eyes peering down through the Veil. Somewhere among them, he knew, were the divine realms: the endless halls of Moradin, the gardens of Chauntea, and the cold citadels of Mystra and Bane.

The thought sent a strange chill through him. This isn't a game anymore.

In the world of Faerûn, even a Level 5 adventurer could gain renown, while a Level 11 mage was often the head of a guild or circle. By Level 15, one could call themselves a master of their art. Those who reached beyond Level 20 — the legends — began to transcend mortality itself. Their bodies and minds began to transcend mortals, becoming long-lived, with living for several centuries being no problem. They were archmages, high priests, chosen of gods. Their names carved into history.

But humans… they almost never reached that far. Too fragile. Too mortal. Too short-lived.

Henry clenched his fist, staring at his hand until the faint runes of his "system" flickered again. "Then I'll just prove the impossible."

He exhaled slowly, pushing away the memory of prices he could never yet afford — enchanted items, spell scrolls, rare gems worth hundreds or even thousands of gold coins. Each one a step on the path to power.

'Forget it, thinking about this is useless for now; it's better to just focus on adventuring with Kegan and earning some money.'

Henry got a headache just thinking about the prices of various magic scrolls and enchanted items. With costs ranging from hundreds to hundreds of thousands, it was simply something that he, as a little Mage-Druid, couldn't afford.

He remembered faintly — Henry had a single mother and a younger sister, and their life was neither too good nor too bad. Ever since Henry became a Druid, most of the money he earned from using divine spells to heal the injured was sent home.

He felt a faint sting in his chest. The old Henry's emotions sometimes came in waves — grief, pride, longing. But they weren't his. Not entirely.

He shook his head. "No point thinking about it now. I need to prepare my spells."

After a while of random thoughts, he began to prepare his spells for tomorrow.

For 1st-level arcane spells, he chose "Sleep." In the daytime battle, Henry found this spell surprisingly practical; it could immediately put enemies to sleep. However, it would be useless if their heads had already been chopped off in one clean cut.

For 1st-level divine spells, he chose "Cure Light Wounds," "Stone Strength," and "Entangle." "Stone Strength" could instantly raise the caster's Strength to 18. Although it only lasted for a brief 5 minutes, it was sufficient. "Entangle" would cause surrounding plants and vines to entangle enemies, preventing them from moving freely. It was a very good disruptive divine spell.

As the last ember of magic faded from his fingers, he whispered a small prayer to the forces of nature. The trees around him rustled faintly, as if acknowledging the druid's faith.

He looked to the stars one more time.

"The road ahead won't be easy," he muttered, a strange mix of dread and excitement in his heart. "But I didn't cross worlds to stay weak."

With that, Henry lay back beside the fire. The squirrel shifted on its branch, tail flicking in rhythm with the crackling flames.

It was common knowledge in Faerûn that casters must get sufficient rest.

---

The first rays of dawn spilled through the treetops, painting the forest in soft gold. A groggy Henry stirred beneath his rough blanket as something tickled his ear — a faint nibbling sensation. Half-asleep, he brushed at it before realizing what it was. A small squirrel, its fur glinting like bronze in the sunlight, stood beside his head, chattering excitedly.

Through his Speak with Animals ability, Henry instantly understood: the little creature was saying goodbye — its night watch duties done, and its reward awaited.

Smiling faintly, Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handful of pine nuts, setting them carefully into a crevice of a nearby tree, it's home. The squirrel sniffed, chittered happily, and vanished in a blur of motion, disappearing into the branches above to rest.

Henry stretched, bones popping softly, and called out, "Kegan! Wake up! The road won't walk itself!"

From beneath a wool blanket came a muffled groan. "By Moradin's beard, lad! Couldn't ye wait a moment longer? I was dreamin' of Evermead — aye, the real one! Banteli was pourin' me mugs o' that golden beauty. Costs five gold a bottle, and you had to wake me before I took a sip!"

Henry chuckled as the dwarf grumbled and rolled over. Kegan's beard was a tangled mess, and the first thing he did — before even standing — was reach for a small comb hanging from his belt. For dwarves, grooming their beard was almost a sacred ritual; a beard was their pride, their legacy, a living symbol of their ancestors.

After a breakfast of hardtack and dried boar meat, the two packed up camp. Kegan heaved the heavy pack onto his back — armor, weapons, supplies — easily over eighty kilograms in total. His short but solid frame bore it effortlessly, his boots thudding against the dirt path like a slow drumbeat of determination.

By the time the sun reached its peak, the Friendly Arm Inn came into view — a fortified trading post that looked more like a small walled town than an inn. Tall stone walls surrounded the settlement, its towers manned by guards clad in mismatched armor from a dozen kingdoms. Above the gate hung a wooden sign, painted with a faded symbol of two clasped hands — the emblem of peace and trade.

"Ha! There she is!" Kegan declared proudly, hands on his hips. "The Friendliest place ye'll ever find, so long as ye don't start a bar brawl."

At the drawbridge, two human guards stopped them. One was a lanky man with a drooping mustache; the other, a half-elf with sharp eyes. Their tone was polite but firm, laying down the rules: no fighting, no spellcasting within the walls, and no thievery.

"Sounds like they've had trouble before," Henry murmured.

Kegan spat to the side. "Aye, adventurers and merchants — bringin' coin and chaos in equal measure."

Inside, the streets were bustling. Human traders barked prices, halfling tinkers displayed colorful trinkets, and a trio of elven bards strummed lutes beneath a banner that read Welcome to the Friendly Arm — Peace for All. The smell of roasting meat and ale drifted from the central courtyard.

"Come on, lad," Kegan said, motioning eastward. "We'll offload this scrap first. My back's beggin' for mercy."

They wove through the crowd until they reached a lively open-air market. At one stall stood a striking woman in a green merchant's coat — fiery red hair tied back with a silver clasp, eyes sharp and clever as emeralds. She was about thirty years old, with deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and fiery red hair paired with green eyes that gave her a heroic look.

Kegan stomped up, voice booming. "Morian! Ye black-hearted coin-hoarder! I've got fine steel and chain here. If ye try to rob me again, I'll cleave ye in two and sell the halves as armor plates!"

The woman looked up, not the least bit startled. Instead, she grinned and shouted back, "Kegan, you miserly stump! The last batch of your 'fine steel' took me months to sell, and I barely made forty percent! You call that a profit?"

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