After pushing through the dense, thorny brush bordering the River Valder, Valerius found himself standing on a wide, cobblestone road.
This was the Southern Town, one of the primary town feeding into the heart of Oakhaven.
The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows across the path. Farmers from the outlying hamlets were already busy, their heavy wooden carts laden with fresh greens and livestock, trundling toward the city markets.
As Valerius walked, he realized his new body possessed a rugged endurance. Despite the trauma of the Strange world, his legs felt powerful, and his breathing remained steady. Even more surprising was the wound on his skull; while it was tender to the touch, the throbbing had vanished. It was healing at a rate that defied nature—the first true sign that even a "failed" student of the Arcane Academy was physically superior to a common man.
Curious, he focused his mind, bringing the Aura-Link interface back into his field of vision. He gasped.
The red battery icon had flickered from 6% to 7%.
The battery recharges as I recover, he realized, a surge of relief washing over him. My physical vitality is the power source. As long as I am healthy and fed, the system stays alive. While he pondered the possibilities of a 100% charge, a rhythmic thumping and the harsh blare of a pressurized horn echoed from behind.
A sleek, black carriage a Steam-Hauler tore down the road, its polished brass fittings gleaming in the morning light. It moved with a speed that put the farmers' horses to shame, belching plumes of white, odorless water vapor from its rear vents.
Guarding the vehicle were four outriders clad in light steel cuirasses, their hands resting on the pommels of longswords. They rode powerful, genetically-refined horses, expertly weaving through the scattered pedestrians to maintain a protective perimeter around the car.
Valerius stepped into the ditch to let them pass. It was a jarring sight—the elegance of high-speed steam technology clashing with the medieval silhouette of armored knights. In this world, the "style" was a chaotic blend of the industrial and the archaic. Only the elite—nobles, merchant lords, or the elusive Wizard—could afford such mechanical marvels.
As he drew closer to Oakhaven, the landscape shifted from open fields to a sprawling industrial periphery. Massive factories with soot-stained chimneys sat alongside the walled manors of the aristocracy.
Then, the city itself loomed.
Oakhaven had no traditional stone walls. Instead, it was defended by a ring of Wizard Towers conspicuous stone needles rising forty meters into the air. At the summit of each sat a steam-pressurized ballista, draped in waterproof tarpaulin. Valerius knew that under those covers lay weapons capable of skewering a wyvern at half a kilometer.
At the main checkpoint, a guard in a crested helm blocked his path. "Halt. Identify yourself."
Valerius didn't panic. He reached into his damp tunic and pulled out a small, white rectangular card. It was his Academy Credential, etched with a black-and-white portrait and a series of precision-drilled holes for machine reading.
The guard's demeanor instantly shifted from suspicion to cautious respect. An Academy card, even one belonging to a low-tier student, was a mark of status. He checked the portrait, nodded, and stepped aside. "Move along, citizen."
Inside the city, the atmosphere was electric. Stone-paved streets were lined with rows of four-story buildings topped with crimson tiles. Gas lamps stood every ten meters like silent sentinels. The air was a cocktail of roasting coffee, coal smoke, and the damp scent of the canals.
Valerius dodged a group of playing children and a postman on a high-wheeled bicycle. He walked past blacksmiths, ornate bookstores, and bustling taverns, but his mind was elsewhere. A delicious aroma wafted from a nearby eatery, causing his stomach to roar in protest.
He reached into his pockets. Empty.
"Bastards," he hissed. Whoever had attacked him and dumped him in the river had stripped him of every copper. "I'll find you soon enough."
He quickened his pace, heading for the Roth District, a neighborhood for the working class and struggling scholars. It was a place of peeling paint and narrow alleys, but it was home.
Ten minutes later, he reached a drab apartment building and climbed to the third floor. He fumbled with his key and pushed open the door to a cramped room containing nothing but a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe.
He didn't head for the bed. Instead, he grabbed a stale loaf of bread from the table leftovers from two days ago and began to shove it into his face, washing it down with tepid water. He felt like a starving animal, his body desperately converting the calories into the "charge" his soul demanded.
After eating, he stripped off his ruined clothes and stepped into the small washroom. He scrubbed the river silt and dried blood from his skin, then stood before the mirror.
His new body was impressive 1.8 meters tall, lean, and corded with the functional muscle of three years of academy drills. But as he turned to inspect the bruises mottling his ribs, he picked up a small hand-mirror to check the back of his head.
The indentation was deep and regular the unmistakable mark of a heavy, blunt instrument.
Valerius stared at his reflection, his eyes turning cold. The hazy memories of the previous night were beginning to solidify. It wasn't an accident.