Ethan stumbled away from the crowded festival street, his heart hammering against his ribs. He needed space to think and process everything.
He found a narrow alley between two timber-framed buildings and pressed his back against the rough wooden wall, trying to steady his breathing. The sounds of the festival—laughter, music, the calls of vendors—felt surreal… Too real. Everything was too real.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. It was longer than his real hair, silkier. Even that small detail felt wrong. "Okay. Think. What's happening?"
He forced himself to look around, really look at where he was. The buildings, the layout, the position of the sun… recognition sparked in his memory.
"This is with no doubt, Salt Fish Town," he whispered.
Of course it was, he had heard them say it already, and even read it on the banner. This was the same beginner town where he'd started his original account years ago, and even a number of other burner accounts.
It wasn't the best of beginner locations, it was designed to be forgettable—a generic starting zone to funnel new players into the wider world.
In the game, it had seemed quaint in that artificial, theme-park kind of way, at least for that first day, before it turned into something from a dark fantasy game.
Now though, these buildings weren't just textured polygons. They were structures—old, weathered, with wood grain he could trace with his fingers and plaster that crumbled slightly under his touch. The town wasn't poor, exactly, but it clearly wasn't wealthy either. The infrastructure had that worn, been-here-for-centuries look. Roads transitioned from cobblestone in the town square to hard-packed dirt on the side streets, and those dirt roads turned to muddy messes wherever the drainage was poor. A staple sight for Salt Fish Town, just as he knew it.
After spending enough time looking around, Ethan stepped out of the alley and started walking, really experiencing it this time instead of panicking. His sandals—old sandals, he noted with a grimace—squelched slightly in a muddy patch.
He could feel it. The moisture seeping between his toes, the unpleasant give of the mud. To say the least it felt irritating, but this was hardly the time to care as he shook his foot to get the wetness out, even though it didn't work.
The mud was the least of his problems, though. Being a mere game before, he never noticed these details, the smells… God, the smells.
He could smell what seemed to be bread, probably a bakery somewhere nearby, roasted meat from the festival stalls, horse manure from the street, smoke from chimneys, body odor from passersby who didn't have access to modern deodorant or regular baths even… even the slightly stagnant smell of standing water in a nearby trough, though, that was probably not chief amongst the concoction of odours.
It was overwhelming. VR had never been like this. Even with a neural link headset, Lost World Online had been visual and auditory with some haptic feedback. You didn't smell things. You didn't feel textures this vividly. You didn't sense the weight of humidity in the air or the way dust particles caught the afternoon light.
This wasn't virtual reality.
This was just… reality.
Ethan looked down at himself and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. His starter gear was exactly as pitiful as he remembered: loose-fitting trousers that had probably been brown once but had faded to an ambiguous gray-tan, a shirt that was more of a tunic, rough and scratchy against his skin, and those awful sandals. At his hip hung his Novice Sword in a simple leather sheath—the most basic weapon the game offered.
He looked like a beggar more-or-less. The only thing distinguishing him from the actual beggars he'd passed was that his clothes, while old and worn, didn't have holes or patches.
He calmed himself, "Status," he said aloud, then felt foolish, but partially and still expectantly, the translucent blue menu appeared before his eyes anyway, responding to either his voice or his intent—he wasn't sure which.
He selected 'Status' and pulled up his character sheet:
…
[Status]
Character: Yamamoto Odinson
Race: Human
Title: None
Class: Swordsman
Level: 0
HP: 25/25
MP: 10/10
Strength: 5
Agility: 3
Endurance: 2
Intelligence: 1
Vitality: 1
Free Stat Points: 4
[Weapon Mastery]
One-Handed Sword Mastery: Apprentice Rank – 5%
Two-Handed Sword Mastery: Apprentice Rank – 5%
Free Mastery Points: 0
…
Ethan stared at the numbers, feeling a complex mix of familiarity and strangeness. It was all exactly as it should be for a brand-new character. Level 0—you hit level 1 after your first few kills, starting stats distributed with a slight bias toward Strength, as was standard for the Swordsman class and other attack centric classes, and four free stat points to allocate as he wished.
There was the weapon masteries, which were at Apprentice Rank at 5%, which was the baseline—it meant he had basic competency with swords but nothing special. In his old account, he'd pushed both masteries to the peak. The difference in damage output and technique availability between mastery ranks was astronomical, as one would expect.
He was essentially starting from nothing. Again. Only this time, it wasn't just another smurf or burner account.
The stats themselves were straightforward with little intricacies.
Strength increased physical attack power, Agility boosted attack speed and movement speed, Endurance raised maximum HP and stamina, Intelligence increased maximum MP and magical attack power, Vitality improved HP and MP recovery rates.
For a pure swordsman build, the meta was to prioritize Strength and Agility, with enough Endurance to survive burst damage. Intelligence and Vitality were usually dump stats, intelligence being last.
But that was for the game. If this was real...
Ethan dismissed the thought for now and opened his Skills menu.
…
[Skills]
[Sword Slash]
Dish out a powerful slash. +2% attack power, +2% attack speed.
Type: Active
Level: 1 (Proficiency: 0/100)
Requirement: Sword
MP Cost: 10
Cooldown: 10 seconds
…
One skill. The most basic sword skill in the entire game. He'd had over fifty skills on his old account—complex combos, a few rare area-of-effect attacks for a swordsman that focused on 1v1 encounters, powerful finishers. Now he had Sword Slash.
Next, he checked his equipment details:
[Old Trousers] (Common)
Durability: 10/10
[Old Shirt] (Common)
Durability: 10/10
[Old Sandals] (Common)
Durability: 10/10
[Novice Sword] (Common)
Durability: 18/18
All Common grade—the lowest tier of equipment. The hierarchy went Common, Uncommon, Rare, Epic, Legendary, Mythic. His old account had been decked out in full Legendary gear with two Mythic accessories. Being a hardcore F2P player, spending only on limited items that could not be farmed, he'd spent months farming for some of those pieces.
Now he was wearing literal garbage.
Ethan opened his Inventory and found exactly what he expected: two Low-Grade HP Potions, two Low-Grade MP Potions, and five gold coins.
He stared at those gold coins for a long moment.
Five gold. In the game, that had been pocket change—barely enough to cover repairs and a few basic consumables. New players were meant to be poor, to struggle, to appreciate every coin they earned.
But Thinking about it now… 'If this was a real world, would the currency work the same way?' He tried to remember the exchange rates from the game… There was none! It was just gold coins, and that was it!
'There's no way gold would be used as the least currency, right? Unless they are breathing and shitting gold here.'
If he followed fantasy shenanigans, it should be something like 100 copper coins to 1 silver coin, and 100 silver coins to 1 gold coin. So five gold would actually be 500 silver, or 50,000 copper.
Was that a lot in a real economy? He had no idea, but he had good reason to believe so… he wanted to believe so.