The creature charging into the carriage was a small, green-skinned nightmare.
Thanks to the fragmented memories of his predecessor, Roland recognized it instantly. It was a Goblin—the quintessential bottom-feeder of high fantasy. But seeing a drawing in a bestiary and facing a living, breathing monster were two very different things. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird. This wasn't a video game anymore; the smell of damp earth and rot coming off the creature was all too real.
The Goblin, clad in filth-encrusted rags, brandished a crude stone axe. Its yellowed eyes locked onto Roland with predatory glee. With a shrill, rasping cackle, it lunged, swinging the axe in wild, murderous arcs meant to turn him into mincemeat.
Roland froze. In his previous life in Berlin, the most "action" he'd seen was a frantic dash for the U-Bahn. This level of violence was well beyond his psychological paygrade.
The axe whistled toward his skull.
Muscle memory—the only gift from the original Roland—kicked in. He swung his two-handed sword forward in a desperate parry. But he was clumsy, and the Goblin was deceptively agile. The creature sidestepped the heavy blade with ease and slammed its stone axe against the flat of Roland's sword.
CLANG!
The vibration shot up Roland's arms like an electric shock. His grip failed, and he watched in horror as his only weapon clattered into the far corner of the carriage.
The Goblin didn't miss a beat. It snarled, raising the axe for a finishing blow.
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die in a carriage over a muddy road.
Driven by raw survival instinct, Roland threw himself into a frantic side-roll. The stone axe bit into the wooden floor right where his head had been a second ago, throwing up splinters.
Adrenaline surged, but so did a wave of paralyzing terror. His vision began to blur, and his mind felt like it was fracturing under the stress. Just as he reached the breaking point, a warm, golden current erupted from his heart. It flooded his veins like a high-grade sedative, instantly quenching the fire of his panic and replacing it with a cold, crystalline clarity.
The Goblin struggled to yank its axe from the floorboards. In that moment, Roland's fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, white-hot fury. He didn't reach for his sword. He didn't run. He lunged forward and threw a desperate, full-bodied punch.
As his fist swung, he saw a flickering white ring manifest around his wrist—a shimmering halo resembling the rings of Saturn.
The Goblin finally freed its axe and swung blindly at Roland's chest. The jagged stone was inches from his skin when a translucent barrier of light shimmered into existence around his body.
CLANG!
The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. The stone axe didn't just stop; it was repelled by a massive, invisible force, nearly snapping the Goblin's wrists as the weapon flew backward.
The monster's jaw dropped. It stood there, stunned, staring at the shimmering shield in utter disbelief.
Roland didn't give it a second chance. He stepped into his reach and drove his ringed fist straight into the Goblin's chest.
BOOM!
It was like the Goblin had been hit by a freight truck. Its small body was launched out of the carriage, arcing through the air before slamming into the dirt road. There was a sickening CRACK as its head collided with a jagged stone. It twitched, blood pooling in the mud, until the light faded from its slit-pupil eyes.
Roland collapsed against the carriage wall, gasping for air that tasted of iron and ozone.
A string of semi-transparent text flickered in his vision: [Enkephalin +0.5]
Outside, the sounds of steel on steel died down. It seemed the caravan guards had finished off the rest of the raiding party. A moment later, the canvas flap was pulled back. A rugged, middle-aged guard peered in, his eyes widening as he saw the dead Goblin and the panting youth.
He checked the body, then looked back at Roland with a nod of genuine respect. He clapped a heavy hand on Roland's shoulder.
"Not bad, kid. First time facing a monster?"
Roland could only nod weakly.
"To hold your ground and take one down with your bare hands? You've got stones, I'll give you that." The guard chuckled and headed back to the front of the line to assist with the cleanup.
Roland stared at his hands. That hadn't been a normal punch. He recognized those effects. Heart and Hope—the fundamental resonance skills from Limbus Company.
"Why now?" he whispered. He tried to summon the light shield again, straining his mind, but nothing happened. No rings, no barrier. It seemed his "System" was as temperamental as the games it was based on.
By late afternoon, the caravan rolled into Gray River Town.
The town was a sprawling hub of activity, far removed from the quiet isolation of the village. Roland's first stop was the center of town. In this world, you weren't an Adventurer until the Guild said you were. Without a badge, you were just a vagrant with a sword.
The streets were lined with stalls and shouting vendors. Roland passed a young man in battered leather armor haggling furiously over a tarnished ring while a girl beside him looked ready to burst into tears. It was a stark reminder: this world didn't owe anyone a living.
Finally, he saw it. The Adventurers' Guild.
It was the most imposing structure in the district—a four-story monolith of dark basalt and pale oak. It stood straight and symmetrical, a bastion of order amidst the crooked, leaning houses of the common folk. Verdant trees framed the entrance, and the constant flow of armed men and women gave the place an aura of dangerous prestige.
Roland stepped inside.
The hall was massive, buzzing with the low hum of a hundred conversations. He scanned the room and spotted the reception counter on the left. Behind it sat a young woman in the Guild's navy-and-gold uniform. Her long hair fell over her shoulders as she stared intensely at a guild scroll.
As Roland got closer, he realized the scroll was a decoy; she was actually engrossed in a tawdry-looking romance novel tucked behind the official documents.
Good to know, Roland thought dryly. Even in another dimension, "quiet quitting" is a universal constant.
He tapped the counter. "Excuse me. I'd like to register for an Adventurer's badge."
The girl flinched, shoving the novel out of sight with practiced speed. She looked up, offering a professional, if somewhat tired, smile. "Welcome to the Guild. Registration for a new badge requires a processing fee of 30 copper coins."
Roland winced. His total net worth was 2 silver and 50 copper—the result of years of his predecessor's grueling labor and obsessive saving.
In this economy, 10 coppers bought you enough black bread to survive a day. 1 silver was worth 100 coppers. 1 gold was worth 100 silver.
He counted out the thirty coins, feeling every bit of the "pain" of a poor student. After he handed over the money, the girl pushed a form toward him.
"If you can't read or write, I can assist for an extra fee," she added.
"I can manage," Roland replied. Unlike the peasants of Earth's Middle Ages, the people here were surprisingly literate, thanks to the free basic education provided by the local churches. He filled in his details—name, age, origin—and handed it back.
She stamped the parchment and fished a small, rectangular token from a drawer. It was made of a dull, heavy gray stone.
"This is your Gray Stone-rank badge," she explained. "Every badge has a unique identification number linked to our archives. To move up, you must complete Guild-sanctioned commissions to earn points. Once you've hit the threshold, you can attempt the Bronze-rank promotion exam."
She paused, looking him over. "If you're new to the life, I highly recommend the Adventurer's Handbook. It's 30 copper coins."
"I'll take it," Roland said. He was already down 30; what was another 30 if it kept him from being eaten?
"My name is Avia," the girl said, her eyes already drifting back toward her hidden novel. "Let me know if you need anything else. Good luck, Roland. Try not to get killed on your first week."
Roland stepped away from the counter, clutching the handbook. He'd debated trying to find a used copy in a back alley, but in a world where "emergency wound treatment" could be the difference between life and a slow death from gangrene, he wanted the official version.
The Adventurer's Handbook was more than a book; it was a survival manual. It covered:
* Weaponry 101: Matching your gear to the monster.
* Maintenance: How to keep your blade from snapping and your leather from rotting.
* Field Medicine: The basics of stopping a bleed and disinfecting a wound—vital for someone without a dedicated healer.
* Loot Processing: How to strip a monster for parts without ruining the market value.
For Roland, this was his "Tutorial Level" guide. He might have a powerful system in his head, but he was still a city boy in a body that barely knew how to hold a sword. The handbook gave him a foundation.
He sat on a bench in the Guild hall, flipping through the pages. For the first time since transmigrating, the crushing weight of the "50-Day Countdown" felt a little lighter. He wasn't just a farmer anymore. He was a Gray Stone Adventurer.
Now, he just had to find a way to make enough Enkephalin to survive the month.