Marcus woke before sunrise.
The tavern was quiet at this hour. No boots on the floor. No mugs clinking. Only the soft crackle of dying embers in the hearth below and the distant sound of carts rolling over stone streets outside.
He lay still for a moment, feeling his body.
It was still weak, but better than yesterday. The fever had broken. His breathing was steady.
Today, he would see the world properly.
If he wanted to make wine here, he needed to understand everything — the land, the people, the magic, the markets. Wine was not just grapes and yeast. It depended on climate, soil, trade routes, storage, and law.
He dressed slowly and made his way downstairs.
His mother was already awake, kneading dough on the counter. The tavern looked different in the early morning light. Cleaner. Honest. The scratches on the wood told stories of years of use. The bar counter had been repaired many times. The chairs did not match. Nothing was luxurious, but nothing was falling apart either.
It was a place surviving, not thriving.
"You're up early," his mother said without looking up.
"I want to go outside," Marcus replied.
She stopped kneading and looked at him carefully. "You've barely left your bed in days."
"I feel better."
She studied his face. After a moment, she sighed. "Stay close. And don't tire yourself."
His father came in from the back carrying a small crate of turnips. "Let him walk," he said. "The air will do him good."
Marcus nodded gratefully and stepped outside.
The city was larger than he expected.
Stone buildings lined the street, some two or three stories high. Wooden signs hung over shop doors, carved with symbols — a loaf of bread, a hammer and anvil, a boot. People moved with purpose. Merchants pushed carts. Children ran between stalls. The air smelled of spices, livestock, bread, and iron.
And beneath it all, Marcus felt something else.
A faint pressure in the air.
Mana.
He did not know how he knew the word, but it felt correct. It was like humidity before rain — invisible but present. It clung lightly to his skin.
As he walked farther from the tavern, he saw people who clearly were not ordinary townsfolk.
A man in polished armor walked past him. A faint blue light shimmered around his gauntlet. Two women in long robes discussed something while a small floating orb of light hovered between them. A young boy carried a staff taller than himself, the wood carved with strange symbols.
Magic was not rare here.
It was normal.
Marcus stopped when he reached a wide stone plaza.
A massive building stood at the far end. Its entrance was framed by tall banners marked with a sword crossing a shield.
The Adventurers Guild.
Groups gathered at the steps. Some looked confident. Others looked nervous. A large board stood near the entrance, covered in pinned papers.
Quests.
So this was how the world functioned.
Monsters existed. Dungeons existed. People were paid to deal with them.
Violence was organized.
He watched as a party of four exited the building. Their armor was scratched, and one man had his arm in a sling. Yet they were laughing.
They had survived something.
And tonight, they would likely sit in his family's tavern.
Marcus understood something important in that moment.
This world was dangerous.
And dangerous worlds needed places to rest.
His tavern could become that place.
But not with cheap ale.
***
Across the plaza stood another large building. Its sign showed a scale and coin.
The Merchant Guild.
Men and women entered and exited carrying ledgers and sealed crates. Trade here was structured. Organized. Regulated.
If he wanted grapes, barrels, cork, or glass, he would need to understand this guild.
Wine was business as much as craft.
He continued walking until the plaza gave way to a crowded market street.
Stalls filled both sides of the road. Fresh vegetables. Meat. Cloth. Herbs. Spices in bright piles of red and yellow. The noise was louder here. Sellers shouted prices. Customers argued. Children weaved through legs.
Marcus moved slowly, observing everything.
Then he saw them.
Grapes.
They sat in a wooden crate at a modest fruit stall. Small clusters. Dark red. Some slightly uneven in color.
His heart beat faster.
He stepped closer.
The old woman running the stall noticed him. "Looking for fruit, little one?"
He nodded. "Can I see those?"
She lifted a cluster and handed it to him.
The moment it touched his palm, he felt it.
A faint warmth it wasn't heat...it was more like an Energy, similar to what he felt in the air.
The grapes carried mana.
Not much, but enough to matter.
He examined them closely. The skin was slightly thicker than modern grapes from his old world. The scent was stronger. Earthier. There was a faint metallic note he could not yet identify.
These grapes had grown in mana-rich soil.
That changed everything.
Fermentation here would not be simple. Mana might interfere with yeast. It might speed reactions or destabilize them.
He would need to experiment carefully.
"Are they good?" the old woman asked.
"Yes," Marcus answered honestly. "Where do they come from?"
"Southern fields," she replied. "Near the old forest. Soil's strange there. Crops grow strong."
Strange soil.
Mana concentration.
He nodded.
"How much?"
She named a small price.
Marcus counted the coins his father had given him for errands and realized he could afford only a small bundle.
"That's enough," he said.
As she wrapped the grapes in cloth, she smiled at him. "Planning to eat them all yourself?"
"No," Marcus said. "I'm going to make wine."
She laughed loudly. "At your age?"
He did not laugh.
"I've made it before."
The old woman studied him for a moment. Then she shrugged and handed him the bundle.
"Then make it well."
**
On his way back, he passed a small shop selling wooden goods.
Barrels stood outside in neat rows.
He paused.
The wood looked different from modern oak. The grain was tighter. The scent was sharper.
A middle-aged man with thick arms stepped out of the shop. "Need something?"
Marcus shook his head. "Just looking."
The man grinned. "Those are spirit oak barrels. Strong wood. Hard to crack. Keeps things fresh longer."
Spirit oak.
Marcus filed the name away.
Another piece of the system.
This world had materials influenced by mana.
Barrels might affect fermentation differently here.
Everything would need testing
**
When he finally returned to the tavern, the lunch crowd had begun to gather.
His father stood behind the counter, speaking with a man Marcus had not seen before.
The man wore light leather armor and had a sword resting against his chair. His hair was silver, though he did not look old. A faint scar ran across his cheek.
"Your son?" the man asked as Marcus approached.
"Yes," his father replied. "Still weak, but stubborn."
The man smiled at Marcus. "You'll grow strong. This city makes sure of that."
Marcus looked at him carefully. This man carried himself with quiet confidence.
An experienced adventurer Marcus thought.
"What do you do after a dungeon?" Marcus asked him suddenly.
The man blinked. "After?"
"Yes. When you survive."
The man leaned back in his chair and considered the question.
"We eat. We drink. We try to forget the parts we don't want to remember."
Marcus nodded slowly.
That was the gap.
That was the need.
His mother noticed the cloth bundle in his hands. "What did you buy?"
"Grapes," he answered.
His father laughed. "Planning a feast?"
"No," Marcus said again.
He walked behind the counter and looked at the door leading to the cellar.
"I'm going to start today."
His father frowned slightly. "Start what?"
"Something better."
He looked down at the grapes in his small hands.
They were simple and basic. But they were the beginning.
This world had magic.
It had guilds and merchants and adventurers and danger.
It had mana in the soil.
That meant it also had potential.
Marcus felt a quiet determination settle inside him.
He had died once with unfinished work.
He would not waste this second life.
Today, he would crush his first grapes in this new world.
And from them, he would begin building something greater than a drink.
He would build a sanctuary.