The memory of the boar's tusk ripping into his flesh, the searing, spreading agony of the purplish plant's poison, the suffocating cloak of fear as the massive beast lowered its head for the final strike – it all lingered. Samuel Raveish, still lying on the rough cot in the Stumbling Stag, felt his thigh throb with phantom pain. His gut churned with a faint nausea that had nothing to do with the inn's stale air and everything to do with the ghost of his last moments.
"Return by Death," he breathed again, the words tasting metallic in his mouth. The blue screen shimmered innocuously in his vision, mocking his terror with its sterile text. "Alright, Aetheria. You got my attention. This isn't 'Aethelgard' anymore. This is... 'Dark Souls' permadeath edition, hardcore mode, with no UI."
He sat up slowly, carefully, as if the movements might re-open wounds that weren't there. The weight of his first actual death, the brutal, undignified end at the hooves of oversized pigs, settled over him like a shroud. He'd never experienced true pain before. Not like that. Not the kind that screamed through every nerve, that left a lingering echo even after the reset. His gamer self, the one that saw pain as a temporary debuff, was recoiling. But the optimizer, the meta-strategist, was already kicking in.
"Okay. New parameters. First attempt was a total wipe," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Aggro'd the elite mobs right out of spawn. No gear, no intel. Classic noob mistake. Rule number one: Do not wander blindly into unknown monster zones. Obvious, in hindsight. Also, NPC warnings are not flavour text; they are critical mission intel. Lyra literally told me it was 'unpredictable' and there were 'wild beasts.' What an idiot."
His stomach rumbled, a stark reminder of his current state. He still had no coin. No food. No weapon.
"Right. New approach. Phase two: Information Gathering and Resource Acquisition."
He slid off the cot, wincing at the phantom twinge in his thigh. Elara was already behind the counter, her movements as rhythmic and unyielding as a metronome. He noted the way her broad back bent slightly as she scrubbed, the weary set of her shoulders. She wasn't just an NPC; she was a person. A person he owed money to. And a person who controlled access to vital early-game resources like food and shelter.
He needed intel. And he needed it subtly. He drifted towards the hearth, where a couple of rough-looking farmers were muttering. He didn't interrupt. He listened.
"Heard another family lost their pig last night," one grumbled, poking the embers with a stick. "Damn beasts getting bolder."
"Aye. And that poor Miri. Still no sign." The other sighed, shaking his head. "Old Man Borin says the Weaver's hunger grows."
Weaver's hunger? So it's not just abductions. It consumes? Fuels itself? What does it eat? Souls? Life force? Samuel filed this away. More data.
He moved to the front door, feigning interest in the palisade. He saw Roric "The Keen," already at his post, scanning the perimeter with hawk-like eyes. Roric was a problem. His "suspicious outsider" debuff was too high. Trying to slip past him without coin or a convincing story was a bad idea. Samuel decided to delay that interaction. For now.
He focused on Lyra's cottage, visible just beyond the palisade. Lyra. Healer. Probably knows about herbs. And maybe... local fauna? Or the forest itself? Her warnings were legit. He needed to approach her differently. Not as the arrogant adventurer, but as someone genuinely seeking knowledge. Humility. A new tactic.
He took a deep breath, trying to push away the lingering scent of boar and fear. He walked out of the inn, keeping his head low, hoping Elara wouldn't shout for his debt just yet.
Loop 2 (Attempt 2 - Continuation): The Data of Pain
Samuel made his way to Lyra's cottage. He remembered the path, the scent of her herbs. This time, he didn't call out. He approached quietly, observing. Lyra was indeed tending her garden, humming a soft, tuneless melody.
"Good morning, ma'am," Samuel said, his voice softer, more respectful than before. He kept his hands visible, showing no threat. "I... I just woke up in the inn. No memory of how I got here. And I heard about the little girl, Miri. It's... terrible." He forced a look of genuine concern, trying to channel the empathy he'd only ever simulated in games. It felt... foreign. Uncomfortable.
Lyra looked up, her expression softening slightly compared to Elara's hardened gaze. "Oh, bless your heart, young man. Aye, Miri. It's been a dark cloud over Oakhaven." Her eyes held a deep sorrow. "Are you well? You look a bit... pale."
Success! Positive NPC interaction! Samuel mentally checked a box. "I'm just a little disoriented, ma'am. And... well, I was wondering, if you have a moment, could you tell me more about the Elderwood? And... the 'Weaver' they speak of? I'm trying to understand this place." He tried to sound curious, not demanding. Like he was building lore knowledge.
Lyra hesitated, glancing nervously towards the dark line of trees. "The Elderwood is... ancient. It holds much Aether, both gentle and fierce. And the Weaver... she's a sorrowful thing. A distorted spirit, they say. Drawn to innocence, drawn to pure Aether. She pulls little ones into her glade, deep in the wood, and... they don't return." Lyra shuddered. "Old tales say she was once a guardian, but the land itself twisted her. Perhaps a great sorrow, or too much raw Aether, changed her."
Samuel's mind raced. Distorted spirit. Draws on pure Aether. Twisted by land/sorrow/raw Aether. Not just an animal, a magical entity. A 'spirit boss.' Okay, so physical damage might be inefficient. Need a counter to Aetheric abilities. Maybe something 'purifying'? Or disruptive?
"Is there... anything that frightens her? Anything that keeps her away?" Samuel probed, hoping for a weakness.
Lyra wrung her hands. "Only the old wards, long since faded. And the iron, perhaps. Cold iron. But no one dares to approach her glade. It's too... strong. The plants there, they sap your will, confuse your mind. And the children... they don't scream. They just... walk away, drawn by her whispers."
Whispers! Cognitive Aether. She messes with perception. That's a major debuff. Iron might be a counter! And 'sapping will,' probably a Stamina/Mana drain. This was gold. Actionable intel. He thanked Lyra profusely, then headed back towards the inn, his mind churning with plans.
He saw Roric watching him, his eyes like two chips of flint. Samuel offered a small, polite nod. Roric didn't return it, but he didn't challenge him either. Progress. No aggro this time.
Back in the inn, Samuel pondered his next move. He needed iron. But he had no coin. He needed a way to get a weapon, or at least a tool. And he needed to confirm the "Whispering Glade" location. He knew the direction, but not the specific, dangerous spot.
He saw a pile of firewood near the hearth. Maybe he could steal some kindling? A short, thick branch might serve as a makeshift club. He moved stealthily, trying to snag a stout piece of wood.
"Ey! What you think you're doing, lad?" Elara's voice, sharp as a whetstone, cut through the common room. She was at his side in an instant, her hand gripping his arm with surprising strength. "That's good firewood! You got coin for that, or you think it's free for every vagrant?"
"N-no, ma'am! I just... I was cold." Samuel stammered, caught completely off guard. His stealth skill was apparently zero.
Elara scoffed. "If you're cold, you work. Firewood ain't free. Get out!" She gave him a shove, sending him stumbling towards the door.
Samuel cursed internally. Right. This isn't Skyrim. Can't just pilfer. Reputation system is harsh. Need to earn trust... or find an exploitable loop.
He needed to find a way to earn money or acquire basic tools. Or... find a less conventional entry point to the Elderwood.
Loop 3 (Attempt 3): The Forest's Cruelty
The reset was familiar now. The cot, the smells, the drone of voices. The phantom throb in his thigh from the boar, and a new, faint ache in his arm from Elara's surprisingly strong grip. The emotional sting of being publicly shamed for trying to steal firewood also lingered. This "Return by Death" thing didn't reset his embarrassment meter.
"Okay," Samuel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Can't steal. Can't fight bare-handed. Can't talk my way in. No obvious 'side quests for quick cash.'" His gaze fell on a rusty, discarded nail on the floor. Useless. Can't craft with a nail.
His mind clicked. Lyra mentioned herbs. Maybe I can pick some of those easy-to-find herbs near her cottage and sell them? Or trade them for a basic knife? It was a long shot, but it was better than trying to punch a boar.
He managed to slip out of the inn without attracting Elara's immediate attention this time, a small victory. He headed straight for Lyra's cottage, giving Roric a wide berth. Lyra was there again, gathering herbs.
"Good morning, Lyra," Samuel greeted, using his softer tone. "I was wondering... if a man were to... find some herbs in the woods, would you perhaps... be willing to trade for them? I'm quite skilled at identifying things." He added the last bit with a slight embellishment, hoping to sound useful.
Lyra smiled kindly. "Oh, yes! I'm always in need of 'Elderleaf' and 'Moonpetal.' They grow on the outskirts, just where the forest gets thicker, but away from the Whispering Glade. They're valuable for healing poultices." She pointed to a patch of forest. "Just be careful. Even the outer woods have their dangers."
Elderleaf and Moonpetal. Healing herbs. Okay, good. Standard resource gathering quest. Samuel grinned. This was a playable loop. He strode towards the woods, determined. He'd avoid the boar's clearing. He'd stick to the outskirts. He would be careful.
He found the herbs easily enough. Elderleaf, a broad-leafed plant with faint silver veins. Moonpetal, a delicate flower that seemed to shimmer even in the subdued light. He carefully gathered a decent bundle, tucking them into his shirt.
He avoided the path that led to the boar clearing. Instead, he ventured slightly further along a different, less trodden path, hoping to find more herbs. The trees here grew closer, forming a damp, sun-dappled tunnel. The air was cool and still. He heard a soft drip-drip-drip sound, like water slowly falling.
Water source? Might be useful later. He pressed on, his eyes scanning the undergrowth for more Moonpetal. The dripping sound grew louder, accompanied by a faint, clicking noise.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the boughs overhead. It wasn't large, not like the boar. It was elongated, segmented, and moved with unnerving speed. A Giant Centipede, its chitinous body a dull brown, its countless legs scuttling over the mossy ground. It dropped onto his shoulder, its venomous pincers clamping down onto his neck before he could even register its presence.
A paralyzing shock coursed through him, followed by a burning, numbing pain that spread from his neck down his arm. He cried out, instinctively swiping at the creature, but his muscles were already seizing. The centipede released him, dropping to the ground, its pincers clicking menacingly as he stumbled backwards, collapsing.
His arm went numb, then his leg. The world began to spin. His breathing became shallow, ragged. He could feel his heart pounding, then slowing, then fluttering erratically. The venom was fast. Faster than the boar's poison. There was no time to fight, no time to run. He could only lie there, watching as the centipede slowly, deliberately, began to crawl towards his face, its pincers poised.
Fear, cold and clinical, gripped him. This wasn't a hero's death. This was just... pathetic. Paralyzed. Eaten by an oversized bug.
The blue screen flared.
███ FATAL ERROR: SUBJECT TERMINATED. REPEAT ATTEMPT 622,822,031. ███
███ ACTIVATING SOUL RESTORATION. REVERTING TO LAST STABLE STATE. ███
███ ...RESTORATION IN PROGRESS... ███
The searing light. The familiar stretch and snap.
Loop 4 (Attempt 4): The Calculus of Chaos
He was back. Again.
The dull ache behind his eyes. The familiar cacophony of the inn. But this time, a new phantom sensation: an unbearable itch, a burning numbness in his neck, the spectral memory of venom paralyzing him. He slapped his neck instinctively. Nothing. Just smooth skin. Yet, the sensation lingered, a chilling reminder of the centipede's pincers. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart still thrumming with the ghostly echo of panic.
"Centipede," he rasped, clenching his fists. "Okay, so the woods aren't just boars. They're... everything." His initial gamer confidence was slowly, painfully being chipped away by Aetheria's relentless refusal to play by the rules. No clear 'level 1 zone' for grinding. Every single encounter was potentially lethal.
"This is not a game," he muttered, the realization sinking in deeper with each reset. "This is... a survival horror simulator. With permadeath. And a very expensive reset button."
He rubbed his neck, the phantom itch persistent. "Lesson two: Never assume. Never assume 'safe zones.' Assume everything is hostile until proven otherwise. And for the love of all that is holy, get a weapon. Even a crappy one."
His immediate, pragmatic concern overshadowed any lingering fear. He still needed to find Miri. He still needed to understand the Weaver. But he couldn't do that if he kept dying to basic environmental hazards or common monsters. He needed to re-evaluate his early-game strategy from the ground up.
Money first. Or a weapon first. Or both. He had the Elderleaf and Moonpetal knowledge. Lyra would buy them. That was a path. But what about the centipede? And what about Roric? And Elara? Every interaction was a potential minefield.
He looked at the familiar common room. Elara was already serving a gruff-looking man. Roric was likely at his post. Lyra, by her cottage. These were his variables. His constants. He had lived this moment three times already, though only he knew it.
His internal monologue, usually so confident, was now laced with a new edge of frustration and weariness. "Okay, Samuel. Think. Optimize. What's the most efficient way to survive long enough to actually do something?"
He needed to map out the safest routes. Identify all immediate threats. And for the love of pixels, acquire some form of self-defense. Even if it was just a sturdy stick.
He pushed himself off the cot, the straw rustling. The phantom itch on his neck flared. He grimaced. This world was already leaving its mark, even on his reset body. It was a terrifying, yet exhilarating, challenge.
"Time for another loop," he said, his voice flat but determined. "Let's see what else Aetheria throws at me."