The first thing Arion learned as a mortal man was that pain stayed.
The wound on his thigh—a lucky slash from a bandit's dagger—burned like fire as he limped into Rosby Keep's courtyard. No glowing notifications to track blood loss. No *+5% Pain Resistance* perk. Just warm stickiness soaking through his breeches and the metallic tang of fear in his mouth.
"Pathetic," sneered Boros, the same meat-faced squire who'd mocked him lifetimes ago. "You couldn't even clear out highwaymen without—"
Arion broke his nose with a single punch.
The crunch of cartilage under his knuckles was glorious. No System-approved Critical Hit! message. Just Boros howling, blood gushing through his fingers as he crumpled to the mud.
Ser Tallad's gauntlet clamped on Arion's shoulder. "That's a flogging offense."
Last time, I'd have calculated the exact angle to twist free. Now?
Arion met the knight's glare. "Try it."
A beat. Then—laughter. Ser Tallad shoved him toward the maester's tower. "Get that leg stitched before you bleed out, you stupid bastard."
The Rules of Mortality
No Second Chances
The maester's needle hurt worse than the wound. No Ignore Pain toggle.
When infection set in three days later, Arion burned it out with boiling wine himself. Screaming was allowed now.
Hunger Was Real
Rosby's stores were half-rotten. Ate weevil-filled biscuits without complaint.
Stole eggs from the kitchens. Got caught. Spent a night in the stocks. Rain made it worse.
People Remembered
Boros ambushed him with two friends in the stables.
Arion fought dirty—eye gouges, groin kicks, a pitchfork to the ribs.
No Reputation Gain notification. Just wary respect from the other squires.
The First True Choice
Lord Gyles summoned him after the bandit raid. The old man looked worse than Arion remembered—papery skin stretched over bones, lips flecked with blood.
"You." A coughing fit. "The Brownhollow boy. They say you fight like a cornered rat."
Arion kept silent. Last time, I'd have known the exact dialogue options.
Gyles tossed a rusted key onto the table. "Rosby Town's granary. Littlefinger's men are skimming half our grain. Find proof."
No Quest Log. Just a dying man's wheeze: "Fail, and I'll feed you to the pigs."
The Investigation (No System Assistance)
The Granary
Counted sacks at dawn. Numbers didn't match the ledger.
No "Detect Lie" skill. Had to bribe a clerk with stolen wine.
The Dockmaster
Ferry's man, greasy and smug. "Lost in transit, boy."
No Intimidation Bonus. Just Arion's knife at his throat.
The Trap
Hid in the granary rafters for two nights.
Rats. So many rats.
Caught the thieves red-handed—Rosby guards on Ferry's payroll.
The Fight:
No Combat Mode. Just terror and adrenaline.
Took an axe handle to the ribs. Nearly drowned one man in a grain sack.
Staggered back to Gyles with a broken tooth and a signed confession.
The Reward (Human Version)
No *+50 Reputation.* No Title Unlocked.
Just Gyles' skeletal hand shoving a purse of silver into his chest. "You'll do."
And Ellyn Rosby—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed—leaning in the doorway. "Try not to die before next week. Uncle needs someone to scare the smallfolk."
Arion touched his swollen lip. This is living.
I. The Bloody Welcome
The wound was the first lesson.
A stupid injury, really—a bandit's rusted dagger slipping past his guard, opening a four-inch gash along his left thigh. In another life, the System would have flashed [HP: 87/100] and suggested a healing salve. Now, there was only the hot pulse of blood soaking through his breeches, the metallic stench mixing with sweat and horsehair as he limped through Rosby Keep's gates.
"Seven hells," muttered the gate guard, wrinkling his nose at the trail of crimson droplets staining the mud. "You piss yourself or get stabbed?"
Arion bared his teeth. "Both."
The courtyard hadn't changed. Same peeling stucco walls, same scrawny chickens pecking at dung, same squires drilling with wooden swords. But the details were sharper now—the way the afternoon light caught the rust on the rain barrels, the sour tang of fermenting cabbage from the kitchens, the weight of his own breath in his lungs.
No HUD. No minimap. Just… this.
Boros, the keep's resident brute of a squire, sauntered over, his smirk already in place. "Look what the dogs dragged in! Did the—"
Arion broke his nose.
No strategy. No [Dirty Fighting Lvl 3] bonus. Just raw, unfiltered anger—his fist connecting with a crunch that sent Boros sprawling into a horse trough.
Silence. Then—
"You little shit!" Boros came up sputtering, blood streaming over his lips. He lunged, but Arion was already pivoting, using the other man's momentum to slam his face into the trough's edge.
A hand clamped on his shoulder—Ser Tallad's grip, iron-hard. "That's ten lashes," the knight growled.
Arion turned, meeting the man's gaunt, stubbled face. Last time, he'd have calculated—apologized, maybe, or spun some silver-tongued excuse. Now?
"Try it," he said softly.
For three heartbeats, the world held its breath. Then Ser Tallad laughed, shoving him toward the maester's tower. "Get that leg stitched before you bleed out, you stupid bastard."
II. The Maester's Mercy
Maester Grover's chambers smelled of mold and pennyroyal. The old man peered at the wound through cracked spectacles, his breath wheezing. "Nasty. But not fatal."
The needle hurt worse than the dagger.
"Fuck!" Arion jerked as the bone needle pierced his flesh, the catgut tugging through muscle.
"No System to mute the pain now, eh?" Grover muttered.
Arion froze.
The maester didn't look up, tying the stitches with gnarled fingers. "Oh, don't gawk. I've served House Rosby for forty years. Seen a dozen boys like you—eyes too old for their faces, moving like they've lived it all before." A shrug. "You're just the first who didn't die screaming."
He knows. Or guessed.
Grover smeared a poultice of crushed garlic and spiderwebs over the wound. "Keep it clean. If it festers, I'll take the leg."
III. The Rules of Mortal Life
1. Pain Stayed
The wound throbbed for days. No [Pain Resistance +20%], just gritted teeth and sleepless nights. When pus oozed yellow on the third day, Arion heated a dagger in the forge and burned the infection out himself. The smell of his own searing flesh made him vomit.
2. Hunger Hollowed
Rosby's stores were half-rotten. Ate weevil-filled biscuits, picking the squirming grubs out first. Stole eggs from the kitchen—got caught by the cook, a woman built like a draft horse. Spent a night in the stocks for it, rain soaking through his clothes until his fingers turned blue.
3. Enemies Remembered
Boros ambushed him in the stables with two friends. No [Combat Mode], no [Parry Bonus]. Just fists and teeth and the sickening crack of a rib giving way under a boot.
Arion fought dirtier:
A thumb in Boros's eye
A knee to the second squire's groin
A pitchfork snatched from the wall, jammed into the third boy's thigh
No [Reputation Increased] notification. Just the way the other squires edged aside when he walked past, their whispers trailing behind him like shadows.
IV. The Lord's Summons
Lord Gyles Rosby looked like death warmed over.
Propped on pillows in his solar, the lord's skin clung to his skull like parchment, his breath a wet rattle. The room stank of blood and rosewater, the clash making Arion's empty stomach churn.
"You." Gyles coughed, flecking his lips with red. "The Brownhollow boy. They say you fight like a cornered rat."
Arion said nothing. Last time, I'd have known the exact words to manipulate him.
Gyles tossed a rusted key onto the table. "Rosby Town's granary. Littlefinger's men are skimming half our grain. Find proof."
No quest marker. No [Accept / Decline] prompt. Just a dying man's wheeze: "Fail, and I'll feed you to the pigs."
V. The Investigation
Day 1: The Ledgers
The granary clerk was a rat-faced man with ink-stained fingers. "Nothing missing, boy. Check the books yourself."
Arion did. The numbers didn't match.
No [Detect Lie] skill. So he waited until the man drank himself stupid at the tavern, then "borrowed" his ledger. Spent the night squinting by candlelight, counting sacks versus shipments.
Day 2: The Dockmaster
Ferry's man, greasy and smug. "Lost in transit, boy. Rats. Damp."
No [Intimidation Bonus]. Just Arion's knife at his throat and a hissed threat about feeding him to the harbor crabs. The dockmaster cracked, babbling about midnight shipments to a brothel called The Velvet Hammer.
Day 3: The Trap
Arion hid in the granary rafters for two nights.
Rats scuttled over his legs. His ribs ached. At midnight on the second night, the thieves came—three Rosby guards, laughing as they loaded grain onto a cart.
No [Stealth Meter]. Just slow breaths and waiting.
When they turned their backs, Arion dropped from the rafters.
The Fight:
No combat alerts. Just terror and adrenaline.
Took an axe handle to the ribs—same damn spot Boros had kicked.
Nearly drowned one man in a grain sack, his thrashing growing weaker until the others surrendered.
Staggered back to Rosby Keep at dawn, dragging two prisoners, his broken tooth throbbing with every step.
VI. The Reward
No [+50 Reputation]. No [Title Unlocked: "Granary Guardian"].
Just Gyles' skeletal hand shoving a purse of silver into his chest. "You'll do."
And Ellyn Rosby—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed—leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed. "Try not to die before next week. Uncle needs someone to scare the smallfolk."
Arion touched his swollen lip.
This is living.