The stale scent of hay and woodsmite hit Dave first. Not the usual greasy pizza-and-energy-drink fug of his apartment, but something earthier, sharper. He groaned, pressing his palms against a rough surface that felt suspiciously like... packed dirt? His eyelids felt gummed shut. Last thing he remembered was the pulsating glow of his monitor, the final boss of *Aethelgard Online* roaring in defeat, the victory fanfare blaring... then a searing white light.
He forced his eyes open. Sunlight, dusty and golden, streamed through high, narrow windows, illuminating swirling motes in the air. He wasn't reclined in his ergonomic chair. He was slumped against a rough-hewn wooden wall, sitting on a pile of burlap sacks smelling faintly of grain. Around him stretched a cavernous space filled with long trestle tables and benches. A tavern. Not just any tavern – the unmistakable, slightly pixel-perfect architecture of *Aethelgard's* starting zone: Oakhaven Village Inn.
"Wha…?" His voice emerged as a dry croak. He looked down. Instead of his faded band t-shirt and sweatpants, he wore coarse, undyed linen trousers and a simple tunic, laced at the front with leather thongs. His hands… they looked like his hands, but cleaner, devoid of the usual keyboard calluses. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle his skin.
'It's just a really vivid dream. Post-game crash. Yeah.'
He tried to stand, legs wobbling like a newborn foal. The *feel* of the packed earth floor beneath his thin-soled boots was unsettlingly real. The murmur of voices reached him – not the synthesized chatter of game NPCs, but layered, overlapping conversations with genuine inflection. He saw a burly man in an apron polishing glasses behind a long bar. A woman in a homespun dress swept near the hearth. A group of figures in mismatched leather armor huddled over mugs, their faces animated under the shifting light of a crackling fire in the massive stone fireplace.
'Too real. Way too real.'
Driven by instinct honed through countless hours logged in virtual worlds, Dave focused inward, trying to summon his interface. His HUD. His character screen. 'Anything.'
And it appeared.
Not projected onto a monitor, but superimposed directly onto his vision, translucent yet crisp. The familiar blue-and-silver scrollwork border of *Aethelgard Online* materialized. Relief flooded him. "Okay, okay, it IS the game. Some crazy immersive event? New expansion launch glitch?'
His eyes scanned the information:
---
**Name:** Dave
**Race:** Human
**Class:** [None]
**Level:** 1 (0/100 XP)
**Title:** [None]
**Faction:** Oakhaven Villager (Neutral)
**Health:** 50/50
**Mana:** 10/10
**Stamina:** 70/70
**Attributes:**
* Strength: 5
* Dexterity: 6
* Constitution: 7
* Intelligence: 8
* Wisdom: 6
* Charisma: 5
**Skills:**
* [None]
**Status:** [NPC - Non-Player Character]
---
The relief vanished, replaced by a chilling void. NPC. Non-Player Character. The words pulsed with a faint, mocking red light. He wasn't Dave the Level 98 Archmage, obliterator of bosses. He wasn't even Dave the *player*. He was Dave the Villager. Level 1. No class. No skills. *An NPC.*
The implications crashed over him like a tidal wave. He was experiencing a typical trope in a webnovel, transmigrated to a game world. Trapped. Not as the hero, but as part of the *background*. Destined to repeat the same lines, perform the same menial tasks, forever bound by the game's scripting. Would he even have free will? Or would some unseen force compel him to sweep the inn floor or mutter about goblins on the road?
'No. No way.' The denial was fierce, primal. He had *goals*. He had a *build* planned! Fire Mage. The crackling energy, the raw destructive power, the control over an elemental force… that was his identity in *Aethelgard*. That dream hadn't died with his player status. If anything, the impossibility of his situation made it burn brighter, a desperate anchor in this terrifying new reality.
He focused on the meager 10 points in his Mana pool. Tiny, pathetic. But it was *something*. He remembered the feeling, the *concept* of conjuring flame. The mental trigger, the flow of energy. He'd done it a thousand times. He raised a slightly trembling hand, palm facing the empty space between him and the bar. He concentrated, pouring his will, his fear, his furious desire into his palm. 'Heat. Spark. Ignition. Fireball!'
Nothing.
Not even a wisp of smoke. Not a flicker of warmth. Just the cool, slightly damp air of the inn against his skin. He strained harder, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of shock. *Come on! You know this! Basic Pyromancy! Ignis!*
His Mana bar flickered – 10/10. He hadn't even drawn upon it. The system simply… didn't respond. As if the fundamental laws governing magic in this world didn't recognize his command. He wasn't a player triggering a skill. He was an NPC without the programming for it.
The burly barkeep glanced over, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "You alright there, lad? Look like you've seen a ghost. Or tried to wrestle one bare-handed." His voice was deep, gravelly, utterly real.
Dave dropped his hand, clenching it into a fist. Shame and frustration warred with the dawning horror. He forced a weak smile, the expression feeling alien on his face. "Uh… yeah. Fine. Just… thinking." His voice sounded thin, unconvincing even to himself.
The barkeep grunted, unconvinced, but went back to polishing. The other patrons paid him no mind. Just another villager having a strange moment. Utterly insignificant.
Dave slumped back against the sacks, the rough burlap scratching his neck. The weight of his situation settled fully upon him. Trapped. Powerless. Labeled. The dream of living an exciting life like those protagonists in the novels he used to read felt impossibly distant, a cruel joke. Yet, as he stared at the crackling flames in the hearth – real flames, casting dancing shadows, radiating tangible heat – the ember of determination refused to be extinguished.
He was Dave. Not just an NPC. And somehow, some way, he *would* make fire dance to his command. The path was shrouded in darkness, the first step a crushing failure, but the journey had begun. The status screen's **[NPC]** label burned in his vision, a challenge etched in cold, digital light. He had to find a way to break the script. The barkeep's casual dismissal echoed in his mind – insignificant, just a villager. But deep within, where the gamer's spirit and the man's desperation fused, a silent vow formed: "I'll break free of the system!"