Lyra showed him around the nearby town of Emberhaven. Rohan had seen the town in the game, a simple starter hub with a few vendors and a quest board. But seeing it in person was a whole different experience. The cobblestone streets were worn and uneven, the houses were made of rough-hewn timber and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh bread, and the townspeople looked at them not as icons but as people, with expressions of genuine concern and curiosity.
Lyra, Rohan quickly learned, was well-known here. She greeted people by name and they greeted her back with warm smiles and words of gratitude. She wasn't a hero in the way Liriel was. She was a part of the community. She was a friend.
They were in the town square, a quiet place where children played a game of tag, when it happened. There was no warning. No shadowy figures emerging from the trees. One moment, Lyra was laughing at a child's antics; the next, a heavy sack was thrown over her head.
Rohan, startled, stumbled backward. He saw a man, a baker with flour on his apron, pin Lyra's arms behind her. A woman he'd just seen at a vegetable stall was helping tie the sack at the bottom. The children, a moment ago playing, were now watching with blank, impassive faces. The entire town was in on it.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Rohan. He was frozen, a programmer again, watching an illogical event unfold before his eyes. He watched in horror as the townspeople—the very people who had smiled at them just moments ago—pulled a heavy, rusted cart into the center of the square. Lyra, still in the sack, was tossed unceremoniously into the back. They weren't just kidnapping her; they were taking her away to be sacrificed.
"Get out of our town!" the baker shouted at Rohan, a mix of fear and desperation in his eyes. He and the others brandished simple farming tools—shovels, hoes, rusty sickles. It was a pathetic show of force against someone who could deflect a player's attack with a passive skill, but their resolve was unnerving. They were not afraid to die to protect their home.
Rohan's hands instinctively flew to his sides, his body tensing in a defensive stance. Just as he did, a faint, almost invisible, shimmering dome appeared around him. It pulsed once, a low hum of energy, and then vanished. It was a new artifact, one he hadn't known he possessed. The Aura of the Divine Barrier, an artifact that pushed away anyone with hostile intent.
The townspeople shrieked as an invisible force slammed into them, sending them flying back. They were thrown off their feet, tumbling onto the cobblestones. They didn't even get close.
Rohan stood there, utterly alone in the now empty town square. He watched as the cart carrying Lyra rolled out of the town gates, the sound of wooden wheels on stone a mournful echo. He was safe, protected by a power he couldn't control. But the price was Lyra.
He ran to the gates, and that's where he saw him. An old man, sitting on a worn-out wooden stool, his head in his hands. He wore simple robes, but they were clean, and he had a small, plain wooden cross tied to a simple leather cord around his neck. The man wasn't a townsperson; he was a traveler, a wanderer. Rohan had a faint, ancient memory of him from the game. He was a low-level NPC, a lore-giver who stood just outside the town, but a Christian who shouldn't exist in this game.
Rohan, still reeling from the shock, didn't notice the man's eyes. He had no hostile intent, so Rohan's divine barrier didn't activate. But the man saw everything, and tears were streaming down his face. He was crying, and his lips were moving, saying something Rohan couldn't hear.
"Please forgive our sins..." the man was saying. "Please, God, not again."
The words sent a chill down Rohan's spine. Not again? He went to the man and asked him what was going on.
"The whole town... they're all players," the man whispered, looking up at him with a weary, mournful gaze. "I'm a player, too. My name is Thomas. We all got Isekai'd into this world, and for a while, it was like a dream. We could live without fear. We could build something for ourselves. But then, players started arriving, and they started killing the monsters. We knew that if they killed Chronos, the game would end, and we would risk going back to our old lives."
He looked at Rohan, his eyes filled with an old grief. "I used to be one of them. I was part of the group that tried to stop the heroes, but when they started killing other players who got in their way, I left. I couldn't be a part of it anymore."
Thomas looked out at the empty road where the cart had gone. "I stay here, at the gates, to warn anyone who tries to go into the town. I've seen them throw out so many people. They just show their swords, and the barrier you have activates. They can't get close to you, so they throw you out, thinking you're just a useless NPC with a glitched barrier. But you're not."
Thomas's words were a revelation. He wasn't just a shield and a pair of running shoes. He was something more. He was a walking deterrent. A living wall. He wasn't useless. He was just misunderstood.
For a brief moment, Rohan felt a sense of relief. He could turn around and walk away. He could go somewhere safe and leave this nightmare behind. It's what he had always done. He would not give up, just like he always did.
His mind flashed back to his old life. A rain-slicked road. A man lying in the street, hit by a car. Rohan had seen him as he walked home from a late shift. The man was moaning, his face a mask of pain. Rohan had hesitated. The man was a stranger, and the thought of getting involved in a police report, of being late to work, of having his life interrupted… he had told himself, The police will do it. Someone else will help him.
The next morning, the news had a small blurb about a hit-and-run victim who had died on the side of the road.
The memory was a punch to the gut. The guilt, the shame, the helplessness—it was all there, just as fresh as the day it happened. He had turned his back on a stranger. He had told himself he was useless, that his help didn't matter. And now, he was about to do the same thing to Lyra, the one person who had shown him kindness.
He thought of the long hours, the empty apartment, the endless deadlines. He thought of his life before, and how he had turned his back on everything that mattered. He thought of Lyra, a woman who had shown him more kindness than he had ever known, being dragged away to her death.
He looked at the small knife in his hand. The Tome-Key.
"No," he said, his voice a low growl. "I won't let you."
He ran. He ran not to escape, but to fight.