The acrid stench of the tannery was a perfume compared to the sewers, but it still wasn't a place to loiter. I needed to get clean and find new clothes. My current ones were stiff with dried sewer filth and blood, marking me as either a victim or trouble—neither was a good look.
My balance was 60 Aether Crystals. Enough for a few necessities, but every crystal spent was a step away from Aether Reinforcement. Still, presentation was a weapon. Looking like a desperate street rat would attract the wrong kind of attention. Looking like a down-on-his-luck traveler… that was mundane, invisible.
I found a public water pump in a marginally cleaner square, using coarse sand and cold water to scrub the worst of the grime from my skin and clothes. The water was icy, shocking the last vestiges of fatigue from my system. As I worked, I pulled up the shop, navigating to the [Miscellaneous] section. I needed a specific, non-magical item.
[Traveler's Pack (Basic)] Contains: Wool blanket, cooking pot, waterskin, 50ft of rope, flint and steel.
Cost: 10 Aether Crystals.
It was a steep price for mundane gear, but the convenience of the shop was its own kind of magic. Purchase. The weight of a worn leather pack materialized on my back. I slipped my arms through the straps. It felt real, solid. A prop for my new identity.
Next, clothes. The original Zane's memories guided me to a street market where second-hand goods were sold from stained blankets on the ground. I used my last 5 Aether Crystals to create another synthetic crystal and haggled with a surly vendor for a used but serviceable grey tunic, a thick leather vest, and a pair of sturdy trousers that almost fit. I changed in a shadowed alleyway, stuffing my old, foul clothes into a refuse pile.
I was now Zane Valthor, itinerant traveler. It was a thin disguise, but it was enough.
Now, for intelligence. I needed to know if I was on schedule. The hero, Kaelan, was supposed to leave the city today on his first guild mission—a simple herb-gathering quest in the Whispering Woods that would, of course, go horribly wrong and be his first step to greatness.
I made my way to the street that led to the main gate, blending into the crowd of merchants, guards, and early-morning laborers. I found a spot leaning against a wall near a food stall, using a single copper mark I'd gotten as change from the clothes vendor to buy a piece of tough, spiced sausage. It was a world better than the system's ration brick.
I didn't have to wait long.
A commotion near the gate announced his arrival. Kaelan. He looked exactly as described in the novel: about eighteen, with earnest green eyes and tousled brown hair, wearing slightly-too-new leather armor. He carried himself with a mixture of youthful confidence and naivety that was both endearing and frustrating. He was the chosen one, the star of the story, completely unaware of the tragic ending the original author had planned for his mother.
A small group of well-wishers—other young aspirants from the guild— saw him off. He laughed, clapping a friend on the shoulder, before turning and marching out the gate with a spring in his step, ready to face his destiny.
My stomach clenched. Seeing him was like watching a ghost walking to his own grave. I knew the bandits waiting in the woods weren't just after his herbs; they were a test set by a hidden faction. He would win, but barely, and his brush with death would be the thing that finally pushed his mother, Elara, to end her self-imposed exile and take up her sword again… too late to truly guide him.
Not this time.
I gave him a five-minute head start, then fell in line behind a merchant's wagon leaving the city, keeping my head down. The guards paid me no mind. Just another nobody leaving Ravenhall.
The moment I was clear of the walls and the traffic thinned, I veered off the main road, striking out into the wilder terrain that ran parallel to it. I couldn't follow Kaelan directly; our meeting couldn't happen yet. My goal wasn't him.
It was his destination. The Whispering Woods. And more importantly, the woman who lived in a small hermitage on its edge.
The trek took most of the day. The land was rugged, and without any proper paths, it was slow going. My body, though healed, was still unaccustomed to this kind of exertion. But the system's healing had done its work well; I was tired, but not broken.
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, I reached the crest of a hill and saw it below: a vast, ancient forest, its canopy a sea of deep green. The Whispering Woods.
And there, nestled between the woods and the foot of the mountain, was a simple stone cottage with a plume of smoke rising from its chimney. A meticulously kept garden surrounded it, and a practice dummy stood off to the side, its wood scarred from countless strikes.
Elara's home.
My heart thudded against my ribs. This was it. The first deliberate step off the plotted path. I wasn't here to fight monsters or gather herbs. I was here to recruit a legend.
But how? I couldn't just knock on her door and say, "Hello, I'm from another world, your son is going to get traumatized soon, and you should join my party."
I needed an in. A reason to be here that wouldn't get me immediately thrown out—or run through with the practice sword I knew was leaning just inside her door.
I looked towards the Woods. Kaelan was in there by now. The ambush would happen soon, probably at dusk. I had a little time.
An idea formed. It was risky. It involved a monster. But it was a classic trope for a reason.
I circled wide, giving the cottage a wide berth, and entered the tree line of the Whispering Woods. The air changed immediately, becoming cooler, filled with the scent of pine and damp earth. I moved quietly, my senses on high alert, listening for anything—the clash of steel, a cry for help, or the chittering of monsters.
I found what I was looking for near a small stream: a Mossback Boar. A Rank 1 monster, but notoriously aggressive and tough to take down alone. It was a bulky creature with shaggy, moss-streaked fur and tusks the length of my hand.
Perfect.
I didn't attack it. Instead, I made just enough noise to get its attention. It snorted, turning its beady eyes towards me, pawing at the ground.
Then, I ran. Not away in a panic, but with purpose. I led it on a crashing, noisy path through the undergrowth, angling my retreat not towards the road, but towards the stone cottage at the edge of the woods.
I burst from the tree line, the enraged boar close behind me, its hooves tearing up the turf of Elara's beautiful garden.
"Help!" I yelled, putting genuine fear into my voice, scrambling towards her door. "Someone! Please!"
The cottage door flew open.
She stood there, silhouetted against the firelight within. She was taller than I'd imagined, her posture ramrod straight. Her hair was a dark silver, tied in a severe braid. She wore simple, functional clothes, but her eyes… her eyes were like chips of flint, sharp and assessing, missing nothing. They flicked from my terrified face to the charging boar, to the spear in my hand that I'd conveniently retrieved from my inventory, to the trampled herbs in her garden.
In that single, frozen second, I saw not a reclusive hermit, but a warrior. A sword-saint.
Her expression tightened, a flicker of profound annoyance at the disruption of her peace. Then, it was gone, replaced by cool efficiency.
She moved.
It wasn't a flashy, energy-consuming technique. It was pure, refined skill. She stepped past me, and a long, practice sword—a simple, blunt rod of hardened wood—was in her hand. As the boar closed the last few feet, she sidestepped its charge with impossible grace and brought the practice sword down in a short, precise arc on the back of its skull.
Thwack.
The sound was final. The boar's legs buckled instantly. It collapsed into the dirt, dead before it knew what happened.
Silence returned to the clearing, broken only by my exaggerated panting.
She turned those flint-chip eyes on me, the practice sword resting casually on her shoulder. She didn't say a word. She just looked at me, waiting for an explanation. The air around her felt heavy, charged with a power she kept tightly leashed.
I had her attention. Now I had to not waste it.
I swallowed, lowering my spear and offering a deep, respectful bow—the kind the novel said was given to masters of the blade.
"My… my deepest apologies, maestra," I said, my voice breathless. "I was set upon by bandits on the road. I fled into the woods to escape them, and that creature gave chase. I saw your light… I didn't mean to lead it to your home. Or your garden. I am sorry."
It was a lie. But it was a lie built around a kernel of truth that would be confirmed within the hour. Bandits were in the woods.
Her gaze didn't soften, but the intensity shifted from pure annoyance to analytical scrutiny. She was weighing my words, my posture, my spear, my pack.
"Bandits," she repeated, her voice low and calm, devoid of warmth. "In my woods."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement that carried the weight of impending judgment.
Somewhere in the forest behind me, her son was walking into an ambush. And I was standing on her doorstep, the first sign that the outside world was crashing back into her solitude.
The script was in motion. And I had just written myself into the first scene.