The roar of the tavern was a physical thing, a wall of sound that pressed in on Haru from all sides. It was so much louder and more visceral than the muffled, distant quality it had held just moments ago. Every laugh was a bark, every clatter of a plate a minor explosion. The smell was no longer a background note; it was an assault of yeast, sweat, smoke, and grease.
His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
He pinched himself. The pain was sharp and immediate. He was still here, on the rough wooden stool, his fingers sticky from the table's residue.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to crystallize in his gut. This was no dream. The details were too sharp and real. He could feel the draft from the door, see the individual strands of straw on the floor, taste the smoky air on his tongue.
"Yer lookin' a bit green there, son,"
a gravelly voice said beside him.
Haru flinched, turning to see the massive, bearded man who had slammed the tankard down. Up close, he was even more intimidating. His nose looked like it had been broken multiple times, and his eyes, deep-set under a heavy brow, held a glint of amused curiosity.
"I... I'm..."
Haru's voice came out as a croak. He didn't know what to say. 'I was just in history class?' He sounded insane even to himself.
"First time away from the farm, eh?"
the man chuckled kindly.
"The Rusty Nail can be a bit much. Here. This'll put some steel in yer spine."
He nudged the foaming tankard he'd deposited earlier closer to Haru.
Haru stared at it. It was made of heavy, dented pewter. It looked ancient. This wasn't a prop. This was a real thing that real people drank from.
His mind raced, scrambling for any logical framework. A kidnapping? An elaborate prank show? It all seemed impossible. The memory of that final, dizzying lurch,the sensation of the world simply swapping around him,replayed in his mind. It felt less like travel and more like... replacement.
Tentatively, hoping to find some clue, he patted down the coarse tunic he was wearing. The fabric was scratchy and unfamiliar. In the pocket of his trousers (which were definitely not his), his fingers brushed against something small and cold.
He pulled it out. It was a single, worn copper coin. It was utterly foreign. On one side was the profile of a stern-looking man with a crown, on the other, some kind of bird. It felt real.
The bearded man whistled.
"Careful flashin' coin like that, lad. Not everyone in here's as honest as Boris."
He tapped his chest with a thick thumb.
Boris. So that was his name. Haru clutched the coin, his knuckles white. It was his only possession, a tiny anchor in a sea of madness.
"Where... where is this place?"
Haru managed to ask, his voice gaining a little strength.
Boris' bushy eyebrows rose.
"The Rusty Nail? Best tavern in all of Oakhaven. Well," he amended with a grin,
"the only tavern in Oakhaven. You must've really had a few if you don't remember staggerin' in."
"Oakhaven?"
Haru repeated the name. It meant nothing to him. It sounded like something from a fantasy game.
"Aye. On the border of the Eldermark. You are far from home, aren't ya?"
Boris' amusement was now tinged with a hint of suspicion.
"What's your business here, lad?"
Haru's mind went blank. Business? His business was a history test on Friday.
Before he could stammer out a reply, the main door of the tavern burst open with a crash. The noise in the room dipped momentarily. A man in a leather jerkin, mud-spattered and breathing heavily, stood in the doorway, his face pale with fear.
"Goblins!"
he shouted, his voice cutting through the din.
"A raiding party! They're coming down from the Cragwood! They've set fire to the Miller's farm!"
The tavern erupted into instant, chaotic action. The previous mood of raucous merriment vanished, replaced by a metallic tension. Chairs scraped back as men and women,patrons who moments ago had been laughing and drinking,reached for weapons that leaned against the walls: swords, axes, stout clubs. Their faces were now hard, etched with a practiced grimness.
Boris was on his feet in an instant, his own massive hand axe appearing from a loop on his belt. The friendly giant was gone, replaced by a hardened warrior. He glanced down at Haru, who was frozen in place, utterly bewildered by the sudden shift.
"Looks like yer first taste of Oakhaven comes with a side of steel, boy,"
Borin grunted.
"Stay here if ya value your skin. Or better yet, get to the cellar."
And with that, he turned and joined the stream of armed townsfolk pouring out of the tavern door, their shouts and the ring of steel filling the night air.
Haru sat alone at the sticky table, the untouched tankard of ale before him. The sounds of battle, distant screams, the clash of metal, the guttural shrieks of something not human, began to filter in from outside.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't a prank. This was real, violent, and terrifyingly dangerous.
He was trapped in a nightmare. And as the first smell of smoke: real, burning-wood smoke, drifted into the tavern, a single, clear thought cut through his panic.
I need to get out of here.
The only exit was the front door, which led directly toward the sounds of battle. He was weaponless, dressed in rags, and had no idea where he was.
He looked down at the single copper coin in his hand, then at the star-shaped mark on his wrist. It was still throbbing with a faint, warm pulse, a steady, rhythmic beat against his skin that felt entirely separate from his frantic heartbeat.
Unconsciously, his hand closed around the coin, his grip tightening until the edges bit into his palm. He had never felt more alone, more scared, or more completely lost in his entire life.
The door to the tavern flew open again. This time, it wasn't a townsfolk. It was a short, grotesque figure with sallow green skin, beady red eyes, and a rusted short sword held in clawed hands. It sniffed the air, its gaze locking onto Haru, the only person left in the common room.
It let out a hungry croak and started to advance.
Haru's breath caught in his throat. This was it. This was really happening.
The goblin charged.
Haru stumbled backward, his chair clattering to the floor. He scrambled away, his hands slipping on the straw-covered floorboards. There was nowhere to run. The creature was between him and the cellar door, and the kitchen entrance was too far.
With a final, desperate shriek, the goblin lunged. Haru threw his arms up in a futile attempt to shield himself. A searing, hot pain exploded in his side. He looked down, disbelief numbing his mind before the agony could fully register. The rusted blade was buried deep.
The goblin yanked the sword free with a wet, terrible sound. Haru gasped, collapsing to his knees. A warm, sticky wetness spread rapidly across his tunic, and the coppery scent of his own blood filled his nostrils, overpowering the smell of ale and smoke.
The world began to dim, the sounds of the battle outside fading into a muffled roar.
'So this is it'
, he thought, a strange calm settling over him.
'I die in a dream. I'll wake up now. I'll wake up at my desk.'
But he didn't wake up.
Instead, the pain reached a crescendo, and then… it vanished.
A profound coldness took its place. Not the cold of the tavern floor, but the absolute cold of the void. The world around him, the tavern, the goblin, the spilled ale, didn't fade to black. It shattered.
It was like a pane of glass exploding inward. Sight, sound, and feeling fragmented into a million glittering pieces. He was nowhere and everywhere at once, tumbling through a kaleidoscopic tunnel of screaming colors and half-formed images. He saw flashes of Boris' face, the classroom clock, the star-shaped mark, all twisted and stretched into impossible shapes.
It was a sensation beyond nausea, beyond vertigo. It was the feeling of his very soul being unraveled.
And through the psychic maelstrom, a voice. Not a sound, but a impression, a command etched directly onto his consciousness with the cold finality of a gravestone.
'CONTINUE.'
The word was a tidal wave that swept away the last fragments of who he was. Haru Rindo, the student, ceased to be. There was only the fall.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The cold vanished. The screaming silence was replaced by a low, mechanical hum. The kaleidoscope of nothingness resolved into a stark, blinding whiteness.
He wasn't kneeling. He was on his back. A smooth, cool surface pressed against his skin.
His heart was beating again. He drew in a ragged, desperate breath. The air was different. Sterile. Filtered. It smelled of ozone and clean metal.
The pain was gone. Completely. He patted his side frantically. No wound. No blood. The rough tunic was gone. He was wearing a form-fitting, gray jumpsuit of a material he didn't recognize.
He was lying on a padded reclining seat in the middle of a pristine, white, circular room. The walls were lined with glowing blue panels and shimmering holographic displays showing scrolling data and star charts.
A calm, synthetic female voice echoed softly in the chamber.
"Re-animation sequence complete. Vital signs stabilizing. Welcome back, Crewman. You are aboard the Starship Aether. Please report to the bridge for debriefing."
Haru lay perfectly still, his mind utterly, terrifyingly blank. He could still feel the ghost of the rusted sword sliding into his side.
He slowly raised his wrist. The star-shaped mark pulsed once, softly, with a faint blue light, and then faded back to a normal-looking birthmark.
He wasn't in the tavern. He wasn't on Earth.
He was somewhere else.
And the only thing he knew for certain was that he had just died.