An unknown amount of time later.
I began to surface. Not abruptly, not violently, but slowly—like rising through dark water toward a faint light above.
Awareness came first, then sensation. Something rough pressed against the back of my head. The air carried the scent of dry, old wood. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open.
A strange ceiling stared back at me: interwoven strips of straw packed tightly between dark wooden beams. It was uneven, hand-built. Not modern. Not familiar. Nothing like Earth.
I stared at it for several seconds before the memories caught up. The waterfall. The goblins. The drop. The cold. The darkness.
"…I'm alive. How?" My voice came out dry and rough.
I swallowed, wincing as sensation spread through my body. Pain followed—a dull ache in my ribs, a throb near my temple, tightness across my torso when I inhaled too deeply.
Bandages. I shifted carefully and felt the fabric pull against my skin. Someone had treated me. That meant someone found me, or I'd washed up near civilization. Either way, I wasn't in the forest anymore.
I lifted one hand slowly into view. Still broader than before, thicker across the knuckles. Still not human. I flexed my fingers. The strength was there—controlled, contained.
"…So all of that wasn't a hallucination." I exhaled through my nose and turned my head slightly, scanning the room.
It was a small space, with mud-brick walls reinforced by timber. A wooden table sat nearby, holding a clay pitcher. Two stools. A single narrow window let in warm afternoon light. A village house—medieval, simple, functional.
I pushed myself up a little and immediately stopped. My ribs protested. Not broken, just strained. I leaned back against the crude pillow supporting me.
I almost died. That wasn't dramatic or philosophical; it was fact. Four goblins. A cliff. No plan. Just desperation.
My jaw tightened. "I panicked. But I'm alive." The words were quiet, measured, but honest.
The old me would've frozen, tried to rationalize the situation, hoped for a miracle. I jumped. That was something. Not enough, but something.
My gaze drifted back to the ceiling. Steady ascension. Half excelia. No explosive growth? Fine. Then I'd grow the hard way. But first, I had to live long enough to matter.
My ears twitched, catching a small creak. Then footsteps outside—not the erratic shuffle of goblins. I went still instantly, breathing slowed, muscles tensed beneath the bandages. Not aggressive. Just ready.
A shadow paused on the other side of the wooden door. Then a knock—three times, firm and controlled.
I stared at the door and said nothing.
The door creaked open slowly. Not dramatic, not cautious—just old wood shifting on worn hinges.
A man stepped inside. Grey hair, thick eyebrows, deep lines carved into a weathered face. Not frail or weak, just aged. He carried himself steadily, one hand holding a simple wooden tray with a glass of milk and a small loaf of bread.
He paused when his eyes met mine. Then he smiled—not wide, not forced. Just kind.
"Ah," he said gently. "So you're awake." His voice was rough with age but calm.
I didn't move. Didn't relax. Didn't answer immediately.
The old man stepped fully inside and nudged the door shut behind him with his heel. "I heard you shifting around," he continued. "Figured you'd surface sooner or later."
He walked over and set the tray down on the small wooden table beside the bed. Up close, I could see it clearer: calloused hands, scars across the knuckles. This wasn't just some harmless old farmer. This was someone who'd worked. Maybe fought.
The man straightened slowly and met my eyes again. "Name's Arthur," he said. "Arthur Faust." He gave a small nod. "And you nearly broke your skull open on the river rocks, lad."
I blinked. River. Right.
"I… fell," I said carefully.
Arthur's eyebrow twitched slightly. "Aye," he said dryly. "That much I gathered."
He pulled a stool closer and sat down across from the bed, elbows resting lightly on his knees. "You washed up near the southern bend. Lucky you didn't drift further. The current gets nasty down there."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "Found you unconscious. Bruised ribs. Cut along the side of your head."
Arthur glanced at my ears briefly. Didn't react. Didn't question. Just observed.
"You're no local," he added. It wasn't a question.
I stayed quiet.
Arthur didn't press immediately. Instead, he nodded toward the tray. "Drink. Eat. Slowly."
A pause. Then his tone shifted—softer, measured. "But before that…" His eyes held mine. "What happened to you, boy?"
Arthur's question lingered in the air.
I opened my mouth to answer, and suddenly my lungs locked. My chest tightened, cold—not from outside, but inside.
My vision flickered. Trees. Shrieks. Yellow eyes. Blades flashing through the air. The edge of the cliff. Water roaring.
My hands began to shake—small at first, then worse. My breath came uneven.
Fuck. Not now. Not in front of this old man.
My fingers curled into the blanket instinctively. Images kept flashing: four of them, grinning, licking their lips, cornering me. I was finished.
My heart pounded again, like it had in the forest. Adrenaline without danger. My body reacting like they were still there.
"Damn it!" My jaw clenched.
Now I have PTSD from fuck-ass goblins? From goblins? Low-tier, surface-level, bum-ass monsters? That's pathetic.
My hands trembled harder.
The old man didn't move. Didn't interrupt. Just watched quietly.
My thoughts spiraled. I almost died. I almost became goblin food. No. No. No.
My breathing grew harsher. The old version of me whispered in the back of my head: Freeze. Accept it. You can't handle this.
My eyes sharpened. "No." The word came out low, firm.
I refuse to be like this. PTSD from stupid goblins? From trash mobs? I am better.
My hands tightened into fists. Hard.
Breathing slowed deliberately. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again.
The shaking began to lessen. Not gone, but controlled.
I forced my mind to replay the scene, to recall: lost in a forest, four goblins, a cliff, and a decision. I jumped. I chose to live.
My heartbeat steadied. The trembling stopped. My shoulders lowered slowly.
Calm returned.
I lifted my head and met Arthur's eyes—clear now, focused.
"…I don't remember much," I began.
Arthur didn't interrupt.
"I woke up in the forest," I continued. "No memories. No direction. Just… there." Not entirely a lie. Just not the whole truth.
"There were monsters. Goblins. Orcs. Things like that." My jaw tightened slightly. "I survived for a while. Then I ran into a group."
I didn't exaggerate. Didn't dramatize. "Four goblins. Armed. Smarter than I expected."
Arthur's brow shifted slightly at that.
"I ran. They chased. I hit a river. It led to a cliff." A faint breath left my nose. "I jumped."
Arthur leaned back slightly. "You jumped."
I nodded. "I gambled with my life." A pause. "I wasn't going to die there."
Simple. Flat. Final.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Arthur studied me carefully—not suspicion, but assessment. Then the old man nodded slowly.
"…Reckless," he muttered. But there was something else in his tone. Respect.
Arthur glanced at the bread and milk again. "Well," he said at last, standing up slowly, "either you're a fool… or you've got more spine than most grown men."
His eyes lingered on me a second longer. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
He turned toward the door. But paused.
"And if goblins had you running that hard…" His gaze sharpened slightly. "…then you're either unlucky." A small pause. "Or you wandered somewhere you shouldn't have."
The door creaked softly as he stepped outside.
"Wait."
Arthur paused and looked back at me.
"Yes, go on?"
I shifted slightly against the bed. "…Where exactly am I?"