Noel stirred awake to the faint crow of a distant rooster, the sound cutting through the quiet like a rusty knife. His body protested immediately, a dull ache in his shoulders, a deeper burn in his legs from yesterday's grind. The boulder punches had left his knuckles raw, wrapped in makeshift bandages that Arthur had slapped on without a word last night. But beneath the hurt, there was a spark, a quiet motivation humming in his chest. He felt... recharged, somehow. Like the pain was just fuel, proof he'd pushed and survived that day. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, painting the room in soft orange hues through the single, cracked window.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the worn wooden floorboards that creaked under his weight. The house was simple, old-school farmhouse style, the kind that screamed "built to last, not to impress." It sat on the edge of Thornwatch's outskirts, tucked against a sparse treeline that buffered it from the wilder forest beyond. Two bedrooms branched off a central hallway, one for him, one for Arthur, both sparse with just a bed, a rickety dresser, and a hook for clothes. No frills. The living room doubled as everything else, a stone fireplace for heat, a couple of threadbare chairs around a low table scarred from years of use, and shelves holding odds and ends like dried herbs, a few tools, and Arthur's old pipe. The kitchen was attached, open to the living room, with a wood-burning stove, a pump sink drawing from a well outside, and cabinets stocked with basics, flour, oats, salted meat, whatever the old man traded for in town.
No indoor plumbing here, the toilet was a basic outhouse shed about twenty paces from the back door, nothing fancy, just a hole in the ground with a wooden seat and a bucket of ash to keep the smell down. Practical, but a far cry from modern comforts. There were two sheds total. One for tools and training gear, the graveyard of logs and stones they'd wrecked yesterday, and the other for storage, hay, feed for the couple of chickens scratching around the yard, and whatever else Arthur hoarded from his adventuring days. The whole place smelled like earth and woodsmoke, with that underlying tang of isolation. It wasn't much, but it felt solid, like a bunker against the world's bullshit. Noel had crashed here after whatever mess dumped him into this world, and Arthur hadn't asked questions, just given him a bed and work to do.
He padded quietly into the kitchen, glancing at Arthur's closed door. The old man was still snoring softly, unusual for him to sleep in. Noel figured the rest day applied to both of them. His stomach growled, and an idea hit. Cook breakfast, nothing fancy, he wasn't some gourmet chef, just a guy who'd fumbled through basic meals back home. But why not? Give back a little for the soup and the training.
He started with the stove, feeding it a few dry logs from the stack by the wall. A quick strike of flint got the fire going, crackling low as he set an iron skillet on top. From the cabinet, he grabbed a knob of butter, homemade, non of that seed oil shit back home. Was probably from trading with neighboring villages. I let a pat of butter melt in the pan, watching it spread and hiss. swirling it around as it sizzled and filled the air with that rich, salty scent. Eggs next: two from the basket on the counter, fresh from the chickens yesterday. He cracked them one-handed, shells crunching as the yolks hit the hot butter with a satisfying hiss. They spread out, whites bubbling at the edges. He sprinkled a pinch of salt from a clay jar, no measuring, just eyeballing it. Flipped them carefully with a wooden spatula after a minute, yolks still runny because that's how he liked 'em. Not perfect, one edge got a little crispy, but edible. He slid them onto two plates, added a hunk of yesterday's bread to each, toasted quick over the flame till it was warm and chewy.
The smell must've woken Arthur, because the door creaked open just as Noel set the plates on the table. The old man shuffled out, hair tousled, eyes bleary but sharp as ever. He paused, sniffing the air, then grunted in what might've been approval.
"Morning, Gramps," Noel said, sliding into his chair. "Figured I'd handle breakfast today. Nothing special, just eggs and bread."
Arthur sat across from him, picking up his fork without a word at first. He speared a bite, chewed slow, then nodded. "Not bad. Yolk's right. Runny, not rubbery. Just how I like 'em." His voice was gravelly from sleep, but there was a hint of warmth in it, like a grandfather appreciating the effort without making a fuss.
They ate in comfortable quiet for a bit, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the fire popping in the stove. Noel still felt it in his arms and shoulders, the dull soreness from yesterday's training settling deep into the muscle, but the food helped, by taking the edge off of his mind. "How's the body holding up after yesterday?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence.
Noel shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hurts," he said simply. "But it's fine."
"Sore as hell, but good sore. Like I earned it." Noel paused, then decided to push a little. The old man had shared bits yesterday, the lost apprentice, the scars. Felt like an opening. "Hey, Gramps... you've been around. What's your story? Like, before Thornwatch, before all this."
Arthur's fork paused mid-air, his eyes flicking up to meet Noel's. For a second, he looked like he might brush it off, but then he set the fork down, leaning back in his chair. His gaze went distant, staring at the window like he was seeing something else entirely. "Story, eh? Ain't much to tell. Grew up in a village not unlike this one, back in the empire's fringes. Poor as dirt, but we scraped by."
He trailed off, and Noel waited, not pushing. After a beat, Arthur continued, voice low and steady. "Had a best friend from the cradle, girl named Elara. We ran wild together, climbing trees, stealing apples from the orchards. Our folks were tight; promised us to each other before we even knew what that meant. Married at fourteen, like it was the most natural thing. No big ceremony, just vows in the village square and a shared roof after."
Noel's eyes widened a fraction, the number hitting him like a slap. Fourteen? That was kid stuff back home, illegal, even. But he bit his tongue, chewing on the thought as Arthur kept going, lost in the memory.
"We were happy, in that dumb, young way. Had a kid not long after—a boy, strong like his ma. But money was tight, the empire was always at war, borders pushing against monster hordes. I enlisted to make ends meet. Promised Elara it'd be quick, few campaigns, enough coin to buy land, build something real for the family. Left her with the babe, kissed 'em goodbye at dawn."
Arthur stopped there, his scarred hand flexing on the table like the memory still gripped him. He didn't say more, just picked up his fork again, the story hanging unfinished.
Noel sat there, processing. Married at fourteen... shit, that sounded wild. But this world wasn't his old one. High mortality, monsters, wars, no modern medicine. People died young, so yeah, starting families early made sense. Who was he to judge with his 21st-century lens? Presentism, they called it, slapping modern morals on the past. Or in this case, another world entirely. He dropped it, focusing on the man in front of him instead. Arthur's stoic mask had cracked just a hair, showing the grandfatherly weight beneath.
Noel didn't know what to say, so he didn't try, just nodding once and looking back down at his plate before clearing his throat. "Hey, Gramps… mind if I grab the library key? Figured I'd read while we're resting today."
Arthur grunted, pushing himself up from the chair and walking over to the nearest cupboard. He opened it, rummaging around inside for a moment before pulling out a rusted key. He came back and tossed it across the table. It clinked against Noel's plate. "Studying's one-fourth the battle, lad. Rest is another. Go on, but don't rot your eyes all day."
Noel pocketed the key with a nod, finishing his eggs. The library wasn't much, just a small room tacked onto the storage shed, dusty shelves crammed with tomes Arthur had collected over the years. Probably from his adventuring days, or traded for. He headed out after breakfast, the morning sun warming his skin as he crossed the yard. Chickens clucked around his feet, and the outhouse shed loomed to the side, but he ignored it for now.
The library door creaked open with a puff of dust, revealing shelves bowed under the weight of leather-bound books. Titles in faded script: herb lore, monster compendiums, old maps. His eyes landed on one that stood out. The Chronicles of Albert Waldstein. Sounded epic. He pulled it down, settling into a creaky chair by the window, and cracked it open.
The pages smelled like old paper and ink, the words pulling him in right away. It started with Albert as a kid, a hopeless boy in a ruined village, parents dead from a monster raid, world crumbling around him. No talent, no blessing from the gods, just a scrawny frame and a fire in his gut. He saw the ruin, the endless wars, empires crumbling under beast hordes, and decided, screw that. He'd change it. Through sheer effort and persistence, no shortcuts.
Albert started small: training alone in the woods, swinging sticks till his hands bled, running till his lungs burned. Joined a militia, fought in skirmishes against goblin packs, kobolds, whatever crawled out of the dungeons. But it was the Great War against the monsters that broke him open. The kingdom of Lakrios was on the brink of destruction, armies shattered by endless waves from the abyss. Albert, volunteered for the front lines. He grinded through battles, learning on the fly, dodges that saved his skin, strikes that felled beasts twice his size. His persistence paid off, he rallied shattered units, turned losing fights into holds, then victories.
The king of Lakrios noticed. After a brutal siege where Albert held a breach single-handedly for hours, slaughtering orcs and trolls till the walls ran red, he was knighted. Given the second name Waldstein, a title of honor from the throne itself. "You stood where others fled. From this day on, you will not stand as a common man." the chronicle quoted the king. Albert rose higher, leading campaigns that pushed back the hordes, forging alliances with other realms. He hit levels no one thought possible for a talentless start, pushing to the peaks, Earning respect that bordered on reverence. In those days, there were no levels, no blessings to measure a man's worth, only the battlefield and those who survived it. Yet Albert rose above them all through sheer grit, a boy with nothing who carved his name into history through blood and will alone. He became the greatest mortal warrior of his age, a legend spoken in the same breath as kings, a man even the proudest heroes could not stand beside.
The chronicle built to his end: the showdown with the king of monsters, the Black Dragon. A beast that darkened skies, its roar shattering mountains. Albert, at his prime, led the charge. The battle raged for days, shaking the continent, earthquakes from their clashes, rivers diverted by fallen scales. Albert wounded it deep, a spear thrust that gouged out an eye, turning the king into the One-Eyed Black Dragon. But the cost was fatal; the dragon's final strike ended him, body broken but spirit unbroken. His death inspired generations, a testament that effort could eclipse even divine gifts.
Noel closed the book hours later, the sun higher now, his mind buzzing. Albert's story hit home—hard. If a no-talent kid could rise like that, so could he. Persistence. Effort. That's what it'd take. He settled the chronicle back into the shelf where it belonged, a grin tugging at his lips.
Noel stepped out of the library, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. He gave the handle a firm tug to make sure it latched properly, he didn't want dust or critters getting in and wrecking the books inside. The sun was climbing higher now, warming the yard as he walked back toward the house, passing the chicken coops on his left. The birds clucked lazily, pecking at the dirt, a couple of them eyeing him like he owed them feed. Simple life, he thought, but his mind wandered elsewhere.
I think it's time for a bath, he mused to himself, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. I've honestly gotten used to the smell of sweat because of how hard I train. He lifted his arm casually, giving it a quick sniff, and recoiled with a grimace. "Ew, yeah, definitely need a bath," he muttered out loud, shaking his head. The funk was real, earthy, sharp, like he'd been marinating in his own sweat for days.
He veered toward the primary shed, the one for tools and gear. Inside, it was organized chaos: axes hung on pegs, ropes coiled on shelves, and there, in the corner, the old iron barrel they'd repurposed for baths. It was sturdy, big enough for a guy his size to sit in if he drew his knees up a bit. Noel grabbed it by the rim and hauled it out, muscles protesting with that familiar ache from yesterday's grind. He set it down in front of the shed, but not too close—maybe five paces away—to make sure no sparks or heat risked the wood structure. Last thing they needed was a fire.
Next up: water. The lake wasn't far, a short trek through the treeline, maybe a hundred meters. Noel snagged two buckets from the shed, the wooden ones with rope handles, and made the trip back and forth a couple times. Each haul sloshed cold water against his legs, the buckets heavy enough to make his arms burn by the third round. He dumped them into the barrel one by one, watching it fill up to about three-quarters, enough to submerge without overflowing.
With the barrel full, he positioned it carefully on two flat stone bricks he'd scavenged from the field edge, propping it up just high enough for a fire underneath. He gathered some dry twigs and logs from the woodpile, stacking them in a makeshift campfire pit he'd dug out quick with a shovel. A few strikes of flint sparked it to life, flames licking up toward the barrel's base. He fed the fire steadily, letting the heat build slow, the water warming from chilly to steamy over the next half-hour. Steam started rising in lazy curls, the air filling with that clean, wet-wood scent.
Noel stripped down, folding his clothes on a nearby stump, and tested the water with a hand, hot, but not scalding. Perfect. He climbed in carefully, feet first, the wood creaking under his weight as he lowered himself in. The warmth hit him like a hug, enveloping his sore legs and back, seeping into the knots in his muscles. He sank deeper, water lapping at his chest, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. The heat loosened everything, the tightness in his shoulders from the log carries, the raw throb in his knuckles from punching that damn boulder. It was like the pain was melting away, replaced by this deep, pleasant tingle that spread from his skin inward. Steam rose around his face, carrying away the grime and stink, leaving him feeling lighter, almost new. He leaned his head back against the rim, eyes half-closed, just soaking it in. For the first time in days, he wasn't thinking about stats or monsters, just the simple bliss of a hot bath, earned and savored.
He didn't know how long he sat there, lost in the warmth, letting the heat work its magic on his battered body. An hour, maybe more, the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, the water turning from steaming hot to a lukewarm chill that nipped at his skin. A cool breeze drifted through the yard, raising goosebumps along his shoulders and arms, pulling him back to the moment.
Noel opened his eyes, blinking against the fading light. The sun was dipping low now, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, shadows stretching long across the grass. Night was creeping in already. "Huh," he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "I must've been in that library longer than I thought. Damn, time flies when you're geeking out on hero stories." He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the rim of the barrel, and stood up slowly, water sluicing off him in rivulets. Work wasn't done, but the ache in his muscles said otherwise. "Alright, guess it's time to crash. Tomorrow's grind waits for no one."