The ancient evil God—long sealed beneath the world's roots by the Goddess of Light—had felt the summoning ripple through the void. A farmer's soul, unwanted and unblessed, drifting where it should not have been. With a silent chuckle that shook no one's throne, the dark one reached out and twisted the ritual's frayed edge. No grand blessings. No glowing weapons. Only two quiet gifts slipped into Haoboi's soul like seeds into fertile soil:
Stealth Specialist – the ability to become one with shadow and silence, unseen and unfelt by any creature below the rank of ancient dragon.
Appraisal – the power to know the true name, value, and use of anything his eyes touched.
Haoboi never knew the evil God's name. He only knew the sudden warmth in his chest as he stood in the moss-choked gloom of the Forbidden Forest. A monstrous roar shook the leaves overhead, but the beast's many eyes slid right past him. He was already gone—melted into the undergrowth like he was never there.
His stomach growled. Death had not taken his hunger. He moved.
With every step his new Stealth Specialist wrapped him tighter in silence. Footfalls made no sound. His breathing blended with the wind. Powerful monsters—black-scaled wyverns perched on branches thick as houses, eight-legged shadow spiders the size of cows, and a horned boar whose tusks dripped green venom—sniffed the air and turned away, confused. Their prey had vanished.
Haoboi's eyes glowed faintly with Appraisal as he walked.
A cluster of glowing purple caps caught his eye.
Nightbloom Mushroom – Rare. Highly nutritious. Restores stamina and mild poison resistance. Edible raw or dried. Value: 450 gold per stalk in any alchemist guild.
He plucked them carefully, the way he once pulled maize from his field back in Churachandpur.
Next, a vine heavy with silver berries:
Moonheart Herb – Extremely rare. Used in high-grade healing potions and mana restoratives. Value: 1,200 gold per leaf.
He gathered armfuls—mushrooms that pulsed like tiny lanterns, herbs whose leaves shimmered with inner light, roots that smelled of sweet earth and medicine. His hands moved with the same steady rhythm he had used for thirty years on the farm. Hunger gnawed, but he did not stop to eat yet. First, survival.
He paused, arms full, and muttered to himself in his mother tongue, "Where to put all this? Can't carry forever…"
A soft chime sounded in his mind. On his left wrist, something materialized—a plain leather pouch no bigger than his palm, stitched with faint glowing runes. The mark of every summoned soul, given freely by the summoning itself. He had missed it in the chaos.
Storage Bag – Infinite capacity. Preserves freshness. Only the owner may open it.
Haoboi smiled for the first time since falling. He slipped every mushroom, every herb, every root inside. The bag stayed feather-light. He tucked a few Nightbloom Mushrooms into his mouth as he walked, chewing slowly. They tasted like fresh rain and honey. Strength flowed back into his limbs.
All day he moved like a ghost through the deadliest forest on the continent. Monsters that could swallow armies passed within arm's reach and never noticed the small Indian farmer in his mud-stained lungi. He appraised everything—trees, stones, even the distant glint of a possible exit—but the forest was vast. No clear path out yet.
Night fell like a black curtain. The canopy above blocked even starlight. Glowing eyes multiplied in the dark. Roars turned to hunting calls.
Haoboi looked up at a tree whose trunk was wider than his old farmhouse. Its lowest branch was ten feet high. He jumped—Stealth Specialist making the motion silent—and caught it. Calloused farmer's hands pulled him up easily. Higher and higher he climbed until the ground was a distant green-black sea far below. He settled on a thick, moss-covered branch, back against the trunk, legs dangling.
The Storage Bag gave him another handful of mushrooms and a few herbs for a simple meal. He ate in silence, tasting the forest's strange gifts.
"I was dead once," he whispered to the leaves. "This is just another field. I will find the way home… or make one."
He closed his eyes. The branch felt almost like the low wooden cot back in Churachandpur. Sleep came quick and deep, his body guarded by the same skill that had kept him alive all day.
Far away, in the golden halls of the Dragon Kingdom, the five blessed heroes were being paraded before cheering crowds and archmages. Feasts were laid. Songs were sung. The Goddess's light shone on them alone.
In the Forbidden Forest, the unblessed farmer slept on a monster-haunted branch, a small leather bag on his wrist and two quiet skills in his soul.
Dawn would bring new dangers… and maybe the first step toward something the Goddess of Light had never planned