FIVE COPPER COINS DETECTED.

  CONVERT TO AURA CREDITS?

  CONFIRM OR DENY.

  Austin confirmed the prompt in his mind, and the coins dissolved instantly—breaking apart into shimmering flecks of light that spiraled once over his skin before sinking into his palm as if they'd never existed.

  "Perfect," he murmured with a satisfied smile. "That should put me at seventy-three aura."

  Then he hesitated, the smile fading into a thoughtful squint. "Actually… is there a way to check the exact amount?"

  Assuming it would be listed somewhere in his stats, he focused and willed his profile open.

  ~~~

  *STATS*

  ~~~

  NAME: Austin Lucas

  RACE: Human

  AGE: 22

  ~~~

  Health: 64 / 100 (-36%)

  Magic: 75 / 75

  Stamina: 12 / 51 (-76%)

  ~~~

  Strength: 7

  Toughness: 1

  Wisdom: 1

  Speed: 1

  Mana Force: 1

  Luck: 1

  ~~~

  *WALLET*

  73 A

  ~~~

  Sure enough, when Austin pulled his profile up, the information arranged itself with neat, almost smug clarity—stats lined in clean rows, and right beside them, his Aura Balance displayed like the System had been waiting to prove a point.

  He stared at it for a second, then let out a quiet breath through his nose.

  "I was right," he murmured, half to himself.

  His gaze drifted down the list out of habit, scanning for anything else that might have changed. And then he paused.

  "Huh…" His eyebrows lifted. "My stamina went up too."

  It wasn't a huge jump, but it was there—enough to make him blink and look again. His legs still felt like they were filled with wet sand and his arms still ached from hours of swinging steel, yet the bar had inched higher, the flicker at the edges a little less desperate than it had been at the guild.

  Austin rubbed his chin, thinking. The night air brushed his face, cool and steady, while the city moved around him—footsteps, distant laughter, lantern flames whispering in their glass housings.

  "I guess normal resting naturally increases stamina," he said quietly, as if the System were listening. "But definitely not fast enough." His mouth tugged into a small, satisfied smirk anyway. "Good to know, though."

  He closed the screen with a thought, and the blue glow vanished, leaving him with the real world again—moonlight, lanternlight, and the very real problem of needing food and sleep before his body decided to quit on him.

  Austin turned in a slow circle, eyes sweeping the nearby inns once more. The signs creaked above their doors, the warm glow from their windows promising comfort he wasn't sure he could afford. For a moment, he considered walking farther to see what else was around.

  Then his stomach tightened at the idea of more walking, and his injured leg throbbed as if to vote against it.

  That's when he noticed it.

  A two-story building set slightly back from the street, with a carved wooden sign swinging gently above the entrance:

  THE WOODEN LODGE INN

  The name alone sounded like a blanket. Like a place that smelled like pine and stew instead of stale beer and arrogance. Warm orange light pulsed behind the windows, and—more importantly—a faint, mouthwatering scent drifted out every time the door opened.

  Food.

  Real food.

  Austin's shoulders eased just looking at it.

  "Sounds cozy enough," he said, voice tired but hopeful. "And I'm tired of walking."

  He crossed the street and pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

  Warmth poured over him immediately, wrapping around his cold skin like a physical thing. It smelled like roasted meat and fresh bread and burning wood—rich, comforting scents that made his stomach twist in a sharp, hungry ache. For an instant, he just stood there in the entryway, soaking it in, letting his body remember what safety felt like.

  The inn's interior matched the name perfectly—rustic, comfortable, and lived-in. Thick wooden planks lined the walls, darkened by time and smoke, giving the whole place a cabin-like feel. A wide stone hearth crackled at one end of the room, flames licking over stacked logs and throwing flickering light across mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. The soundscape was its own kind of warmth: murmured conversations, bursts of laughter, mugs clinking, and every now and then, the bark of a drunken adventurer loudly insisting they'd "totally had it under control."

  The room was nearly full. Every table had someone at it—people of different races, builds, and styles of dress. Humans with travel-worn cloaks. Elves with sharp features and quiet voices. Stocky dwarves with braided beards and mugs that looked too small for their hands. And at one table near the fire, a pair of scaled folk—reptilian-looking, with ridged cheeks and reflective eyes—ate with deliberate, calm motions that made Austin feel like he shouldn't stare.

  A few heads turned as he entered. Eyes flicked over him—taking in his dirt-streaked face, the battered look of his arms, the heavy bag slung over his shoulder. A couple people lingered on the bag a second too long before returning to their meals and conversations, apparently deciding he wasn't worth a problem.

  Austin swallowed, tension easing. Good. No one's looking for trouble tonight.

  The combination of firelight and chatter made the place feel alive without being overwhelming—like a safe pocket carved out of the night. A place where you could breathe.

  A young woman darted between tables with a tray balanced on one hand, serving drinks and plates piled with steaming food. Her movements were fast but graceful, like she'd done it a thousand times without spilling a drop. Brown curls bounced at her shoulders with every step, and the warmth of the room had tinted her cheeks a healthy pink. She had curves in all the right places, and for a split second Austin's brain tried to yank his attention in the wrong direction.

  He caught himself.

  Focus, dude, he scolded, forcing his eyes away and toward the bar. You're here to eat and sleep, not make your life more complicated.

  Behind the counter stood an older woman cleaning a glass with a steady, practiced rhythm. She didn't look up right away, but Austin could feel her attention all the same—like the air shifted subtly under her awareness. She had deep brown eyes, the kind that seemed to weigh people before they spoke, and black hair threaded lightly with gray, tied into a loose braid that draped over her shoulder. A few stray strands framed her face, and there was a calm strength in her posture that made the noisy room feel like it had an anchor.

  Austin slowed a few steps from the counter, feeling suddenly like he'd wandered into someone else's territory.

  Wow, he thought. She looks grounded. The kind of person who's seen everything and doesn't get surprised by much.

  "What can I do for ya?" the woman asked without looking up, voice smooth and steady as she polished the glass in small circles.

  Austin stepped closer. Up close, her eyes were even sharper—alert in a way that made him feel like she could see straight through the tired grin he wore to cover his nerves. He tried not to let it fluster him.

  "How much is a room for the night?" he asked.

  The woman finally set the glass down with a soft clink. "That'll be thirty-three aura for the night," she said plainly.

  Austin felt his stomach drop like he'd missed a stair step.

  Damn, he thought immediately, shoulders slumping a fraction before he could stop it.

  As if she'd read the disappointment right off his face, the woman's eyes narrowed, not unkindly—more like she'd dealt with this exact reaction a hundred times and had no patience left for the performance.

  "And don't even think about haggling," she added, picking up another glass and starting to wipe it as if this conversation didn't even qualify as an interruption.

  Austin scratched the back of his neck, weighing his options. Well… I've got enough for tonight and tomorrow, but that's a lot more than I expected. And he still needed to get a new bag.

  He glanced around again. The inn was warm and welcoming, sure—but it wasn't some golden palace. It was comfortable, not fancy. Still, the idea of leaving, limping through dark streets to hunt for a cheaper bed, made his entire body protest.

  His leg throbbed. His stomach clenched. His eyelids felt heavy.

  He could almost feel the stone floor of the dungeon waiting to claim him if he tried to cheap out.

  "No problem," Austin said finally, forcing a small smile that felt more mature than he felt. "I'll take it."

  The woman's lips twitched—approval, maybe. She nodded once and held out her hand, palm up.

  "Good. Payment, please."

  Austin swallowed, then lifted his hand and hovered it above hers—just like Kara had shown him. The air between their palms tingled faintly, a soft hum building as the System recognized the intent. A blue prompt flickered in the corner of his vision.

  Confirm Payment: 33 Aura?

  He thought Confirm.

  The transfer happened instantly—and yet he felt it, weirdly. Not pain, but a subtle hollow tug in his chest, like watching water drain from a cup you'd just filled. It was psychological, probably. But it still hit.

  Damn, Austin thought, forcing himself not to wince. Half a day of popping off… gone in an instant.

  He pulled his hand back, and the innkeeper tucked hers away like nothing had happened.

  Money really does come and go, he realized, the thought landing heavier than the bag on his shoulder. And in a world like this… it could disappear faster than blood.

  Still—he was inside. He was warm. And for tonight, at least, he was safe.

  ***

  Austin let the invisible sting of the payment settle in his chest and forced himself not to dwell on it. Thirty-three aura gone in a blink—like pouring water into sand. He stood there at the counter for a moment longer, the warmth of the inn washing over him, his stomach twisting in a way that was equal parts hunger and worry.

  He sighed inwardly.

  "Does my stay include any meals?" he asked, trying to sound casual, like he wasn't already picturing himself rationing bites of stale bread for the night.

  The older woman didn't even pause her steady polishing. The glass rotated in her hands with methodical precision—wipe, turn, wipe—like she could do it with her eyes closed. At this point, Austin was half convinced she simply enjoyed the ritual. Or maybe it was how she stayed calm in a building full of loud, half-drunk adventurers.

  "Of course," she said smoothly, still wiping. "Can't let my patrons go hungry."

  She lifted her eyes toward him, and there was a gleam there—dry humor and shrewd practicality in equal measure.

  "How would they come back to give me more aura if they starved?" she added.

  Then she laughed at her own joke—low and hearty, the kind of laugh that rumbled like a warm fire. It startled a grin out of Austin before he could stop it. For all her sternness, there was something comforting in her bluntness. She didn't pretend the world was kinder than it was, but she also didn't make things harder just because she could.

  "So," she said, setting the glass aside at last, "what'll you have to eat, young traveler?"

  Austin hesitated. It hit him again—how little he actually knew. He knew "rabbicorn" and "aura" and "don't get trampled," but beyond that? Food here could be anything. And he wasn't about to accidentally order something that came with an extra set of eyes or a side of poison.

  "Anything that's super filling will do just fine," he said.

  His gaze flicked to the dining room without permission, catching the young server weaving between tables with effortless grace. Plates of steaming food rode on her tray, but Austin's tired brain betrayed him—his eyes tracked the easy sway of her hips more than the meals.

  He snapped his attention back to the innkeeper like he'd been caught stealing.

  Focus, dude. Eat. Sleep. Live.

  "Of course," the woman replied, unfazed. "I'll have something brought up to your room shortly."

  She stepped out from behind the counter then, moving with the slow certainty of someone who owned every plank of wood in this building. Her steps were measured, unhurried. Not sluggish—deliberate. Like she didn't waste energy, because she didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

  "Follow me," she said, and Austin obeyed gratefully.

  They moved past the dining area and up a short staircase that creaked softly under their combined weight. The noise of the common room dimmed as they climbed, turning into a muffled blend of laughter and clinking mugs. The warmth followed them upward, carried by the steady breath of the hearth below. The corridor above was cozier, quieter—lined with wooden doors and small wall lanterns that cast amber light in calm pools.

  The hallway smelled like clean sheets and old wood and faint smoke.

  Tessa stopped at one of the doors and produced a key with a practiced motion. The lock clicked open.

  "This'll be yours for the night," she said, stepping aside.

  Austin peered in—and his shoulders sagged with relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

  The room was small but warm, exactly what a battered, hungry person needed: a sturdy wooden bed with clean sheets, a simple desk, a chair, a washbasin in the corner, and a single candle burning on the nightstand. The flame flickered softly, painting the room in gentle gold. There were no frills, no luxury—just comfort. Safety.

  "Looks perfect," Austin said, and he meant it.

  Tessa's mouth curved slightly. "I'm glad." She nodded toward him. "Once your food's ready, one of the girls will bring it up."

  She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway, giving him a small, knowing look—like she'd already decided what kind of man he was.

  "The name's Tessa, by the way," she said. "Innkeeper of this fine establishment. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

  "Thanks, Tessa," Austin replied, voice sincere. "I appreciate it."

  "Of course, dear," she said, tone soft but steady—no nonsense, but not unkind. "Rest well."

  Then she closed the door, and the corridor swallowed the faint creak of her footsteps as she walked away.

  Austin stood alone for a moment, letting the silence settle around him like a blanket.

  He turned slowly, taking in the room again. The candlelight glowed against the wood grain, the bed looking inviting in a way that felt almost unfair.

  "Cozy," he murmured, smiling to himself.

  He kicked off his shoes, peeled the strap of his bag from his shoulder, and set the heavy sack by the dresser with a solid thump. His muscles immediately protested at being deprived of the weight they'd been bracing against all day, then relaxed—like they'd finally been given permission to stop.

  And then he let himself fall backward onto the bed.

  The mattress gave a soft creak under his weight and dipped just enough to cradle him. The fabric was clean, the pillow firm. It was absurdly comfortable—far more than he'd expected, and far more than he felt like he deserved after everything.

  A slow, content sigh slipped out of him.

  "Man…" he whispered, staring up at the wooden ceiling. "This might be the most comfortable thing ever."

  It probably had more to do with exhaustion than quality. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry. Between getting rejected by every faction in Viregrave and fighting what felt like the entire rabbicorn population of the first floor, his limbs were running on fumes.

  But he was alive. Yes, he needed a shower. But he was alive.

  And that still felt like a miracle.

  His mind drifted back over the day in fragments: smug recruiters' smiles, the damp dungeon air, rabbicorn hooves scraping stone, the jolt of pain when one horn clipped his leg, Kara's face when she saw his loot, the blue glow of his stats rising.

  It had been brutal. Humiliating. Exhilarating.

  And—somehow—successful.

  His strength had skyrocketed. He'd earned his first real money. He'd learned how this world moved, how it measured people, how it tried to sort them into boxes.

  Most importantly?

  He hadn't died.

  Not bad for day one.

  As he lay there, the inn's price started to make a little more sense. The warmth. The safety. The bed that didn't feel like punishment.

  "Thirty-three aura for the room," he muttered, rolling the number around his head like a puzzle piece. "And each rabbicorn pelt goes for four aura…"

  He did the math in his head. It came quickly now that his brain wasn't being strangled by adrenaline.

  "So… it costs about nine rabbicorn pelts to stay here."

  He let out a short laugh, the sound quiet in the candlelit room.

  "And I took down about sixty five rabbicorns."

  The number still sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud, like it belonged to someone else's story. But the aches in his arms and the bite on his leg didn't let him pretend it hadn't happened.

  His mind ran the numbers again, almost lazily, rounding the sixty five down to sixty.

  Sixty rabbicorns times four aura each…

  "Two hundred and forty aura," he whispered, and a faint smile returned. "If I'd had a bigger bag to carry them all… that's what I could've made."

  Suddenly, the inn didn't feel expensive. Not really.

  It wasn't pricey.

  He was undergeared. A larger bag would allow him to maximize his earnings.

  "That's… actually reasonable," he said, rubbing the back of his head against the pillow. "At least for me. And how easy those rabbicorns were to farm once I figured them out."

  His gaze drifted to the window, where moonlight filtered through thin curtains in pale stripes. The twin moons painted the room in soft silver and faint red, like the sky itself was watching over him.

  "And if higher dungeon floors give better loot…" he murmured, a slow, steady excitement building beneath the fatigue, "I should be able to make even more later."

  The thought settled into his chest like warmth.

  Even if he'd started from nothing, there was a path forward—clear, simple, and honest. Fight. Learn. Earn. Survive.