For now, rabbicorn pelts were enough to keep him fed and housed while he figured everything else out.

  "So at the least," he said softly, "I can keep farming rabbicorns to cover my stay for today and the next day."

  It was doable. Manageable. The kind of plan he could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.

  Then he rolled onto his side, the mattress whispering under him, and his expression sharpened with the first hint of tomorrow's determination.

  "However," he told himself, "first priority for tomorrow—get a bigger bag."

  A smirk tugged at his mouth. "That'll instantly boost my earnings."

  His hand drifted down to his ankle without thinking. Beneath the fabric of his pants, the sore spot still ached faintly—tender and persistent, like it was making sure he didn't forget how close he'd come to getting seriously hurt.

  "I should also think about armor," he muttered. "All those other adventurers had leather gear."

  His thumb rubbed gently over the ache.

  "Yeah," he said, letting out a tired chuckle that held more truth than humor, "can't have my little ankles getting hurt again."

  And for the first time all day, in a room warmed by firelight and moonlight, with food on the way and a real bed beneath him, Austin allowed himself to relax—not just his body, but his mind.

  Because tomorrow, he'd do it all again.

  Only smarter. Better equipped.

  ***

  A knock on the door pulled Austin from his thoughts.

  "Your food's ready," came a woman's voice from the other side.

  Austin sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes. "Come in," he called out.

  The door opened and the same server woman he'd seen earlier darting between tables downstairs entered. Up close, she was even prettier—soft brown curls framed her face, and her uniform, though simple, clung to her in a way that made it hard for Austin's brain to decide between paying attention or short-circuiting entirely.

  "Here's the special for the day," she said brightly, balancing a tray with one hand as she stepped inside. The smell hit him instantly—savory, warm, and so good it made his stomach growl on command.

  She set the tray on the small table by the window and began to explain, her tone cheerful and professional. "Tonight's special is braised wyvern shank with a side of flame-root mash and steamed greenleaf vegetables. The sauce is made with ground ember pepper and honey glaze, so it's a bit sweet with a kick at the end. The bread's fresh from the ovens downstairs, and the cider—"

  Austin nodded like he was listening, but truthfully, his brain had stopped processing words the second she leaned slightly over the table to set the tray down. Her breasts hung right over his meal and his eyes drifted for a peak. Alright now Austin, that's enough, he thought helplessly. You just got here. Don't be weird.

  "Enjoy," she said, flashing a smile that could've powered an entire city.

  "Thanks," he said quickly, trying to sound normal.

  "Oh, and Tessa said to tell you she gave you a little extra since you mentioned wanting something filling." Her smile turned playfully stern. "She also said to eat every last bite—or else."

  Austin chuckled awkwardly. The tone was sweet, but there was something in her voice that made him think "or else" wasn't just a joke. "Yeah, uh… got it. I'll make sure not to test what 'or else' means."

  The woman giggled, the sound light and teasing. "Good boy," she said with a playful wink before turning gracefully and slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

  For a second, Austin just stood there, blinking. Then the words hit him on delay. "Good boy…" he murmured under his breath, the tone she'd used replaying in his head like a song he couldn't turn off. Heat crept up the back of his neck as he tried—and failed—to shake the image of her smile. Damn she's hot. He thought one last time.

  He exhaled and forced himself to focus, turning toward the small wooden table where she'd left his meal. The dishes steamed invitingly, sending up a mix of aromas he couldn't quite place. "Alright," he muttered, leaning closer. "Now… what did she even say this was again?"

  Austin dropped into the chair by the table, the wood creaking slightly under him as he leaned over the plate. Steam curled up into his face, carrying a mix of rich, savory smells that made his stomach tighten in anticipation. "Something about… braised wyvern? And… flame-root mash?" he muttered, tilting his head as he tried to recall what the server had said. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

  He poked at the food with the fork, watching the juices glisten under the dim light from the window. "Honestly, though," he said, half to himself, "it kinda just looks like beef, mashed potatoes, and veggies." He grinned faintly. "And I'm definitely down for that."

  His stomach grumbled loud enough to second his motion. "I agree tummy." Austin said, looking down at his stomach.

  He dug in without hesitation.

  The first bite melted in his mouth—tender meat, a little sweet, a little spicy, and absolutely divine. He barely had time to savor it before his body kicked into full-on survival mode. He started eating faster, each bite disappearing almost the instant his fork hit the plate.

  "Damn, this food is bussin'," Austin mumbled through a mouthful, barely pausing to breathe.

  Each bite only seemed to make him hungrier. The warmth from the meal spread through his body like a slow, comforting wave, easing the ache in his muscles. But the more he ate, the heavier he felt. His eyelids started to droop, and the exhaustion from the day began creeping back in.

  Still, he kept eating.

  He wasn't about to risk whatever "or else" Tessa had in mind—and besides, this was way too good to waste.

  By the time he finished, the plate was spotless, not a crumb or drop of sauce left behind. He sat back in the chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction, hand resting over his full stomach.

  But as Austin sat in the chair, curiosity tugged at his mind. I wonder if eating affects my health or stamina, he thought. It made sense—food was energy, after all, and in some RPGs, a healing item could be a piece of meat that restored at least something.

  He opened his status screen with a thought, the familiar blue HUD hovering in front of him. His eyes scanned the bars for Health and Stamina. Both had ticked upward, but only by a little.

  ~~~

  *STATS*

  ~~~

  NAME: Austin Lucas

  RACE: Human

  AGE: 22

  ~~~

  Health: 70 / 100 (-30%)

  Magic: 75 / 75

  Stamina: 22 / 51 (-57%)

  ~~~

  Strength: 7

  Toughness: 1

  Wisdom: 1

  Speed: 1

  Mana Force: 1

  Luck: 1

  ~~~

  *WALLET*

  40 A

  ~~~

  "Huh," Austin muttered, eyes narrowing as he stared at the faintly improved bar on his interface. "So it does help… just barely."

  He let the blue screen hover for another second, like sheer annoyance might coax the numbers higher. They didn't budge. His ankle still pulsed with that dull, insistent ache—less like sharp pain now, more like a reminder someone had left embedded in his bones.

  Austin exhaled and leaned back, letting his head rest against the chair. The wooden back pressed into his shoulders, and he felt the day settle on him all at once: the weight of muscle fatigue, the sting of dried scrapes, the heaviness behind his eyes.

  Makes sense, though, he thought. My ankle still hurts. Maybe rest will do more.

  He flexed his foot slightly under the blanket and winced at the pull. The discomfort wasn't unbearable, but it was the kind that could easily become a problem if he ignored it. He pictured himself limping through another dungeon run, slower by just enough to make a mistake.

  If not… I'll have to find one of those potion shops on the main street.

  The idea formed quickly, almost greedily. His mind conjured an image straight out of a fantasy game: shelves lined with glass bottles that glowed from within—greens, reds, blues, maybe even shimmering gold—each one promising a solution you could swallow in a single gulp. He imagined the cool burn of a healing draught sliding down his throat, the immediate relief flooding his limbs like warm light.

  Health and stamina potions are gonna be a must if I'm going to keep doing this solo thing, he decided, and the resolve in that thought felt solid. Not a wish. A plan.

  He dismissed the interface with a flick of intent, and the blue glow vanished. The room returned to candlelight and moonlight—the slow pulse of the hearth's warmth still lingering in the wood, the twin moons casting pale stripes across the floor through the thin curtains.

  It was still relatively early, judging by the soft glow outside. The city hadn't sunk into full silence yet; muffled voices drifted up from below now and then, along with the distant clink of cups and the occasional burst of laughter. But Austin could feel his body demanding sleep like it was non-negotiable.

  If he wanted to keep surviving—if he wanted to keep winning—he'd need every ounce of energy for tomorrow.

  He pushed himself up from the chair, joints popping faintly. His legs protested as he crossed the room, the wooden floor creaking under each step. The sound was quiet, oddly comforting—proof that this place was real, solid, not some fever dream stitched together by exhaustion.

  He stretched once, arms rising above his head, and felt the pull in his back and shoulders. Then he let himself sink onto the bed.

  The mattress welcomed him like a sigh. The blanket slid over him with a soft weight, and it carried a faint scent of lavender and hearth smoke—clean linen warmed by firelight. The smell alone made his muscles unclench, as if his body recognized safety before his mind could fully accept it.

  As he sank deeper into the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, his thoughts started to drift in that strange, half-loose way they always did when the day was finally over.

  Less than seventy-two hours ago, he thought, I was on Earth.

  The memory rose up uninvited—his tiny apartment, the stale air, the hum of electronics. The familiar heaviness of a life that felt like it was stuck in place no matter how much he pushed. He could see the dim light from his monitor, the clutter of cables near his desk, the tired reflection of himself in a dark window.

  Sitting there, feeling like my life was going nowhere.

  And now…

  A quiet chuckle escaped him, soft and almost disbelieving. He turned his head slightly, watching moonlight ripple across the ceiling beams.

  Now I'm staying at an inn in another world. Leveling up. Getting stronger. Living out every RPG fantasy I ever wanted.

  For a moment, that thought sparked that old familiar excitement—the rush of possibility, the thrill of a clean slate, the childish joy of this is actually happening.

  But then the excitement ebbed, like a wave pulling back from shore.

  And in the empty space it left behind, something quieter moved in.

  A hollow ache.

  It's not like I have anyone to go back to anyway, he thought, the truth landing with a muted heaviness. No family. No friends.

  Just my decked-out PC I spent an arm and a leg on.

  The image made a faint smile cross his face—bittersweet. He remembered the pride he'd felt assembling it piece by piece, the satisfaction of everything clicking into place, the first time it booted up without errors. He remembered long nights escaping into games because games were predictable, because in games effort meant progress, because in games you could grind your way out of being weak.

  It had been his sanctuary.

  But it hadn't been enough to fill the quiet hole that opened up sometimes when the lights were off and there was nothing left to distract him.

  Back on Earth, there were nights he'd lie in bed just like this—staring at the ceiling, the hum of his computer filling the silence like a lullaby that couldn't quite soothe him. And every once in a while—usually when the world felt especially heavy—he'd reach to the nightstand, slide open the drawer, and pull out a photo.

  Small. Worn. Edges softened from being handled too many times.

  One of the few foster families that had ever treated him kindly.

  They'd taken him in when he was twelve. They hadn't been perfect. They'd argued sometimes. They'd made mistakes. But they'd been good in the way that mattered. They'd fed him, listened to him, made him feel—if only briefly—like he wasn't just a temporary burden waiting to be passed along.

  He used to stare at that photo until the ache in his chest settled, until he could believe—just for a moment—that he belonged somewhere.

  The realization hit him now with a slow, quiet force.

  He'll never see that picture again.

  It was gone. Left behind with everything else—his apartment, his old bed, his computer, the small handful of things he'd kept because they meant something.

  Austin swallowed, throat suddenly tight. He blinked up at the ceiling beams, letting the emotion pass through him instead of fighting it.

  They'd want me to be strong, he told himself, and he could almost hear a voice in his memory—not a specific sentence, just a warmth. A steady kind of faith. They'd want me to make something of myself… maybe even make some friends along the way.

  He took a slow breath and let it out through his nose, feeling the air cool his lungs.

  "Friends and family," he murmured softly, barely more than a whisper. The candle flickered beside him, its flame bending as if it heard the words and leaned in.

  The phrase lingered in the quiet room.

  And his mind, restless as it always was, began to replay the day—not just the fighting, but the people.

  Kara's kindness. Her patience. The way her expression had softened when he admitted he'd been rejected.

  Tessa's calm confidence, her blunt humor, the way she'd felt like a woman who could keep a whole building safe just by existing in it.

  Even the server girl's quick smile as she moved through the tables like she belonged to the inn's heartbeat.

  Strangers. All of them.

  And yet… something about this world felt like a chance to start over in a way Earth never had. Here, no one knew his past. Here, he could become someone new—someone stronger, someone capable.

  Still, the earlier rejection returned in a slow sting. He hadn't realized how deep it had cut until he was alone in the dark, without adrenaline to drown it out. The factions' polite smiles, the quick dismissals, the feeling of standing in a room full of people and being invisible.

  Loneliness didn't always shout. Sometimes it just sat beside you, quiet and steady, until you noticed it was there.

  I'll just have to make my own path, he thought, eyelids growing heavy. Like I always have.

  The sounds of the inn softened—voices below fading into a low murmur, footsteps passing in the hallway and then disappearing. The candle's flame wavered gently, and shadows swam over the wooden walls.

  His breathing slowed. His thoughts began to drift apart, loosening their grip.

  My own path… and hopefully, he thought as his eyes finally closed, a friend or two.

  And with that, Austin slipped into sleep—deep and dreamless—while the Wooden Lodge Inn held him in its warmth like a quiet promise.

  Chapter seven

  Over the past several days, Austin had fallen into a rhythm so steady it almost felt like the dungeon had rewired him.

  Wake. Eat. Grind. Sell. Sleep.

  Repeat.

  At first, the routine had been an emergency plan—something to keep him fed, sheltered, and alive while he figured out the rules of this world. Now it had become something else entirely: a pattern that quieted his mind. A loop that left little room for doubt, loneliness, or the creeping fear that he could still lose everything with one bad day.

  Grinding the dungeon had become second nature. Not fun in the playful way games were fun, but satisfying in that brutal, earned way—the kind of satisfaction you only got when your body burned and your mind stayed sharp anyway.

  Early on, he'd managed to snag a large backpack from a stall near the market quarter. It wasn't pretty. Oversized. Well-worn. The straps were frayed in places and patched with rough stitching, and the whole thing carried the faint smell of leather oil and old sweat, like it had already lived a hundred hard days before it ever touched his shoulders. But it was sturdy. Practical.

  And it was his.

  He'd learned quickly that it could hold about sixty-two rabbicorn pelts if he packed them just right. Not shoved. Not crammed like a panicked looter. Packed—layered and folded with almost obsessive precision, fur smoothed down, corners tucked, wasted space minimized. He'd developed a system: roll the thicker pelts tighter, fold the thinner ones flat, stack them like bricks. Every inch mattered when each pelt meant aura, and aura meant food, shelter, and—eventually—freedom.

  The first time he filled it, the weight nearly crushed him.

  The straps bit into his shoulders so hard he'd expected skin to split. His arms trembled on the walk back to the surface, fingers going numb from gripping the straps too tightly. Every step up those damp stone corridors had felt like hauling a living creature on his back—heavy, shifting, and determined to drag him to the ground.

  But over time, something changed.

  The bag didn't truly get lighter.

  He did.

  His Strength stat crept upward quietly day after day, like a tide coming in. He noticed it in small moments first—when lifting the pack didn't wrench his shoulder as badly, when his legs didn't shake on the climb out, when his sword didn't feel like a lead bar in his hand after the twentieth kill. Little victories that added up until he realized his body had started to match his ambition.

  The biggest turning point came one morning after a particularly long grind. He'd limped back to town with sweat drying cold on his skin and his ankle pulsing like a warning bell. He'd finally bitten the bullet and bought a healing potion.

  Eighty aura.

  The price alone had made him wince, the number flashing in his mind like a punishment. Eighty aura was a lot of kills. A lot of time. A lot of risk.

  But the moment he drank it—