When John emerged from the bath, his skin scrubbed raw, even the air felt cleaner. Sharper without the stench of blood and rot clinging to him.

  The old woman waited in the hall, a folded stack of cloth in her arms. She gave him a once-over, then clicked her tongue approvingly.

  "Better. A man again, not a corpse walking."

  She set the bundle down on a nearby bench. His sneakers rested on top, scrubbed spotless, the fabric brightened as if fresh from the box. His jeans and shirt looked the same, impossibly clean. Beneath them lay plain linen breeches, a tunic, and a brown cloak.

  "They'll last you a while," she said, gesturing to his strange clothes. "And if you'd rather not stand out like a crow in snow, the others will do."

  John ran his thumb along the collar of his shirt, feeling the printed tag still there. Made in Bangladesh, 100% cotton. So utterly out of place in this world.

  The woman's expression gave nothing away as she watched him. "Strange make, strange weave. Not of any loom I know. A master's work, surely."

  Before he could reply, she pressed a steaming bowl into his hands. The stew was thick enough to stand a spoon in, heavy with meat and root vegetables, and the bread beside it was still hot from the oven.

  His stomach growled so loudly she snorted in amusement.

  "When's the last time you ate properly?"

  John thought about gas station sandwiches and energy drinks, about meals eaten cold in front of glowing screens while he died repeatedly to the same boss. "Been a while."

  He tore into the food with zero dignity, barely chewing as he shoveled it down. The flavors hit him like a drug. Real meat, actual herbs, bread that hadn't seen the inside of a plastic bag. He scraped the bowl clean and looked up to find her watching him with something uncomfortably close to pity.

  She led him upstairs without a word. The room set aside for him was humble, with white-washed walls and a wooden floor worn smooth by countless feet. In the corner stood a plain mattress stuffed with wool, its cover woven with a simple pattern that spoke of careful, practiced hands.

  It looked like paradise.

  She lingered in the doorway as John took in the space. His gaze snagged on Moonfang, leaning neatly in the corner where it caught the candlelight. He froze. He hadn't left it there.

  The woman followed his look and sniffed disapprovingly. "Too fine a weapon to leave lying about. Don't treat it like a fire poker, boy."

  Heat crawled up his neck as the rebuke landed. She was right. He'd treated it like inventory loot instead of what it actually was: a weapon worth a fortune, possibly irreplaceable.

  "Thank you," he said quietly, meaning it.

  Her expression softened just a fraction. "Sleep. Tomorrow brings what it brings, and the gods know you'll need your strength."

  The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  John stood there a moment longer, then sank onto the mattress with a groan of relief. The wool prickled through his clothes, but it was warm, and after concrete floors and a ceiling that had leaked rain, it felt like absolute heaven.

  He meant to think, to plan his next moves. His mind tried mapping the ruins he knew lay beneath the floorboards. In the game, he'd cleared it a hundred times. Cellar wall, puzzle-lock, hidden chambers. With the darkness settling outside, it was the perfect time for exploration.

  But his body had other ideas entirely.

  Just a quick rest first, he told himself. The ruin beneath the inn wasn't going anywhere, and exploring it half-dead from exhaustion was a good way to make that full-dead.

  The wool scratched against his skin but trapped heat like a cocoon. His eyelids grew heavy, muscles unwinding after hours of tension. Five minutes, he promised himself, even as his body sank deeper into the mattress.

  John woke to sunlight stabbing through the shutters and the muffled chaos of the common room below.

  He sat up slowly, joints popping as he rubbed his face. He felt... good. Better than he had in years, actually. The kind of deeply rested you only got after sleeping twelve hours straight.

  Damn.

  He'd meant to scout the ruin under cover of darkness. Now it was broad daylight, and who knew how many people were awake to see him sneaking around.

  He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on the plain tunic and breeches the old woman had left. The fabric was rough against his skin, but it would blend in far better than a modern shirt with a logo stamped across the chest. The leather shoes he'd been given were sturdy enough, but one try was enough to make him wince. He shoved them aside in favor of his sneakers, comfort winning out over authenticity.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Let them stare.

  Downstairs, the inn was alive with morning energy. The old woman was everywhere at once, refilling mugs, ferrying plates, barking orders at a harried-looking girl who might've been her granddaughter.

  Heads turned as John descended with Moonfang in hand. Whispers rippled through the room like wind through grass. Awe mixed with unease, though no one met his eyes directly.

  "Ah, there you are," Molly bustled over with a plate piled high. "Sit, lad, sit."

  He obeyed, sliding onto a bench and laying the sword within arm's reach. She set the plate down in front of him. Eggs, bacon, dark bread with butter already melting into golden pools.

  "I never caught your name," he said between bites.

  "Molly."

  "John Hale."

  "Eat. You won't waste away in my inn."

  A shadow loomed over the table. A blacksmith, soot-streaked and broad across the shoulders, set a bundle on the bench beside him. A sword belt made of dark leather with polished fittings, every stitch speaking of careful craftsmanship.

  "For you," he said gruffly. "Can't have you carrying that blade barehanded like some common brawler."

  John ran his hand across the leather, feeling the suppleness beneath his fingertips. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—no machine-cut edges or mass-produced buckles here. He lifted Moonfang and slid it into the sheath, where it settled with a satisfying click, as if the two had been made for each other.

  "Perfect fit," he said, genuinely impressed. "Thank you."

  The smith gave a curt nod and strode off without another word.

  Across the room, Lia's bodyguard sat alone in a shadowed corner, arms crossed over his chest. Their eyes met briefly, and the man gave a single, measured nod. Neither friendly nor hostile, just acknowledgment between fighters.

  The common room buzzed with fragments of conversation drifting past. No new attacks overnight. No monsters at the gates. Just fear slowly giving way to relief, though the tension hadn't fully left anyone's shoulders.

  John forced himself to finish his meal, though his eyes kept drifting to the curtain behind the bar. Beyond it lay the kitchen, and beyond that, the cellar door. And beyond that, the ruin he'd come for.

  I need that ring, he thought. The stamina regeneration artifact. Without the girl's magical boost during the fight, he'd have been dead already.

  He set his plate down and rose from the bench. "Molly," he said quietly, "I wanted to ask you something."

  Then, before anyone could respond or follow, he slipped behind the bar and pushed through the curtain into the kitchen.

  The space was empty, heat still radiating from the banked stove. He moved quickly to the cellar door, each step purposeful. The iron latch groaned as he lifted it, and he winced at the sound, easing it open just wide enough to slip through.

  Cool air rose to meet him, heavy with dust and the sweet smell of old wine. He descended carefully, testing each wooden step before putting his full weight down.

  At the bottom, he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness.

  There.

  The spot was obvious to him, at least. In the game, the developers had overused the same cracked texture for secret walls, making them laughably easy to spot once you knew what to look for. Here, the bricks were real enough, but the mortar was uneven in just the right way, the color just slightly off from the surrounding stone.

  He drew Moonfang, watching the runes along the blade shimmer faintly in the dim light. He angled the point toward a gap in the stones, testing the fit. If it could cut through the Carrion Mother's enhanced hide, a little masonry should be nothing.

  But hesitation nagged at him. This wasn't a game anymore. Was he really about to risk a priceless runeblade as a glorified crowbar?

  He jammed the sword into the crack with more force than finesse.

  Sure was.

  He levered one brick loose, then another, mortar crumbling under the blade's pressure. Slowly, a ragged hole took shape, revealing the buried arch beneath, inch by painstaking inch.

  A wooden stair creaked behind him.

  John spun around, Moonfang coming up defensively.

  The air on the stairs shimmered strangely. For a heartbeat, the space was empty, just shadows and dust motes. Then reality seemed to bend, and Lia appeared as though the world had just decided she'd been standing there all along. Her hand clung to the railing for support, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement.

  They stared at each other in loaded silence.

  John raised an eyebrow. "Do you often follow strange men into dark basements?"

  Her cheeks flushed crimson. "I wanted to talk to you. About the dungeon search."

  "While invisible?"

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I didn't want the villagers to see..." She trailed off, and the poised noble from last night was gone, replaced by a flustered girl caught doing something she knew she shouldn't.

  John sighed, recognizing a lost cause when he saw one. "I'll be happy to help in an hour. You can go now."

  But she didn't move, rooted to the spot. "People don't talk to me like—" Her voice caught as her eyes flicked past him to the wall. She gasped. "Those are pre-Veil runes."

  John groaned. "Yeah."

  "How did you..." Wonder and confusion warred on her face. "My family spends fortunes searching for them!"

  "Family?"

  She lifted her chin with automatic pride. "Valebrant."

  John froze, the name hitting him like cold water. He knew it from the game's lore—one of the great houses, powerful and ancient. Destined for ruin, crushed by the Black Hymn cult in a massacre that had been a major plot point.

  "Oh."

  "We must summon my family's scholars," she said, excitement building in her voice. "To find such a—"

  John cut her off by pressing his hand against the arch. His fingers traced the faint grooves of the carved runes with practiced certainty. Press, slide, press. Exactly as he'd done it in the game.

  "Stop!" Lia's voice rose in alarm.

  The wall groaned in protest. Dust sifted down from above as the runes flared with faint light. Then the door rumbled open with the sound of stone grinding on stone.

  John stepped inside without hesitation, Moonfang held ready.

  Lia swore softly under her breath, then hurried after him, robes brushing against the stone as she followed him into the darkness.