The crowd near the center of the square began to part. The village mayor, a portly man named Aldren that John had never seen before, climbed onto the makeshift stage. He raised his hands for quiet.

  "Friends! Neighbors!" His voice carried well. "We gather tonight not just to celebrate, but to give thanks." He gestured toward where John, Leon, and Lia stood together. "These brave souls answered our call in our darkest hour. They faced horrors we can barely imagine. And they prevailed."

  Cheers erupted. Someone started banging their mug on a table in rhythm.

  "Commander Leon Valebrant! Lady Lia Valebrant! Garren the Steadfast! Marcus the Hammer! Lady Erin Frostcaller!" More cheers. "And John Hale, who led us to safety when we needed it most!"

  The cheering got louder. John felt his face heating up.

  "And now," Aldren said with the smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, "I believe our heroes would like to say a few words!"

  Leon blinked, then stepped forward anyway. John noticed the looseness in his movements, the way he had to catch himself on the edge of the stage. The commander was buzzed.

  "My friends," Leon began, then paused, grinning. "Can I call you friends? I think after tonight, I can call you friends." He gestured broadly. "You know, people always talk about duty. About honor." He swayed. "And those things matter. They do. But you know what matters more?"

  He pointed at the crowd. "This. You. All of you. I've fought monsters across the kingdoms. Seen good people give up. But not here."

  Someone cheered.

  Leon kept going, words slurred but sincere. "You're fighters. Every one of you. The mother who barred her door. The guard who stood his ground. The innkeeper who fed us." He gestured at Molly. His gaze swept to where Brennan sat. "The adventurers who went looking for the dungeon, knowing they might not come back."

  He wobbled. "That's courage. Real courage."

  He raised his mug high, ale sloshing over the side. "So here's to Greyford! To stubborn, brave Greyford! May your walls stand strong and your ale flow freely!"

  The crowd roared, mugs raised high.

  Leon beamed, then nearly fell off the stage. Lia caught his arm, trying not to laugh.

  Then Aldren turned to John. "And you, Master Hale? Would you honor us?"

  Every eye turned to him.

  John's mouth went dry. "I..."

  Silence. Expectant faces.

  "We did a good thing. With the dungeon." He gestured vaguely. "So that's good. For everyone. Which is good."

  The pause stretched.

  A loud "BOOOO!" echoed across the square.

  John's head snapped toward the sound. Marcus was standing at his table, hands cupped around his mouth, grinning like an idiot.

  Erin's fist caught him in the shoulder. Not a tap, a proper hit. Marcus toppled sideways off his bench with a crash of armor and ale mugs.

  "Dammit, woman! That actually hurt!"

  Laughter exploded through the crowd.

  "Well said, lad!" someone called out, still chuckling.

  John made his escape as quickly as he could.

  Before he got far, an elderly woman pressed a small cloth bundle into his hands. "Honey cakes. Made them myself."

  "I really didn't—"

  "Hush." She patted his cheek. "You did plenty."

  A young couple approached next, the woman holding a baby. "She'll grow up because of you," the father said quietly.

  The mother leaned in and kissed John's cheek. "Bless you."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  John stood there clutching honey cakes, his throat tight.

  It hit him all at once. These people were alive because of him. Not because of Leon's lightning or Lia's magic or the Grand Magister's power. They'd helped, sure. But if John hadn't killed the Carrion Mother, hadn’t known where to look for the dungeon…

  How many of them would be dead right now? How many children would never grow up? How many families would have been torn apart?

  In the game, saving villages had been a quest reward. Experience points and maybe some decent loot. He'd never saved Greyford in any playthrough. It only existed as a hint at the story to come.

  This wasn't like that at all.

  The baby in the woman's arms was real. Would grow up real. Would have a life because John had been in the right place, known the right things, made the right choices. That weight was heavier than any boss fight, more terrifying than any monster.

  He looked at the honey cakes in his hands. They were slightly misshapen, clearly homemade, probably took hours to prepare. Someone had made these specifically for him. Put time and effort into thanking him.

  His previous life never had moments like this. No one baked you cakes for hitting rank one on a speedrun leaderboard. No one kissed your cheek for optimizing a build. You got upvotes, maybe. Some Reddit karma. A few people saying "nice run bro" in the comments.

  This was different.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  He made his way back toward the tables, nursing a mug of ale, when an old man passed by. Weathered face, simple clothes, nothing remarkable.

  Until he looked up.

  John froze. Those eyes were ancient. The same pale gray that had stared into his soul earlier.

  "Grand Magister?" John whispered.

  The old man's lips quirked. "Not tonight." His voice was different, rougher, with a local accent. "Tonight I'm just Old Al. Nobody special."

  "You feel..."

  "Suppressed." He glanced down at himself. "It’s been decades since I walked among people without them flinching. I’d forgotten what it was like."

  Before John could respond, a woman's voice called out.

  "Well now! Who's this handsome fellow?"

  A woman in her forties approached, eyes bright with wine and mischief. She looked Aldric up and down. "Don't think I've seen you around, stranger."

  Aldric's expression transformed. The ancient Grand Magister vanished, replaced by a charming old rogue. "Just passing through, my dear. Though I must say, the hospitality here is exceptional." His eyes twinkled. "Present company especially."

  She laughed, delighted. "Oh, a smooth talker! Come, dance with me. Let's see if you can move as well as you can speak."

  "It would be my honor."

  Aldric let himself be led to the dance floor. And he could dance, moving with grace that seemed impossible for a man of his apparent age, spinning the woman with practiced ease. She was laughing, flushed and happy.

  John watched, stunned.

  "Is that..." Lia appeared at his elbow.

  "Yes."

  "Dancing with Mistress Henna?"

  "Yes."

  They watched in silence as one of the most powerful mages in the kingdom twirled a village widow around the dance floor, both of them grinning like teenagers.

  "Huh," Lia said finally. "I guess even Grand Magisters need to relax sometimes."

  "Apparently."

  The music shifted again, and more couples took to the floor. John found himself pulled back into dancing with Lia, then with Elara, then with an older woman who taught him a traditional village dance that involved a lot of stomping and clapping.

  Marcus finally won his drinking contest. Brennan looked miserable. Erin had a small army of children following her around, all mimicking her gestures and trying to stand as regally as she did.

  The griffins dozed, occasionally making pleased rumbling sounds. A few brave children had crept close enough to pet Frostfeather, who tolerated it with surprising patience.

  The celebration wound down as the night grew late. Children were carried home by tired parents. The older folks made their goodbyes. The musicians packed up their instruments.

  John found himself sitting at one of the tables with Leon, Lia, Marcus, Erin, and Garren. The conversation had mellowed into comfortable quiet.

  Old Al was a few tables over with Mistress Henna on his lap, her tongue down his throat.

  John sipped his ale, feeling the pleasant buzz, the comfortable ache in his muscles from dancing. This was nice. Just... sitting with people. People who didn't think he was weird or wrong or too much.

  "We did well," Leon said finally. "All of us."

  "Even John?" Marcus asked with a grin. "Who gives speeches that need to be booed?"

  "Especially John," Leon said firmly. Then he paused. "Though yes, that speech was terrible."

  John groaned. "Can we please move past that?"

  "Never," Marcus said cheerfully, and raised his mug, wincing at the shoulder Erin had punched. "To not dying."

  "To not dying," they echoed, clinking their cups together.

  John looked around the square. At the empty tables, the dimming lanterns, the sleeping griffins, the disguised Grand Magister being led away by a smiling woman toward the inn.

  Greyford was safe. The dungeon was sealed.

  John looked at the honey cakes still sitting on the table beside him. Slightly misshapen. Made with care.

  Tomorrow would bring something new.

  Tonight, he'd done enough.