Silas and Tim worked the hunt as dusk rolled across the grassland.

  By the time the sky darkened to deep indigo, four fleurhorns lay still in the tall grass. The duo had taken them down together—but anyone watching closely would have seen the truth.

  Silas carried.

  Each engagement ended the same way. Two out of the four ended with Silas one-shotting them with his fireball spell. While the other two got a bit rowdy. Tim had to finish the job as the fleurhorn attacked Silas. If not for his other spell, a defensive one called Mana Armor. Which he gained after reaching level 1, post battle with the rat.

  Rather than opting for another elemental spell, he went for a defensive spell. After the incident with the rat, he learned his lesson to also think about his defense as situation could change at every second. And from the look of it, it was the right choice. One hit from the gentle pink sheep was enough to cut down half of his Mana Armor. He couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt if it struck him by the flesh.

  With Silas as bait. Tim swiftly went in and struck the final blow. Efficient. Methodical.

  By the end. He reached level three.

  Progress.

  While Larry surprised them all with the hides.

  Clean cuts. Flawless work. No ragged edges, no wasted material. Despite the burnt state, the wool came away in neat sheets and intact—proof that the fisherman’s hands knew how to handle more than a rod.

  One hide, however, told a different story.

  Rough edges. Uneven slices. Blood and dirt marring the pelt.

  Arthur’s attempt.

  He had tried to help, guided by Larry’s instructions, wanting to contribute in a world that rewarded usefulness. The effort mattered—but the execution needed practice.

  Silas didn’t criticize.

  Learning came through repetition.

  They rolled the hides tight and slung them over their shoulders.

  Heavy.

  Worth something.

  Silas also carried meat—fresh cuts from the fleurhorn, enough to feed five people. It wasn’t just food.

  It was insurance.

  If the hides failed to sell.

  If the town rejected them.

  If the system punished their gamble.

  They would still eat.

  By the time they stepped into town, all five of them paused at the sheer bustle of the streets. People moved in every direction—some huddled by the roadside, knees pulled tight to their chests, eyes wet with silent grief. Others argued in sharp, jagged bursts, voices rising in anger and accusation. Languages drifted through the air like currents, some familiar, others completely foreign—an urban symphony of distress and survival.

  Then they felt it.

  The stares.

  Heads turned.

  Eyes followed.

  They were outsiders in a sea of strangers, the rolled burnt pink wool hides and blood-wrapped meat marking them as something different—hunters returning from a brutal harvest. The attention was uncomfortable but harmless, and they pushed through it, heading for the general store.

  Luckily it was still open.

  The store itself was larger than expected, a sturdy structure built for trade rather than elegance. Oil lamps hung from iron hooks, their warm glow bouncing off wooden shelves stacked with goods. A chandelier of candles cast flickering shadows across the room. The air carried the mixed scent of wax, leather, and dried food.

  The ceiling hung low.

  Not claustrophobic—but close enough that Silas and the others would have to mind their heads.

  Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper.

  A cat.

  Bipedal.

  “Good evening,” Silas said.

  He smiled, trying to appear harmless.

  Half-naked, still stained from the hunt, he hardly looked like a refined customer. No sculpted muscles of a warrior. No exaggerated bravado. Just a practical build—functional, not flashy.

  The well-dressed black cat with a polished monocle studied Silas and the others in silence, adjusting the tiny lens with a practiced flick of its paw.

  “Humans,” the cat finally said, voice smooth and measured. “Always arriving in my shop covered in something unfortunate. Mud, blood, or both. It never changes. But I guess not worse than entitled brats.”

  Silas smirked faintly. “We try not to be trouble.”

  The cat’s ears twitched. “Yet trouble seems to find me regardless. I guess it’s a given being it’s the first day.”

  Silas raised an eyebrows. It seemed this cat knew more than he expected.

  “You know we are not from this world?” Silas asked.

  “Oops, a slip of tongue,” the cat said. Its eyes gazed at the things brought by the party. “So what is your business dear customers?”

  He gestured toward the rolled hides and the horns. “We’ve got goods to sell. Fleurhorn hides. Horns. Freshly acquired.”

  The monocle glinted as the cat inspected the haul. It lifted one of the hides, examining the craftsmanship with the kind of quiet expertise that came from years of trade.

  “Not bad,” the cat admitted. “The work is clean. Well four of them. A pity all are burnt. Nonetheless, the hides and horns will fetch a fair price.”

  Silas relaxed slightly.

  “And the meat?” he asked.

  The cat set the hide down with a small, dismissive flick of its tail.

  “Meat?” it said. “In that quantity? A few coins at best. Hardly the treasure you might imagine. Unless you find a tavern that sell fleurhorn meat I doubt anyone would buy it for a good price.”

  Silas nodded.

  “Sell the hides and horns then.”

  The cat adjusted its monocle again, calculating.

  “Done,” it said.

  The cat handover a pouch of coins. It was even generous enough to explain about the monetary system of this trial world.

  “Copper is the common coin,” the cat said. “Worth little, spent on basics—food, small services. Silver holds greater value, useful for trade and equipment. Ten copper make one silver. A hundred silver make one gold. Gold is the standard of serious commerce—goods of quality, huge supplies, real estate.”

  The cat continued. “Mithril, however, sits above all. Rare. Valuable. Used for exceptional items and transactions of significance. One mithril coin equals ten thousand gold.”

  Silas peered inside the pouch again. A bunch of silver coins and copper coins lay together, enough to buy essentials and a night’s stay but not riches. Practical. And a start.

  “Appreciate the information,” Silas said.

  They left the general store under the watchful eyes of townsfolk who still lingered nearby, curious and cautious. No confrontation. No spectacle.

  Outside, the streets remained busy, voices rising and falling in distant arguments and quiet grief. The group kept moving, avoiding attention.

  Their next destination: the inn.

  A place to rest.

  Inside the lobby, they paused.

  A black and white cat knelt on the stone floor, mop in hand, methodically cleaning.

  The smell of disinfectant and damp stone lingered in the air.

  And then they saw it.

  A faint crimson stain fading beneath the mop’s careful strokes— the last remnants of something that had been there before.

  Blood? Silas thought. Some of the others also thought the same.

  “Welcome, nya,” the cat behind the reception desk said.

  Its voice was distinctly feminine, smooth and professional, yet the appearance remained identical to the other cats in town—bipedal, well-groomed, and difficult to gender without clothing as a guide. A small bell sat on the counter beside a ledger book, and the faint scent of ink and old paper lingered in the air.

  “I hope you’re not here to cause trouble,” the cat added.

  Silas smiled, keeping his hands visible. “No trouble. Just rooms for the night.”

  The cat’s ears twitched. It studied him for a moment, then glanced at the pouch of coins he set on the counter.

  The receptionist opened the pouch, letting the silver and copper coins spill slightly into its palm for inspection. It weighed them with practiced ease before dropping them back inside.

  A faint chuckle escaped the cat.

  “Ah, I remember you lot,” it said. “One of the reasonable bunch. I guess some of you possess common sense after all.”

  Its eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Last human who tried to force his way in?” it continued. “Didn’t end well. He learned a very painful lesson about manners.”

  Silas exchanged a look with the others.

  Noted.

  This place enforced rules.

  He pushed the coins forward. “Rooms for five please.”

  The cat nodded and began processing the request.

  But before payment could be finalized, Tim stepped forward.

  “Hold on,” he said sharply.

  Silas paused. “What?”

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  Tim crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t we distribute the coins first? I don’t remember you being the leader, treasurer, or anyone in charge of handling everything.”

  “Right,” Silas replied quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good point.”

  They gathered in a small circle.

  Silas divided the coins evenly—each person receiving their share. Not much, but enough to pay for their portion of the inn and keep things fair.

  Tim still wasn’t satisfied.

  He weighed the coins in his hand, eyes narrowing. “That’s it?”

  “Hold up,” Tim said, voice sharp. “I get why Larry gets a cut—he actually hauled his share—but these two?” He jerked a thumb toward Arthur and Jen. “Dead weight. They didn’t earn it.”

  Arthur looked away, jaw tight. Jen scowled, eyes flashing.

  “Then I guess most of it’s mine,” Silas replied, keeping the smile even though it felt thin. “I one shot three of them. The rest dealt the most damage and drew their attention, softened them up, took the hits. Someone who lands the finishing blow doesn’t do much work do they?”

  Tim glared but said nothing. No argument. No counter. Larry, meanwhile, laughed—a low, amused sound, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

  Silas finished distributing the coins, dividing them evenly despite the tension. When Tim collected his share, he pointed a finger at Silas, then at the others.

  “I’m only sticking around until the quest is done,” Tim said. The words came like a final shot across the bow. “After that? You can all go your separate ways. I don’t owe you anything.”

  He turned, marched to the reception desk, and secured a room with curt efficiency. No lingering. No pleasantries.

  Arthur, Larry, and Jen watched him go.

  “Fucking prick,” Larry muttered.

  “Larry, I know Tim’s a piece of shit,” Jen said, “but you don’t have to say it like that.”

  Arthur glanced between them. “Is he always like this?”

  Silas looked toward the staircase, expression flat.

  “Yup,” he said. “Tim’s just Tim. A fucking rat.”

  After securing their rooms, Silas collapsed onto the bed.

  The mattress was clean—fresh linen, a faint floral scent that reminded him of places that existed before monsters and magic. He inhaled deeply, letting the small comfort settle in.

  The room itself was simple.

  A bed.

  A chamberpot.

  Medieval in appearance but functional.

  Silas didn’t mind.

  Huni—the receptionist cat and innkeeper—had explained that the first floor contained a shared bathroom with modern conveniences. A flushing toilet. A shower. Which was a surprise when they first heard it.

  Then they checked.

  And it worked.

  The aesthetic belonged to another era, but the infrastructure carried hints of their world. Enough to feel civilized. At that point, Jen, and Arthur was crying their eyes out due to modern plumbing.

  Silas lay back, staring at the ceiling.

  For the first time that day, the pressure eased.

  He was alive.

  He still couldn’t believe it.

  A day ago he had been an office worker. Now he had fought monsters, leveled up, and now sleeping in a medieval inn.

  Danger existed, but it hadn’t claimed him.

  Not yet.

  He turned slightly, breathing slow.

  Then his chest ached. He winced.

  Silas propped himself up, wincing as he examined the bandage he’d fashioned from torn cloth. He peeled it back just enough to check the wound.

  The flesh beneath was still angry and red.

  Not gushing like before. But far from healed. It needed attention. In this world, an infected wound could kill him just as surely as a monster’s claw. A slow, humiliating end. The kind of death that left no legends—only regret.

  He pressed the bandage back in place. Better to deal with it now.

  A knock came at the door.

  Arthur, Jen, and Larry stood in the hallway. Dinner, they said. A simple invitation. Silas shook his head.

  He thanked them, explained he needed to tend the injury. Medical help here would cost money—resources he preferred to conserve. The others insisted they could help. Share the expense. Stay together.

  It was a small act of solidarity. But Silas refused. Not out of pride. Out of practicality. He would slow them down. Waste their evening at whatever passed for a clinic in this world.

  Arthur, stubborn as always, tried one last time. At least take the meat, he said. A gesture. A meal.

  Silas accepted it with a nod.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

  They left.

  No discussion of Tim. No questions.

  Silas watched them go. Then he headed out. Huni, the receptionist cat and innkeeper, was at the counter. He approached and asked about medical care in this town. Huni leaned in, sniffing the bandage with a small, feline grimace.

  “No wonder it stinks,” the cat murmured. “You were bitten by a fel rat.”

  Silas gave himself a quick sniff. Nothing. At least nothing he could detect. If he smelled like death or rot, his own nose refused to tell him. But Huni’s reaction suggested otherwise.

  “Did you kill it?” the innkeeper cat asked.

  Silas nodded.

  “Good,” Huni said with a small, approving smile.

  Silas hesitated. “Is it bad?”

  The wound still throbbed beneath the bandage. Not unbearable—but persistent. A reminder.

  Huni’s expression softened.

  “Slightly poisonous,” she admitted. “Nothing fatal. Not if you treat it.”

  Silas’ stomach tightened.

  “Treat it how?”

  “Toko’s,” Huni replied.

  The name landed like a weight.

  “Toko’s?” Silas repeated.

  “The healer,” she said. “Only one in town. The smelly small building three doors to the right. Hard to miss with the smell.”

  Silas thanked her and stepped back outside.

  The street felt different now.

  Quieter. Less movement. People sat along the dirt road, shoulders hunched, expressions distant. Some clutched their knees. Others stared at nothing in particular. Conversations were rare—muted fragments rather than lively exchanges. Despair hung in the air like humidity.

  A sign hung nearby. Foreign script. Unfamiliar characters. And the smelly herb wafted from the windows.

  Silas pushed the door open and a wall of herbal scent hit him—sharp, earthy, and dense with unfamiliar spices. It clung to the air like something ancient.

  Inside, he greeted the cat.

  Toko.

  The healer lounged in a chair, utterly unbothered, smoking something that looked like a cigarette but clearly wasn’t. It wasn’t rolled paper. Not tobacco. More like dried leaves bound together, smoldering slowly and releasing a fruity, almost sweet aroma—closer to the vape of modern devices than anything Silas recognized.

  Weird.

  But oddly calming.

  Toko worked without ceremony. A brief inspection of the wound. A soft muttered incantation. Silas felt warmth radiate from the injury as the spell knit damaged flesh together—steady, efficient, the kind of magic that demanded no spectacle.

  When it was done, Toko handed him a small pill.

  “This,” the cat said, “is the antidote.”

  A tiny, odd-colored tablet meant to counteract the fel rat’s poison.

  Silas studied it.

  “Couldn’t you just use a detox spell?” he asked.

  In the games he knew, healing magic handled this sort of thing automatically—cures, cleanses, instant relief.

  Toko exhaled a small cloud of fragrant smoke.

  “I’m not a white mage,” the cat replied. “I’m an apothecary.”

  He swallowed the pill. No fanfare. No immediate surge of energy. Just the quiet knowledge that the antidote would do its work.

  Curiosity lingered.

  “You said you’re an apothecary, then how did you use a healing spell? Or is it even a healing spell?” Silas asked.

  Toko glanced at him. A small, unreadable smile. “Some things,” the cat said, “are secrets.”

  Silas thanked Toko and prepared to leave. Payment None. He was Toko’s first human customer, thus he got the benefit of receiving free treatment for the first time. Which was quite lucky of him. The healer even offered additional potions and pills—assorted remedies lined up neatly for purchase.

  But he declined. His coins were limited.

  Then thinking about his coins, he returned to the general store. Inside, it was quiet. Empty. Except for the monocle cat behind the counter. While outside, people were taking shelter by the side of the building.

  The monocle cat watched Silas approach the counter as if it had been expecting him.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” the cat said.

  Silas blinked. “How’d you know?”

  The cat adjusted its monocle with a precise little flick of its paw.

  “Your last visit, you kept staring at the tunics,” it replied.

  Silas glanced toward the apparel shelf.

  Right.

  He had.

  A row of garments hung neatly—some fine and embroidered, others plain and practical. Colors ranged from deep blues to muted browns, fabrics suited for travelers and townsfolk alike.

  The cat gestured with a paw, showcasing the selection.

  “Fancy cuts,” it said. “Sturdy weaves. Something for ceremony. Something for travel. Even the simplest option, if that suits you.”

  Silas examined the choices. In another world, he might have gone for style. Here, utility mattered more. He picked the cheapest tunic. Plain. No embellishment.

  The monocle cat’s ears twitched—a subtle sign of disappointment—but it recovered quickly.

  “Understandable,” it said. “Day one. Resources are limited.”

  Silas changed the subject.

  “This trial realm,” he asked. “You know anything about it?”

  The cat smiled.

  “That,” it said, “is for you to discover.”

  No answers. No hints. Just the same quiet wall of mystery.

  Silas exhaled.

  Then the monocle cat’s gaze dropped to the bundle he carried—the rolled fleurhorn meat secured carefully for trade.

  The cat’s expression shifted slightly.

  “But,” it added, “I might be willing to share information.”

  Silas looked up.

  “On what terms?”

  The cat’s smile returned.

  “Fleurhorn meat.”

  Before he could respond, a blue window materialized in the air.

  [Quest]

  [Vani licked his lips. It had been far too long since he tasted fleurhorn meat.]

  [Share a meal of fleurhorn meat with Vani.]

  [Dateline: Right now.]

  [Reward: Vani might divulge a few information.]

  Silas smiled at the monocle cat.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a kitchen back there, would you?” he asked.

  Vani’s ears perked. Without protest, the cat led him through a door and into the inn’s kitchen.

  The space surprised him.

  From the outside it carried medieval charm—stone walls, wooden shelves, the quiet character of an old-world establishment. But the equipment told a different story.

  Not modern in the way of stainless steel and electric ranges. Instead, the appliances pulsed with subtle magic. Symbols were etched into metal surfaces—arcane designs that hummed faintly, powered by something unseen.

  Ether crystal, Vani explained when Silas pointed at the glowing reddish gem embedded in a wall fixture.

  A power source. Energy converted to heat and function.

  Silas studied it, fascinated.

  Not technology. Not science. Something in between.

  He volunteered to cook. Vani watched from a short distance as Silas worked. He wasn’t a professional chef. No culinary pedigree. But he knew enough. Years of watching instructional videos, experimenting in small kitchens, learning through trial and error. Food didn’t require perfection—just attention.

  He prepped the meat. Seasoned it lightly. Let it sear. The kitchen filled with aroma—rich and savory, different from lamb yet familiar in its depth.

  When it was done, he plated the meal and carried it to the small table.

  Vani waited.

  They sat. They ate. The fleurhorn meat carried a peculiar flavor. Not exactly lamb. Not exactly game.

  Something earthier, with a subtle sweetness that lingered on the tongue—wild and slightly nutty, as if the creature’s diet of grass and strange herbs had infused the flesh with character.

  It was good.

  Different. But good.

  Vani dipped his head in a small nod, approving of the meal with the quiet confidence of someone who had tasted far worse and far better. “Not bad,” the monocle cat said, savoring the last bite. “You handle a kitchen with more skill than most travelers I’ve seen. Better seasoning. Better understanding. Not bad at all.” He wiped a paw across his mouth and glanced up. “You look like a man with questions. Go on. Ask.”

  Silas hesitated, then pushed forward. “Death,” he said. The word hung between them. “Is it permanent here? Because that’s the biggest question I’ve got.”

  Vani’s expression didn’t change. He simply returned the gaze. “No comment,” he said. A pause. “There are things I can speak of. And things I cannot.”

  Silas chewed slowly, turning the answer over in his mind like a coin. “Then tell me this. What’s the purpose of all of it? Why drag people into something like this?”

  Again, Vani’s answer was the same. Calm. Final. “No comment.”

  Frustration flickered across Silas’s features, but he swallowed it down. He kept his voice level. “Do the cats know about this trial realm?”

  “Yes,” Vani replied. His tail twitched. “We are actually known as K’thari.”

  SSilas frowned. “Then are you like us? Caught in the same trap?”

  For the first time, something shadowed Vani’s eyes—an old sadness, the kind that came from knowledge better left unspoken. “No,” he said. “Not the same. Further explanation is beyond what I can give.”

  Silas studied him, searching for cracks in the calm fa?ade. “So this realm,” he said slowly, “is it a simulation? Something artificial?”

  Vani met his gaze. Unblinking. “Such questions matter less than you believe. Real or not real—names and labels change nothing. Power does. Survival does. The strong endure. The weak vanish.” He leaned back slightly, the faintest hint of melancholy touching his voice. “An old truth. Unkind, but true.”

  Vani finished the last bite, offered a quiet nod of appreciation, and excused himself from the dinner. “Thank you for the good meal,” he said before disappearing back toward the store’s interior.

  Silas lingered a moment, letting the taste of the food and the weight of the conversation settle in. Then he returned to the general store, nodded to Vani on his way out, and stepped back into the street.

  Again, the stares of people around directed at him.

  He looked at them and saw their pitiful faces. The look in their eyes were as if begging at Silas to save them. Men and women of every age lined the road—some weathered and old, others middle-aged, a few not much older than Silas himself. He noticed weapons among them: swords hanging unused, bows collecting dust. Tools of war carried by people who refused to wield them.

  One of them stepped forward.

  A man. Slightly older than Silas, eyes sunken with exhaustion. He hesitated, then spoke. “Could you spare some coins?”

  Silas frowned. The request hit harder than he expected. “Why are you begging?” he asked. His voice carried across the small gathering, loud enough for others to hear. “You’ve got weapons. Go out there. Hunt the pink sheeps. Sell the hides and horns. The coins are more than enough for one day’s work to buys food.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some looked away. Others bristled. The man in front of him shook his head. “That’s not humane,” he said.

  Silas almost laughed. “This world doesn’t care about humane,” he replied. “It cares about survival.”

  Silas even told them how to open up their menu window, status window, skill window. Explaining loudly so everyone can hear about this. “Open your menu. Status. Skills. It’s all there. Tools. Use them.”

  More murmurs. A few windows flickered open, blue and silent, and the crowd reacted with surprise. But the unease remained.

  The beggar didn’t relent. “Just coins for the night,” he said. His voice grew louder, gathering sympathy from those around him. “People are starving. Help us.”

  Others chimed in. Pleas. Arguments. The weight of expectation.

  Silas shook his head. He had nothing left to give them. No arguments. No explanations.

  He turned to leave.

  But the man grabbed his sleeve.

  “Listen,” the beggar said, gripping tighter. “Those who can help should help. Isn’t that the right thing to do? Isn’t this unfair?” His voice swelled, rallying the others. A subtle shift in the crowd—no longer simple desperation, but pressure. The beginning of something dangerous.

  Silas exhaled. Long. Slow.

  He should have known better.

  Words wouldn’t reach them. Not here. Not now.

  He raised his wand.

  The incantation came easily, practiced. Four seconds of focused syllables. The end of the twig wand crackled with a thin, buzzing glow—electricity coiling like a sleeping beast. It was his new spell. Electric Jolt.

  The crowd recoiled. Surprise. Fear. The unknown always frightened people.

  The beggar released his sleeve, sensing what came next.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Silas thrust the wand forward and released the jolt spell.

  The man convulsed as electricity struck him. A sharp, brutal crackle. His body jerked like a marionette with cut strings before collapsing to the ground. He spasmed once, twice, then went still—eyes wide, breath ragged. A wet stain spread beneath him.

  Screams erupted. People scattered. Some froze in place, staring in disbelief.

  The air smelled of burnt hair.

  Silas knelt briefly, checking the man’s pulse. Still alive. Good. He stood and left without a word. No guilt. No hesitation. The experiment had worked.

  Low power. Controlled damage. The system registered it: two mana spent instead of ten. Efficient. Precise. Similar like a taser which he had hoped for.

  He made a mental note—training would be necessary. As mastery was crucial. Then he headed back to the inn.