The sound of an oar cutting through water echoed in the pitch-black darkness.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
A raspy voice slithered through the void. Moments later, an astral-blue orb ignited at the center of the room, casting eerie light on a robed figure. Red eyes flared beneath the hood, their glow reflecting off the curved blade of a scythe.
"Such an unyielding soul… Even in death, you fight to exist. You would be so delicious…"
The figure leaned closer.
"...But today is not your time."
"Rise."
The blue flame flickered—whispering, conversing with the hooded figure in a silent language.
"You have died, but you may be resurrected... for a price. Sacrifice your body, your memory, or your peace of mind."
Silence stretched as the soul deliberated its choice… then flickered twice.
"I see."
The robed figure reached forward, skeletal fingers grasping the flame. With a tug, white, translucent threads unraveled from its core. Holding them in his palm, he twisted the strands together, condensing them into a small, rectangular screen.
Within it, a memory played.
A young boy sat in a workshop, tinkering with a motorcycle alongside his father. When the engine roared to life, they exchanged a look of pure joy—laughing, celebrating a shared victory. The scene looped, again and again.
The skeletal figure parted his jaws—and devoured it.
"Delicious," he sighed. Then, rowing his boat into the abyss, he left behind a final warning.
"But try not to die again, will you?"
The blue flame swelled, engulfing the room in its glow until—
I gasped awake, bolting upright as my hands clutched at my stomach. My wounds—where were they? My abs were intact, no scars, no pain. Even my wrist was fine. It was as if nothing had happened.
Was it all a dream?
I sat in the same tent. Everything was normal… yet a tear slipped down my cheek.
Why was I thinking about my father? He was fine. He had to be. But deep in my chest, something was missing. A hollow ache clawed at my gut, dragging me down.
I lost something important. I knew it.
And I couldn't even remember what.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I let myself break. Tears fell freely as I sat there, alone in the tent. I wanted to go home. I never asked for this. I just wanted to have fun. I didn't want to die.
What did I do to deserve this?
I bit my lip, forcing myself to stop.
"...Pathetic," I whispered, wiping my face.
No. I wasn't a victim. I wasn't going to sit here and mope.
I had to think.
I needed to get stronger. If I could reach Level 80, maybe—just maybe—I could go back.
Taking a deep breath, I forced my thoughts into order.
Was I in a time loop again? Would today play out the same way? The player tied to the pole, the scout with the spyglass, the farm where I got killed by bandits…
How could I have avoided my death?
If I hadn't gone for wrist control, maybe I wouldn't have taken that stab. But that bastard switched grips so seamlessly, he'd have just stabbed me somewhere else.
If only I had protection…
Wait. Armor. Why didn't I think of that before?
I pushed out of the tent, expecting chaos. Instead, everything had settled. No commotion. Just three burnt wooden poles in the corner—a haunting reminder of what I had done.
I shook my head and moved on.
Jogging down the road, I found the scout again. The same conversation played out—him introducing the trouble spots, handing me a map and a compass.
So NPC events repeated… but player interactions didn't?
What if those players had been like me—trapped in a game they couldn't escape? And I killed them?
I shoved the thought away. Now wasn't the time.
Leaning on the bridge railing, I sorted through my options.
How do I get armor?
From what I remembered, gear could drop from monsters, be given as quest rewards, bought from shops, or crafted. Maybe I had something in my inventory already.
I must have looked insane, standing there and muttering commands as I tried to open menus. Eventually, I pulled up a few screens from the original game—Inventory, Hero Status, Character Build, Training, Crafting.
Most of it was the same. But some features—like Character Build and Training—were locked. And I had no extra bags to expand my inventory.
I needed to level up more.
And looking back… fighting monsters wasn't my only path forward.
This game rewarded experience in more ways than combat. Maybe I didn't have to rely on violence to grow stronger.
Funny. A brawler avoiding fights for survival.
I slapped my cheeks, snapping myself back to focus.
I didn't care how long it took.
I would get stronger.
No more half-measures.
That old farm wasn't going anywhere.
And I was playing to win.
I returned to the ruins of Graywatch, where the air buzzed with the sounds of rebuilding. The people were focused, determined. I figured I should help too. Scanning the area, I looked for someone in charge. My eyes landed on a gruff-looking man with a white bandana, a chestnut beard, and a cast on his arm—wait, wasn't he the same guy from last time?
"Excuse me, are you the foreman?" I asked.
The man sized me up, his gaze lingering on my eyes.
"Hero of Graywatch. What the hell do you want?" he said with a snarl.
That attitude pissed me off, but I wasn't here for that.
"I'm no hero. Call me Marcus," I replied.
He nodded, then got straight to business. Most of the houses had been burned or destroyed in the invasion, and the fields outside the city were trampled beyond use. When I offered to help, he paused for a moment before smirking.
"Well, get to fuckin' work, kid."
And just like that, my day turned into a blur of hard labor. I hauled planks of wood, sacks of cement, and buckets of water. I swung a sledgehammer to break down unstable walls and tilled the soil with a hoe. By sunset, my body ached, my hands were raw with splinters and blisters—but at least I got paid. Three silver coins.
That night, I followed the other laborers to a run-down inn, where I bought a bowl of chicken stew and bread for fifty copper coins. The taste was familiar—like any other chicken stew—but there was something else. A hint of umami? Curious, I discreetly checked my status screen while eating. Just as I suspected, the food granted small buffs to vitality and stamina regeneration. If I wanted to survive in this world, I needed every advantage. Maybe I should look into cooking someday.
After a few rounds of drinks with the crew, I rented a tiny room and collapsed into bed.
As days passed, I fell into a rhythm.
Mornings started with laps around Graywatch, broken up with shadowboxing drills. After breakfast, I spent the day working—hauling supplies, repairing buildings, and helping restore farmland. I even picked up some basic carpentry and farming skills along the way. Nights were dedicated to training. I practiced boxing and Muay Thai combinations against a makeshift punching bag tied to a tree. I wished I had someone to practice grappling with, but I made do.
One day, as I carried another stack of planks, the foreman gave me a look.
"You sure you ain't tired, kid? You've been runnin' 'round too much. Take a damn break."
"Nah. This is easy work, old man." I smirked and kept moving.
By the end of the first week, I noticed some changes. The work didn't grant experience points like combat did, but my attributes had improved. My strength and endurance increased—I could lift heavier loads, swing harder, and last longer.
Food played a bigger role than I thought. I learned that "magic" in this world infused meals, enhancing recovery and performance. Meat provided health-related boosts, while carbs like potatoes increased stamina. Other food types—fats, vegetables, lipids—were still a mystery to me since they were so damn expensive.
But things didn't stay peaceful for long.
One morning, the foreman rounded us up.
"We're runnin' low on materials, and the Knights of the Six ain't sendin' shit our way. So we'll get our own! We'll show 'em Graywatch don't need no damn handouts!"
The laborers cheered. The plan was simple—head into a nearby forest, gather wood, mine ore, and collect herbs. The only problem? The forest was crawling with slimes, wolves, and worse.
Had I prepared enough for this?
With my wages, I figured I could afford some armor. I made my way to the Graywatch General Goods store.
"Welcome, my friend!" the merchant greeted. He was dressed too finely for a man running a shop in a ruined city—blue tunic trimmed with gold, pants, and polished brown boots. Lucky bastard.
I browsed the armor on display, activating my innate appraisal skill to check their stats. As expected, all of it was garbage-tier common gear. Not a single rare item in sight. But something caught my attention.
Why could I equip everything? Normally, in RPGs, warriors wore plate, rogues used leather, and mages had robes. But I—the Brawler—had no restrictions.
Interesting.
I grabbed a full set of common-tier plate armor and brought it to the counter. My appraisal skill estimated its worth at around eight silver coins.
"That'll be forty-five silver coins," the merchant said with a grin.
"…The fuck?" I blurted out.
The merchant raised a brow. "Something wrong, sir? This fine armor comes from the capital itself! It'll protect you against the Dragon Lich!"
He was ripping me off.
I reached over the counter, grabbed his collar, and pulled him close. "Why the fuck are you scamming me?" I growled.
"S-sav—get your hands off me! You call yourself the Hero of Graywatch, and this is how you act!?" His forehead glistened with sweat, but he refused to budge on the price. Either he was desperate, or he knew he could get away with it.
Reluctantly, I let him go.
"What can I get for ten silver coins?" I asked, glaring.
After some hesitation, he brought out a mismatched set: metal gauntlets, shin-plated boots, and fur armor.
"I'll be generous and offer you a discount for what you've done," he said with mock politeness.
I checked their value—four silver coins. This bastard was still overcharging me.
I sighed and handed over the money. A week's worth of wages—gone. But it was better than being unarmored.
As I left, the merchant called after me. "If you don't like my prices, make your own damn gear next time!"
…Yeah. Just you wait. I will.
Before regrouping with the laborers, I stopped by the inn to buy another bowl of chicken stew and bread. The extra stamina and health buffs could make the difference in a fight.
At the city center, the foreman handed us gathering tools—an axe, pickaxe, sickle, and hammer. A group of hunters would escort us, and a few oxen were brought along to carry supplies.
Once everything was ready, the foreman raised his hand.
"Move out!"
And with that, our expedition began.