I watched as the axe spun through the air in slow motion, tracking its trajectory with wide eyes—until it landed.
I froze. The blade had buried itself in the wolf's skull, mere inches from my own. The beast went limp in my grasp, its life snuffed out in an instant. If that had been aimed at me... what could I have done? Should I get a helmet next time?
As my experience bar ticked up, I heard footsteps crunching through the leaves. I turned toward the source—a towering silhouette emerged from the trees. Broad, fur-clad, and crowned with antlers, he looked like some guardian of the wild. Had I angered the protector of this forest?
I sprang to my feet, bracing for combat—
"Hey!"
The figure greeted me casually before dropping a stag carcass from his shoulders. My tension eased slightly. This was one of the hunters from our expedition. And up close, he was a sight to behold—easily nine feet tall and built like a fortress. His thick neck and massive frame made him look like a juggernaut. Ginger hair tied back in a man bun, a clean-shaven jaw, and sharp blue eyes gave him the presence of a seasoned warrior, but his expression was more akin to a gentle giant's.
A Nord. One of the playable races in the game. Renowned hunters from the harsh, frozen tundras, not unlike Viking clans.
As he approached, my mind raced through possible tactics. A rear naked choke wouldn't work—his neck was too thick. Maybe a triangle choke with my legs? No, he could easily lift and slam me. Joint locks? His arms and legs were too muscular for me to break anything effectively. Cumulative damage, then—calf kicks, leg kicks, body shots—
"You did well holding that wolf down," he said, snapping me out of my combat calculations. "I've been tracking that elusive one for hours. Didn't think humans had the guts to wrestle with such a beast."
"...Uh, thanks. But you almost hit me!"
"I would have, if I were less skilled," he said with a confident smirk.
That throw was calculated. If he had wanted me dead, I would be. Terrifying.
He yanked his axe from the wolf's skull, then flipped it and held it out to me by the blade.
"Keep it. For good luck."
I took it, inspecting it with my Appraisal skill. Throwing Axe. I gave it a test swing—only for my grip to fail. The same force from the tutorial took over, sending the weapon flying into a nearby tree with a heavy thud.
A message popped up:
"Brawler's Curse is active. Attempting to wield a weapon with intent to harm fills you with anxiety, giving you a slippery grip and forcing you to discard the weapon."
So that explains why I couldn't hold swords. But... I was able to hold the axe for a moment. Maybe there's an exploit I could use with throwing weapons?
"You throw well. Are you a marksman?" the hunter asked as he retrieved the axe.
"...No. I have a curse—I can't hold weapons properly."
"Ah," he said, nodding. "In my homeland, a curse is merely a blessing ignored. A man might wish for the strength of a tiger, but a tiger would wish for a man's intelligence. While you may not have the firmest grip, who's to stop you from becoming an excellent marksman?"
That... actually made sense. A different way to look at my situation.
"Thanks. What's your name?" I asked.
"Brynjolf Einarson. And you?"
"Marcus."
"Just Marcus? Who is your father?"
Oh, right. Nords typically took their father's name with "-son" at the end. If he was Einar's son...
"My father's name is Alexandre."
Brynjolf gave a firm nod. "Then it is an honor to meet you, Marcus Alexandreson." He slammed a fist against his chest in salute. I returned the gesture.
"The sun is setting, and we need to prepare these carcasses. Will you help me with the skinning?"
I hesitated. "I have no experience."
Brynjolf chuckled. "Then it's a good time to learn."
He handed me an old skinning knife—a well-crafted blade with a wooden handle engraved with a bear. Even their tools had an artistry to them.
As we worked, he gave me pointers: cut shallow to preserve the meat and pelt, remove the organs carefully (especially the colon), and salvage bones, fangs, claws, and eyes for their alchemical properties. Maybe I should invest in alchemy later…
I glanced over mid-cut—Brynjolf was already nearly finished with his stag. The guy was a machine.
"Brynjolf, why are you here? I thought Nords preferred colder climates," I asked as I continued skinning the wolf.
He sighed, his expression darkening. "...We do. But we had no choice. The Ice Witch's forces are closing in on our tribes. They hunt us like wild game, turning my brothers and sisters into mindless beasts encased in ice."
I stiffened. Another major threat in this world. Unlike the Lich, who raised the dead, the Ice Witch corrupted the living, transforming Nords into frozen monsters.
"We fought back," he continued, anger rising in his voice. "For months, we held out. But every day, her numbers grew while ours dwindled. I begged my people to leave, to retreat—but they refused. They stayed. And they died."
He paused. A long, heavy silence. Then—
"...I was the only survivor."
The words hung in the air, thick with grief.
"I tried to reach Geirmundholt's Great Lodge for aid, but their hunters were stretched too thin. I do not blame them... so I left. I seek redemption however I can. I heard of the centaur attacks on Greywatch, so now... I am here."
I didn't know what to say. What could you even say to that? He tried to save his people and was forced to watch them fall. He had no choice but to run, yet he bore the guilt of a coward.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. A silent gesture.
He gave a small smile—but I could tell the pain still lingered.
We continued working in silence. I managed to salvage fur, teeth, claws, and usable meat from the wolf before moving on to the cliff bat. I noticed something then—
I was gaining experience. Even from skinning.
Huh. Maybe there was more to progression in this world than just combat.
We loaded up the oxen mount's bags before leading it back to the outskirts of the forest, where the foreman was already tallying the resources. He bought the wood and stone from my mount's bags for 20 silver coins, while I got to keep the hunting loot for myself. With the supplies secured, we descended the cliff and returned to Graywatch, celebrating the night with drinks at the local inn.
The foreman mentioned that, with this much gathered, the city should be rebuilt in a week—once the raw materials were processed.
As we ate chicken stew, I turned to Brynjolf. "Hey, how much longer are you staying here?"
"I'll be leaving once the city is rebuilt," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking of leaving too after the reparations are done. Want to come with me?"
"We shall see," Brynjolf answered. He didn't sound entirely opposed, but he wasn't committing either. Having him as a companion would make things so much easier—like getting carried by a high-level player. Speaking of which… what level is he?
I focused my sight on him, activating my appraisal. Brynjolf Einarsson… Level 20?!
My jaw nearly dropped. Everyone else in this town was between level 0 and 2, and this juggernaut had just waltzed in, leagues ahead of us all. Is he a player? Should I ask? Though, he didn't act like one. I mean… I could die to reset the day and see if he's still here, but—yeah, no. Not worth it.
"Is something wrong?" Brynjolf asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I quickly shook my head and steered the conversation elsewhere. We ended up talking about food. He reminisced about eating Roast Dolyak Meat—a furrier relative of our oxen. Meanwhile, all I'd had so far was basic-ass chicken stew. I was mad jealous when he described the taste.
After dinner and drinks, I rented a room and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. If Brynjolf's leaving soon, I need to make the most of his time here. Maybe I can get him to coach me in throwing weapons.
I checked my stats—level 2 now. If I play my cards right, I could push to level 8 by the end of the week. With a rough plan in mind, I closed my eyes and let exhaustion take over.
After eating another bowl of buff-giving chicken stew, I joined the laborers. For the first few days, our job was refining materials—breaking logs into planks at the lumber mill and chiseling stone blocks at the stonemason's yard. It was brutal work, but every bit of effort nudged my experience bar upward. By the third day, I hit level 4.
Once the materials were ready, we spent the next week rebuilding. Brynjolf pitched in, and with his help, we made serious progress. My routine shifted—I jogged in the early mornings, worked on construction until noon, then hunted with Brynjolf in the afternoons, improving my throwing skills and gathering materials. By early evening, I still made time to practice my martial arts with a makeshift punching bag. Exhausting? Absolutely. But I was fueled by this world's god-tier chicken stew.
With the experience from hunting, skinning, and crafting, I hit level 8 by the final day. Still 72 levels to go… but one step at a time.
Sweat dripped from my forehead as I hammered the last two nails into place. I stepped back, wiping my hands on my pants.
"Hey, boss! I'm done here! Anywhere else that needs help?"
"That's the last of it," the foreman said.
As I climbed down the ladder, he gathered all the laborers and led us toward the town center. People stood outside their rebuilt homes—many of them survivors of the invasion.
The foreman leaned toward me and muttered, "Say somethin' nice, will you?" Then he cleared his throat.
"Everyone! Once again, we have proven our tenacity—no invasion can truly break us!"
His voice was steady, but his words carried weight.
"We lost many that day. But had the Knights of the Six not intervened, we would have lost far more." A heavy silence followed.
"But—" his tone rose, cutting through the grief. "That day, one brave soul stood among us. Not a knight, but with the heart of one. Someone reckless enough—no, dumb enough—to fight a centaur with his bare hands to save strangers. But most importantly, he stayed. When the battle was over, he didn't leave us to pick up the pieces alone. He fought for this city, and now, he's been one of the driving forces behind its rebuilding."
The foreman turned to me.
"Everyone, lend your ears to the Hero of Graywatch—Marcus!"
The crowd erupted. Whistles, cheers, applause. The laborers clapped, stepping aside to make way for me.
Damn it. What do I even say now?
"Uh... Listen, I'm really not a hero. I'm just a working man like the rest of you."
I glanced at the foreman. He shot me the deadliest glare I'd ever seen. Alright, alright, I guess I'll roll with the motivational speech.
I took a breath.
"But lately, I've been thinking… why was I given this title? What does it really mean to be a hero?" I paused.
"Some might say it's about strength—like my friend Brynjolf here, who can lift an entire log with one hand. Others might say it's about protection—like the Knights of the Six, who risk their lives to defend our people. And sure, those are valid.
"But after working alongside you all, I've come to realize something else. Being a hero isn't just about strength or combat—it's about sacrifice. It's about breaking your back, pushing through exhaustion, and giving everything you've got for the people you care about. And by that definition—the real heroes of Graywatch are standing right here.
"The foreman. The laborers. Every single one of you. I've seen it firsthand—you poured your blood, sweat, and tears into rebuilding this city.
"So, no. I am no hero. But I've had the honor of working alongside them."
Silence.
Then—applause. Deafening applause. The laborers raised their fists, cheering their hearts out. Brynjolf, the gentle giant himself, was moved to tears. He quickly wiped his eyes with his forearm, trying to hide it.
Graywatch was rebuilt. I hit level 8.
Now, it's time.
Stay strong, Miss Annie. I'll save your farm.
And as for you, you fucking bandit—I'll repay my death a thousand times over.