In the peaceful foothills of a rugged mountain range, on the eleventh floor of the Hundredfold Haven, sits the village of Dunverholm.

And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Sounds like something out of a fantasy travel brochure.

But this place? It’s the real deal. A living slice of dwarf-crafted paradise.

Tucked into rolling green hills and crisscrossed with streams that shine like liquid crystal, Dunverholm looks like the Shire and a cozy RPG town had a baby and gave it dwarf DNA.

Right in the middle is the Stout Oak, an absolute unit of a tree. It’s ancient and wide enough to give Godzilla a timeout. The branches stretch over the whole village square, still dropping shade like it’s worth gold.

That square’s the heart of everything. Markets pop up at dawn, overflowing with fresh bread and weird veggies nobody can pronounce. Festivals kick off with bagpipes and mugs big enough to drown a squirrel. Arguments about whose turn it is to bring the ale usually start with laughter and end in bets.

This is where village life does its thing.

Stubborn, loud, kind of messy, but weirdly heartwarming.

And while the place hums with noise and charm, the buildings in Dunverholm are straight-up art. Every one of them’s got a story. Built on carved stone foundations, timber frames plaited into the hills like they’ve always been there. You can feel the craftsmanship just standing near the walls. Cozy, solid, and way more stylish than any starter village deserves to be.

Cobblestone paths wind through town like someone dragged a spoon through frosting. Shops are covered in carvings that tell stories just as much as they sell stuff. The whole place smells like warm bread, herbs, and chimney smoke. Honestly? Breathing it in feels like inhaling a Pinterest board.

Step outside the village and it only gets better.

Terraced fields climb the hillsides, golden barley swaying like it’s vibing to lo-fi beats. Potatoes line up in neat little rows, apples dangle like candy from the orchard trees, and the sound of honest work fills the air. Dwarves work side by side with their families. Laughing, shouting, sweating, living.

It’s stupidly wholesome. Like, offensively peaceful.

But don’t let the postcard aesthetic fool you.

Around the edges of the settlement, tall watchtowers stand like silent guardians. Guards stay sharp, hands never far from weapons.

’Cause the stretch from the eleventh to the twentieth floor? It’s crawling with Akai lizardmen. Nasty pieces of work. Creepy, scaly, two-legged geckos who live to raid, burn, and ruin anything decent.

Yeah, peace exists here. But only ’cause folks fight tooth and nail to keep it. There’s no such thing as luck. Just guts, grit, and maybe a prayer or two if you’re into that kind of thing.

As the morning sun creeps over the mountains and paints the rooftops gold, a window on the second floor of a stone house creaks open.

And there I am.

Arms stretched like I’m welcoming the whole freaking sky. Morning breeze in my face, sun on my skin, and a dopey grin spreading like a virus.

I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with clean air, fresh dew, and just a hint of baking bread that makes my stomach growl like a feral gremlin. If someone tossed me a loaf right then, I’d catch it with my teeth like a circus dog.

This is one of those moments. You know the kind. The ones where everything feels clean. New. Like maybe the universe doesn’t hate you today.

“Sup,” I say out loud to literally no one.

Just flexing that main character energy.

Let’s back it up.

I’m Akira Sakamoto. An Aoi player. Marksman class, subclass gunner, if you’re into labels. And I’ve been stuck in the never-ending tutorial phase of a twisted reality game called The Fortress of the Fallen.

Catchy name, right?

Sounds epic. Feels like prison.

The thing is, it’s supposed to be a game. With rules. Checkpoints. Progress.

A way out.

But not for me. For ten years, I’ve been glitched in the system. Trapped in an eternal rerun of How Will Akira Die This Time?

Eighty-one deaths.

Yeah, I counted. ‘Cause what else am I going to do?

Each one earns me a hard reset. Like some cosmic slapstick routine.

You die. You wake up. You die again.

Encore, encore, encore.

There’s supposed to be a staging area. A hub. A place where real players gather to start the actual game.

Not me. I never made it there. Feels like the system forgot I exist but still wants me to suffer for sport.

Time here is weird. It drags. Warps. One day melts into the next like a bad soap opera on infinite loop.

I’ve watched the sunrise in Dunverholm more times than I’ve eaten real pizza.

But I haven’t given up. Not yet. ‘Cause deep down, I still believe the system can mess up the other way.

One glitch. One heroic death. One busted line of code. Maybe that’s all it’ll take to finally spit me out where I belong.

In the Live game. With real players. Real stakes. Real progress.

That hope? That stupid, stubborn, pixel-sized hope? It’s the only thing keeping me from uninstalling myself.

I’m not just a bug in the code. I’m a player. I’m a glitch with a slingshot and a goal.

One day, I’ll break through.

And when I do? The game better be ready.

It’s been almost three years since I took down Krag, the so-called Goblin King, and his two dangerously attractive bodyguards.

And yeah, “bodyguards” is the PG label.

The fight was brutal. I burned through five precious life tokens just to walk out of that arena in one piece.

Thing is, Krag wasn’t even the real problem. He hits hard, sure, but I’ve tangoed with worse.

The real issue? His twin ride-or-die ladies. Mirella and Nirella.

Those two don’t just guard him. They worship him. Every time I get close to landing the killing blow, one of them pulls some wild move to throw me off.

Stalling. Flirting. Flashing their peaches at me.

It turns into a Rated NC-17 category film real quick.

I still remember how they explode from my hiishi rounds. Not physically painful, but man, that one stings. Emotionally.

Watching them vanish like that hits harder than I want to admit.

Not just ‘cause they’re hot, though let’s be real, they are, but because after I clear the tenth floor, it disappears completely.

Poof. Gone.

Wiped from the tower’s list like it never even existed.

Even when I die again and get kicked back to my last checkpoint on the eleventh floor, there’s no way to revisit it. No backtracking. No access.

Feels like the system scrubs that whole chapter on purpose.

Weird, right?

It still bugs me.

But not everything from that mess is a loss.

The eleventh floor is where things really start to shift.

That’s where I meet my first Midori.

The Dwarves.

It happens in the forest. I’m just wandering around minding my own business (read—sulking) when I spot a kid sprinting through the trees.

Tiny dwarf dude, maybe eight or nine, tearing through the underbrush like a banshee with a Saurian hot on his heels.

And if you’ve never seen a Saurian up close?

Picture a nightmare with teeth scales and a tail built to bulldoze buses.

I don’t even think.

Guns out blazing. I jump in and save the kid by the skin of my teeth.

After the fight, he just stands there staring at me with these huge eyes like I’m some anime hero who just dropped out of the sky.

Then without saying a word, he grabs my hand. Cold little fingers gripping like iron.

And he pulls me along like I’m his long-lost big bro.

He leads me through the forest, rambling the whole way about his people, their history, all these traditions they still follow.

I barely catch half of it. I’m too busy wondering if I triggered a hidden questline or just got kidnapped by a pint-sized lore dump.

We make it to Dunverholm. And yeah, that village? It changes everything.

Two years fly by like nothing.

I stick around and dive deep into the dwarves’ insane library of tower lore, especially the buried stuff in the back about the Midori races.

These NPCs? They know things. Real things. Stuff about how the tower works, how players interact with Midori and, most of all, how the Midori see us. The Aoi. The outsiders. The glitchy humans with respawn buttons and emotional baggage.

Turns out there are nine Midori groups in total. Not counting Human Midori since they’re basically the normies of the tower.

The Dwarves? Stubborn hardworking, probably born with a hammer in one hand and a mug of ale in the other.

Then the Elves. All grace brains and cheekbones. Too pretty for their own good.

Halflings. Tiny sunshine-fueled dudes who can outfarm anyone anywhere.

Fairies. Floating spell-weavers that look like someone filtered reality through a soft glow Instagram preset.

Centaurs. Proud and noble. Built for battle. Great hair.

Gnomes. Brainy little builders who turn scrap into magic.

Gremlins. Total chaos with a business degree and a love for profit.

And the Dryads. Old as dirt. Forest guardians who make you feel guilty just for breathing near their trees.

Just as I’m slipping into one of those rare introspective moods (don’t get used to it) I hear laughter outside.

I blink, lean toward the window and peek out.

Three young dwarf girls stroll past under the shade of a big old tree, their voices light and full of life.

Their hair shimmers like polished bronze in the sun, catching little flecks of gold with every step.

They’re laughing about something. Teasing each other. Totally wrapped up in their world, like nothing outside this village exists.

And for some reason, that moment hits harder than it should.

Yeah, Dunverholm’s peaceful. Warm. Alive.

But it’s not home. Not really.

I’m just a player passing through.

A bug with benefits. A glitch that refuses to go quietly. And somehow, that makes me wanna fight harder. Not just to get out, but to prove I’m not some background extra in someone else’s story.

Leading the trio like she owns the village is Thrainna.

Fiery red hair tumbling down her back in wild waves, bright green dress sparkling like she walked straight out of a fantasy cover shoot. The color fits. Bold. Loud. Straight-up, impossible to ignore.

Behind her is Durrina, the calm to Thrainna’s chaos.

She moves like she’s gliding, this quiet strength in every step. Her braid’s long and dark, swaying with a rhythm that makes you feel like there’s a metaphor hiding in there somewhere. She wears this deep blue gown that hugs her frame just right, simple but commanding. Like she doesn’t need to say a word to steal the spotlight.

And then there’s Brundis.

Pixie cut, sunny yellow dress, bounces in her step like she’s been sipping rainbows and Red Bull. She’s the kind who’d rope you into a heist with a smile and make you thank her for the honor.

They’re all wearing the usual dwarf clothes. Thick wool, layered linen, practical stuff made to handle mountain winds and surprise monster attacks.

But don’t get it twisted.

These aren’t your grandma’s hiking dresses.

The cuts are sleek, the stitching’s precise, and everything fits like it was tailored by a god with a degree in fashion.

Necklines stay modest, sure, but there’s this whole “look but don’t drool” vibe going on.

Enough tease to keep your imagination clocked in and working overtime.

And that, my friend, is exactly why I never skip my morning window watch.

Ever since I ended up in Dunverholm, checking out the daily passersby has become my unofficial tradition.

Call it a hobby. Call it recon. I call it appreciating cultural depth.

From my second-floor window, I’ve got the perfect angle. Village square. Morning sun. Scenic everything.

Emphasis on scenic.

Look, no offense to the goblin vixens, full respect to the green ladies of Floor Ten. But dwarf girls?

Easily top-tier.

And hey, when you’ve been stuck in a tower for years with nothing but pixelated memories of Earth girls and zero actual dates, a little harmless interspecies daydreaming feels less like a sin and more like mental survival.

Technically, I’m twenty-eight if you count my Earth birthdays.

But in here?

Let’s be honest. I’m basically a teenager with too much time and a browser history I’d rather not talk about.

And no filters. At all.

“Morning, girls,” I call out, leaning on the windowsill like some flirty anime side character who’s about five seconds from catching a shoe to the face. “Any of you heading to Hillstone for the festival?”

Hillstone’s about twenty miles out, another hill dwarf village with an ale game so strong it could floor an ogre on a good day.

The market festival’s basically their excuse to dress cute, gossip hard, and pretend they’re buying root vegetables instead of drama.

“Probably not, Kira-kun,” Thrainna fires back with a smirk that should be illegal before noon.

“We’ve got other plans,” Brundis adds in this singsong tone that might as well come with sparkles and a warning label.

They shoot each other that look. And then they giggle like I’ve already fallen into some elaborate trap.

Which yeah. I probably have.

“Oh? And what plans would those be?” I ask, tossing them the old raised eyebrow, which usually works on mid-tier NPCs and low-wisdom goblins.

Durrina turns back with a slow, knowing smile.

“It’s a secret.”

And just like that, they’re gone.

Laughing, waving, swaying off into the morning light like they didn’t just drop a curiosity bomb in my brain.

These girls, man.

I shake my head, still grinning like an idiot, and close the window.

Whatever their “secret” plan is, I’ve got a gut feeling it’s going to involve mild danger, suspicious giggling, and at least one piece of village gossip that spirals wildly out of control.

With the smile still hanging on my face, I make my way to the kitchen and start throwing together some kind of breakfast.

Gourmet? Not even close.

Edible? Mostly.

But it does the job, and sometimes that’s all you need.

That’s the thing about Dunverholm.

Not a place you’d expect to end up after hundreds of monster fights, dozens of boss battles, and eighty-one deaths that all suck in different ways.

But if you hang around long enough, it starts to grow on you.

Little surprises placed between the ordinary.

A village that shouldn’t matter… but kind of does.

And if this glitch of a life’s taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the quietest places hide the loudest stories.