Cain awoke to sunlight streaming through his window, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. He stretched, the familiar creak of his wooden bed frame accompanying the motion. Outside, birds chirped their morning melodies, and the distant clang of the village bell announced the dawn.

Another day in Woodhaven was beginning.

"Cain! The forge needs stoking before breakfast!" His father's voice boomed from the main room of their cottage, the same call that had started Cain's day for as long as he could remember.

"Coming, Father!" he replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Cain dressed quickly in his work clothes—simple linen shirt, sturdy pants, and the leather apron that protected him from forge sparks. Each movement was practiced, efficient, part of a routine so deeply ingrained it required no conscious thought. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin beside his bed, ran his fingers through his chestnut hair, and headed to the main room.

His mother stood by the hearth, stirring a pot of porridge. The morning sunlight caught in her hair, turning it to copper. She smiled as Cain entered, the gentle expression warming her features in a way that always made him feel safe.

"Good morning, my son," Lydia said, ladling porridge into a wooden bowl. "Eat quickly. It looks to be a busy day—the Herald announced new arrivals at dawn."

Cain accepted the bowl with thanks and sat at the small family table. His father was already halfway through his breakfast, strong blacksmith's hands wrapped around a mug of tea. As usual, Edric was focused on the day ahead, mentally cataloging the work that needed to be done.

"We need ten shortswords and at least six daggers ready by midday," he announced between bites. "The last batch of Adventurers cleared our inventory yesterday."

Cain nodded, spooning porridge into his mouth. Something about the ordinary morning felt strange—a feeling he couldn't quite place, like an itch in a part of his mind he couldn't reach. He shook it off and focused on his breakfast.

After eating, Cain followed his father to the forge. The familiar building stood adjacent to their cottage, smoke already rising from the chimney where the banked coals from yesterday still glowed. Inside, the heat wrapped around him like a blanket, comforting in its consistency. This was where he belonged, learning the trade that would one day be his livelihood.

Edric immediately set to work pumping the bellows, bringing the forge fire to proper temperature. Cain began organizing the raw materials—iron ingots, leather strips for grips, wooden blanks for basic shields. Each item had its place, each task its purpose in the rhythm of their day.

"First group of new Adventurers should arrive by the time we open," Edric remarked, hammering a glowing piece of metal into what would become a sword blade. "They always need proper weapons."

"Yes, Father," Cain agreed, the response automatic.

As morning progressed into midday, the village outside came alive. Through the open forge door, Cain watched the familiar patterns unfold. His mother stood in the square with other village guides, ready to welcome newcomers. Merchants arranged their wares, farmers brought produce to market, and guards patrolled with measured steps along well-worn routes.

The shrine at the center of the square began to pulse with blue light—the signal that new Adventurers were arriving. One by one they materialized, disoriented and wide-eyed, taking their first steps into the world of Woodhaven. Village guides approached them with practiced welcome, explaining basic customs and techniques with endless patience.

Some new arrivals spun in circles, testing the limits of their movement. Others jumped repeatedly, as if measuring the height they could reach. Many spoke to empty air—communicating with unseen companions in another realm, Cain knew without knowing why he knew.

"Strange folk, aren't they?" Edric commented, pausing his work to observe the newcomers. "But they are our purpose."

"Our purpose," Cain echoed, the words sitting oddly in his mouth. Had they had this conversation before? He couldn't recall, yet something about it felt familiar.

The forge bell chimed as the first customers entered—three new Adventurers, their levels hovering at 1, names floating above their heads in simple white text: "ArrowStorm," "ShieldMaiden," and "SpellWeaver."

"Welcome to Edric's Forge," his father intoned without looking up from his work. "Best weapons in Woodhaven for new Adventurers. How may I assist you today?"

"We need weapons," ArrowStorm stated, coming straight to the point. "I'm an archer, she's a warrior, and he's a mage."

"I have exactly what you need," Edric replied, setting down his hammer and moving to the front of the shop. He gestured to the neatly arranged displays. "Bows for the archer, swords or maces for the warrior, and staves for the mage. All priced affordably for beginners."

As his father handled the sale, Cain continued working on a batch of dagger hilts. The routine was soothing—wrapping leather around wooden cores, securing them with resin, attaching the iron blade once the grip was properly set. He had done this hundreds of times, would do it hundreds more.

Yet something felt strange today. A shadow at the edge of his thoughts, an echo of something he couldn't quite grasp. Whenever he tried to focus on it, the sensation slipped away, leaving only the certainty that everything was as it should be.

The morning customers came and went in a steady stream. Cain assisted when needed, demonstrating proper weapon balance or explaining durability statistics. The interactions followed familiar patterns—Adventurers asked predictable questions, Cain gave rehearsed answers, transactions concluded with practiced efficiency.

At midday, his mother arrived with lunch for them both—bread, cheese, and dried apple slices wrapped in cloth. She smiled at Cain, the same gentle expression she always wore.

"How goes the morning, my son?" she asked, setting the bundle on a workbench clear of tools.

"Well enough," Cain replied. "Many new Adventurers today."

"Indeed," Lydia agreed. "I've been guiding them in the square all morning. Such eager faces, ready to begin their journeys."

As she spoke, Cain felt a strange twist in his chest—a momentary pain that had no physical cause. He looked at his mother, at her familiar face and kind eyes, and for a heartbeat saw something else overlaid upon her features. A flash of green poison spreading across her skin. A sword descending. Her body dissolving into particles of light. The image vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him disoriented.

"Cain?" His mother's concern broke through his confusion. "Are you well? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he answered automatically. "Just the heat of the forge."

Lydia nodded, accepting his explanation. "Remember to drink water throughout the day. The summer heat is especially strong today."

After she left, Cain found himself watching her through the forge window as she returned to the square. Something about her movements, the way she interacted with the newcomers, stirred that strange echo again—a memory that wasn't quite a memory, a shadow of something he couldn't define. He felt an inexplicable urge to run to her side, to protect her from... what? There was no danger in Woodhaven. The village was a sanctuary.

When they entered the forge, Cain felt another strange twist in his chest, a momentary flash of recognition that made no sense.

"Good day," VanguardProtector greeted, approaching Cain directly. His expression was careful, almost concerned. "How are you feeling today, young blacksmith?"

The question seemed odd. Why would this high-level Adventurer care about his well-being?

"I am well, thank you," Cain replied with automatic politeness. "How may I assist you today? Are you looking for weapons or armor?"

VanguardProtector studied him intently, then exchanged a glance with HeartMender. The guardian sighed, visibly relieved.

"Just browsing today," he said. "We're here to ensure the village is... functioning normally after yesterday's events."

Cain tilted his head, confused. "Yesterday's events? It was an ordinary day, as far as I recall. Many Adventurers came for weapons, as they always do."

HeartMender approached, her eyes kind but evaluating. "And your mother? The village guide? She is well also?"

"Yes," Cain answered, increasingly puzzled by their interest. "She is performing her duties in the square, as always."

HeartMender turned to VanguardProtector, speaking softly, but not quite softly enough. "The New Dawn reset worked perfectly. They're fortunate not to remember any of it. Can you imagine carrying those memories day after day?"

VanguardProtector frowned and responded: "Sometimes I think that's worse than anything. To suffer and not even know why. To have no chance to learn or grow from it."

"What would you have them do?" HeartMender asked. "Live in constant fear of the next crazy adventurers? They wouldn't be able to function."

"I know," VanguardProtector conceded. "But it still feels wrong."

As they turned to leave, HeartMender shook her head. "They're just Natives after all. It's kinder this way."

The words echoed strangely in Cain's ears. Natives? As opposed to what? And what had happened yesterday that he should remember but couldn't? Before he could form a question, the Adventurers were gone, leaving him with an unsettled feeling he couldn't explain.

"A good day's work," Edric pronounced as they locked the shop door. "Tomorrow will bring new Adventurers to serve."

They walked the short distance to their cottage, where Lydia was already preparing a simple dinner. The small home was exactly as it should be—wooden floors worn smooth by years of use, walls decorated with simple tools of their trades, a hearth that provided both warmth and cooking heat. Everything in its place, every detail correct.

Yet as Cain sat for dinner, that shadow persisted at the edges of his awareness. Something about the carved wooden bird on the shelf, the way his mother handled the cooking pot, the creaks in the floorboards as his father paced—all felt simultaneously right and wrong, as if he were seeing them both for the first time and the thousandth.

"How were the new arrivals today?" Lydia asked as they ate.

"Plentiful," Edric answered. "Good for business."

"Many seemed confused," Cain added, the words feeling rehearsed somehow. "More than usual, I think."

Lydia nodded. "They always have questions at first. It's our job to help them find their way."

Cain hesitated, then asked, "Mother, did anything... unusual happen yesterday?"

Both his parents paused, looking at him with identical expressions of mild confusion.

"Yesterday was like any other day," his father stated. "We crafted weapons. Adventurers purchased them."

"Why do you ask?" his mother inquired, her head tilting slightly.

"No reason," Cain murmured, returning to his meal. "Just... a strange feeling."

His parents exchanged a glance but said nothing more on the subject.

After dinner, Cain sat by the window of his small bedroom, watching darkness fall over Woodhaven. Torches cast warm pools of light along the main street. New Adventurers gathered at the tavern, sharing their first journeys with excitement. Veterans strolled through, some helpful, some dismissive, all passing through this small beginning area on their way to greater challenges elsewhere.

A group of Adventurers passed by on the street below. Their red tabards caught Cain's eye, and suddenly his heart was racing, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He pulled back from the window, pressing himself against the wall, though he couldn't explain why. They weren't the Crimson Grins—a name that came to his mind unbidden—just ordinary Adventurers with red guild colors. Yet the sight of them filled him with inexplicable dread.

When he finally summoned the courage to look outside again, his gaze was drawn to the village square where his mother had stood that afternoon. In his mind's eye, he saw her surrounded by laughing figures in red, saw her fall to her knees as green poison spread across her skin, saw a sword descend in a glittering arc.

But that had never happened. It couldn't have happened. Woodhaven was a sanctuary. Violence against village guides was prohibited.

Yet the image felt more real than memory, more substantial than dream.

As sleep began to claim him, Cain's thoughts returned to the words he had overheard: "They're just Natives after all." What did that mean? What was the difference between Natives and Adventurers? And why did the phrase fill him with such unease?

In his dreams, Cain stood in Woodhaven's square. The Crimson Grins surrounded his mother, their weapons drawn. VanguardProtector fought LordChaos, his blade a blur of golden light. His mother dissolved into particles that scattered on the wind. And through it all, a voice whispered: "The New Dawn resets everything. But not for you. Never again for you."

Just before dawn, Cain startled awake, heart pounding, sweat soaking his bedclothes. The dream fragments dissolved even as he tried to hold onto them, leaving nothing but a vague sense of loss and the certainty that he had dreamed this before.

Outside his window, Woodhaven waited in pre-dawn darkness. Soon the village would stir. The Herald would announce new arrivals. His father would call him to stoke the forge. His mother would prepare breakfast. The shrine would pulse with blue light as newcomers materialized.

All would be as it should be. All would continue as it always had.

Yet something had changed. Something within Cain had shifted, a crack in the foundation of his understanding too small to define but too significant to ignore. As if some part of him knew that this day, identical in every way to the one before, was nonetheless not the first time he had lived it.

As if some part of him remembered. And feared what that might mean.