Days in Woodhaven passed like beads on a string, each one identical to the last. The shrine pulsed with blue light each morning, disgorging new Adventurers who stumbled through their first steps in this world. The village guides offered their endless instructions, merchants sold their basic wares, and at the forge, Cain and his father crafted weapons with practiced efficiency.

One week blended into the next. New faces appeared at the shrine, lingered briefly in the village, then moved on to greater challenges beyond the palisade walls. The seasons shifted subtly, summer's heat giving way to autumn's gentle cooling. Leaves on the old oak in the square took on hints of gold at their edges, though they would not fall for many weeks yet.

Throughout it all, Cain maintained his routine. Rise at dawn. Stoke the forge. Craft weapons under his father's guidance. Serve customers with polite detachment. Return home at dusk. His life was a circle, perfect in its predictability, satisfying in its unchanging purpose.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between tasks, Cain would find his gaze drawn to the eastern gate, a vague uneasiness settling over him like a thin cloak. When this happened, he would shake his head and return to his work, dismissing the sensation as meaningless—just a quirk of thought, like the strange dreams that occasionally disturbed his sleep. Dreams of fire and blood, of blue particles rising toward an impossible sky, of autumn-red hair and tears catching sunlight.

Two full moons had waxed and waned since... since what? Cain couldn't say. There was nothing to mark, no event to remember. Just the steady rhythm of village life, uninterrupted by anything worthy of note.

"You seem distracted today," Edric remarked one morning as they prepared the day's first batch of weapons. "Is something troubling you?"

"No, Father," Cain replied automatically. "Just thinking about improvements to the dagger hilts."

Edric nodded, accepting the explanation without question. That was his way—practical, focused on the tangible. If it couldn't be hammered on an anvil or measured with a scale, it rarely warranted his attention.

The morning progressed normally. New Adventurers arrived at the shrine, were guided through their first steps by the village guides, and eventually made their way to the forge for their initial equipment. Cain assisted where needed, demonstrating weapon balance, explaining durability statistics, completing transactions with practiced efficiency.

Around midday, a commotion in the square drew his attention. Looking through the forge doorway, Cain saw a group of Adventurers gathered near the old oak tree. Unlike the wide-eyed newcomers who typically populated Woodhaven, these bore levels ranging from 8 to 12—high enough to have mastered the surrounding forests but not yet ready for the greater challenges of Riverton.

At their center stood a muscular figure, his armor crude but decorated with trophies—wolf teeth, crude fetishes made from monster parts, a necklace of what appeared to be severed ears. The name "BloodFang" floated above his head in aggressive red text, level 12 marking him as the leader of the small band.

"This tutorial village is so boring," BloodFang announced loudly, clearly performing for his companions. "Same generic natives, same pathetic quests."

His companions laughed, elbowing each other as if he'd said something tremendously witty. One of them—"SkulCrusher," level 9—gestured toward the well where Lydia stood instructing a group of level 1 newcomers.

"What about messing with the guides?" SkulCrusher suggested. "They have the funniest reactions when you threaten them."

"True," BloodFang agreed, his gaze shifting to Lydia. "And that one has the most dialogue options of any native in the village."

Something twisted in Cain's chest as he watched the group approach his mother. The sensation was unfamiliar yet somehow recognizable, like a half-remembered melody. He found himself setting down his tools, moving toward the forge door without conscious decision.

"Cain?" his father called. "Where are you going? We have orders to complete."

"I just need some air," Cain replied, not looking back. "I'll return shortly."

Outside, the autumn sun cast long shadows across the square. Cain moved along the edge of the open space, staying close to the buildings as he made his way toward the well. He told himself he was merely curious, that his mother required no protection beyond the village guards and The Divine Laws that prohibited violence in Woodhaven.

Yet the twist in his chest tightened with each step, a growing urgency he couldn't explain.

"Greetings, Adventurers," he heard his mother say as the group approached her. "Welcome to Woodhaven. How may I assist you today?"

"We're bored," BloodFang replied bluntly. "Entertain us, brainless."

Lydia's expression remained pleasantly neutral. "I can provide information about healing, recovery, and basic survival in this world. Would you like to learn about health restoration methods?"

"We know all that already," SkulCrusher cut in. "We're level 9 and up. We've outgrown this pathetic starter village."

"Then perhaps you would prefer to continue your journey to Riverton," Lydia suggested smoothly. "The road east leads to challenges more suited to your abilities."

BloodFang circled Lydia slowly, studying her with predatory interest. The newcomers she had been instructing backed away, sensing trouble and wanting no part of it.

"You know what I've always wondered?" BloodFang mused. "How realistic are the natives in this world? Do they feel pain like real people, or is it just programmed responses?"

Cain's steps quickened, that strange urgency building to something like fear. He had nearly reached the well when BloodFang drew a jagged dagger from his belt.

"I've heard the pain mechanics for natives are surprisingly detailed," he continued, testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. "Let's find out."

"Violence against village guides is prohibited within Woodhaven's boundaries," Lydia stated, her calm unbroken despite the clear threat.

"Rules are made to be broken," BloodFang laughed, raising the dagger.

Something snapped in Cain's mind—a barrier breached, a lock shattered. Suddenly he was running, not walking, closing the distance to the well with desperate speed.

"NO!" The word tore from his throat, raw and primal.

All eyes turned to him—the troublemakers, the newcomers, his mother. Surprise registered on every face, even Lydia's practiced composure momentarily fracturing at the unusual behavior from her son.

"Cain?" she said, genuine confusion in her voice.

BloodFang lowered his dagger slightly, more interested now in this unexpected development. "Well, look at this. The blacksmith's kid has some non-standard dialogue."

Cain positioned himself between his mother and BloodFang, chest heaving with emotions he had no names for—or had forgotten the names for. "Leave her alone," he demanded.

"Cain," Lydia placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "This doesn't concern you. Please return to the forge."

But he couldn't move. Images flashed through his mind—his mother surrounded by laughing figures in red tabards, green poison spreading across her skin, her body dissolving into particles of light. The images weren't memories, couldn't be memories, yet they carried the weight and pain of remembered truth.

"Oh, this is interesting," BloodFang grinned, examining Cain like a curious specimen. "Father-son programming with the blacksmith, mother-son with the healer. The family connections in this village are more detailed than I expected."

He gestured to his companions. "Change of plans. Let's see what happens when we threaten the guide's kid instead of the guide herself."

SkulCrusher stepped forward, drawing a short sword that gleamed with a basic enchantment. "Good idea. Maybe we'll get unique dialogue options."

As the sword rose, another flash of memory seared through Cain's mind—EmberHeart standing protectively before him, defying a higher-level Adventurer despite the danger. EmberHeart, whose name he shouldn't know, whose face he shouldn't remember, yet suddenly burned bright in his consciousness.

"You can't," Cain said, the words emerging from some deep place beyond his awareness. "You can't hurt her. Not again."

"Again?" BloodFang tilted his head curiously. "What do you mean, 'again'? Have we met before, brainless?"

The question penetrated the fog in Cain's mind. Had they met? No—but others had come before. Others in red. The Crimson Grins. Not these Adventurers, but similar in their casual cruelty, their disregard for the lives of Natives.

"Cain, please return to the forge," Lydia repeated, her voice tight with an emotion Natives weren't supposed to display—fear. Not for herself, but for him.

SkulCrusher laughed, sword still raised. "Listen to your mommy, native. Or don't. Either way, this got a lot more entertaining."

The blade descended toward Cain's shoulder—not a killing blow, just a testing one. Cain raised his arm instinctively to block it, though he knew from bitter experience that The Divine Laws would prevent him from harming an Adventurer.