The sky hung low over Port Lenning, a shroud of gray pressing the coastal settlement into the mud. I trudged down the main thoroughfare, my boots sinking with each step. Few souls braved the streets—those who did wore garments as weathered as their expressions, eyes that had seen too much hardship and too little hope. Their stares followed me, a mixture of suspicion and weary curiosity.

I kept my stride purposeful despite the clinging mud. The buildings stood like neglected sentinels—small structures with sagging roofs and walls that seemed to retain their upright position through sheer stubbornness. Ahead, where the road met the coastline, a modest dock extended into sullen waters. A handful of fishing vessels bobbed against their moorings, peeling paint and weathered hulls speaking of hard use.

The state of the town raised questions that prickled my curiosity. But curiosity was a luxury I couldn't afford right now and hunger twisted my insides. Enhanced body or not, I require sustenance.

It didn't take long to locate an establishment that might serve my needs. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, the carved image of a loaf and bowl unmistakable even as it swayed in the coastal breeze.

I pushed open the dual wooden doors. The interior was marginally warmer than the street, though not much brighter. Scattered tables occupied the floor space, each hosting one or two patrons hunched over bowls or tankards. Conversation died at my entrance.

All eyes turned toward me, expressions darkening. I understood their scrutiny; my attire marked me as an outsider. The sword at my hip likely didn't help matters.

Ignoring their stares, I approached the bar where a man with short blond hair and a scruffy beard stood cleaning a glass. His eyes—pale blue like winter ice—assessed me with undisguised wariness.

"You're not from around here, are you?" His voice carried an undercurrent of hostility.

I rested one hand on the bar's edge, keeping the other clear of my weapon. "It doesn't matter where I'm from. I just need some food, and I'll be on my way."

He studied me before rolling his eyes with a weary sigh. "All we serve is stew," he informed me gruffly. "And I'll warn you, it don't taste too good."

The mention of stew sent anticipation through me. In my current state, I would have eaten tree bark.

"Yeah, that works," I agreed. "And some water, if you have it."

"That'll be three red coins," he stated, eyes narrowing.

Coins. The word struck me like a physical blow. I had overlooked a fundamental truth about life outside the Library: food and living necessities weren't freely provided in most books.

The barkeep read the distress in my expression. "You got the money or not?"

I swallowed hard. "No, I don't," I admitted quietly.

His features hardened. "Then stop wasting my time and get the hell out of my tavern."

Desperation clawed at me. "Is there any work I can do for some money around here?"

His expression shifted to disgust mixed with pity. "Forget it. There's nothing here for you."

Defeat settled over me as I turned toward the exit.

"Hey, wait."

The barkeep's voice halted me. He was regarding me with renewed interest, eyes fixed on my weapon. "You know how to use that sword?"

I glanced down at my blade. "Uh, y-yes?"

The confirmation seemed to please him, his mouth lifting slightly. "Well then, there might be something you can do after all."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The chief might have a job for you. He's easy to find—he's in the biggest building in town. Go there and tell him you're a warrior looking for a job. He's been looking for someone just like you recently, so he'll be more than willing to compensate."

I considered this unexpected development. What sort of job required a warrior's skills in a fishing village? Why was the chief so eager for armed help? What dangers might I face?

But as hunger contracted my stomach painfully, I recognized my limited options. Whatever this job entailed, it offered the most immediate solution.

"Thank you," I said softly.

The barkeep merely grunted, already turning back to his glass. I made my way through the tavern, ignoring renewed scrutiny from other patrons.

Stepping back onto the muddy street, I couldn't help but wonder what awaited me. The chief's task might provide means to fill my belly, but at what cost? Jobs requiring a sword were seldom straightforward and rarely without risk.

Still, I had little choice. With resolute steps, I began seeking the largest building in town and whatever fate waited within its walls.

As I navigated the dismal streets, the village revealed more of its desolation. Fishing nets hung limply from wooden racks, many torn and unrepaired. Children—too few for a settlement this size—watched me from doorways with eyes too old for their faces.

The chief's dwelling wasn't difficult to spot. Rising a full story higher than its neighbors, the wooden structure boasted actual glass in its windows and a roof that showed signs of recent repair. Two men flanked the entrance, their posture suggesting guards rather than visitors.

They straightened as I approached, hands drifting to weapons at their sides. Their expressions mirrored those I'd encountered throughout the rest of town—wary, worn, and deeply suspicious.

"State your business," the taller of the two demanded, his voice rough as gravel.

I squared my shoulders, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm here to see the chief. I heard he's looking for a warrior."

The guards exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. After a moment, the shorter one nodded, stepping aside to clear the doorway.

"He's inside," he informed me, his tone neutral.