He wasn’t sure if he was ready. His father hadn’t stopped him, but his expression had said everything. Garret Falkner was a man of tradition, someone who had worked hard all his life to provide for his family. To him, the farm wasn’t just a piece of land—it was a legacy meant to be continued. Rowen’s decision to become an adventurer was something he couldn’t understand—why venture into an uncertain world when there was honest, stable work right here?

But even though he said nothing, his gaze held more than just disappointment. Perhaps there was a trace of worry in it—maybe even a glimmer of pride, hidden behind the mask of a man who had learned not to show his emotions. His mother had embraced him, gently warned him not to be reckless, and pressed a small bundle of extra provisions into his hands. His sister Lenea had walked him to the edge of the village, reluctant to say goodbye.

"If you become famous, write me a letter!" she had said playfully, though her eyes betrayed her concern.

He had laughed and gently ruffled her hair. "I promise."

But he would never know if he was ready unless he left. A lump formed in his throat as he took his first steps down the unknown path. The morning air was cool, and his heart beat faster—whether from excitement or fear, he couldn’t tell.

With one last look at the farm he had called home all his life, he turned and walked away. His heart pounded, a strange mixture of excitement and melancholy washing over him. One final time, he inhaled the familiar scent of damp earth, distant cattle, and crackling leaves in the morning sun. Soon, this world would lie behind him.

His backpack felt heavy—not just from the supplies inside, but from the weight of what this step meant. He had never traveled far from Dornheim. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with possibility—but also with danger.

He tightened his cloak around himself and took his first firm step toward the horizon. The path wound through fields and hills, golden under the rising sun. The morning warmth wrapped around him like a familiar embrace. The scent of fresh soil and blooming flowers lingered in the air, and birds soared overhead, their songs filling the countryside with life.

The first few kilometers led him over familiar, well-worn trails. Tall grain fields swayed gently in the breeze, reflecting the golden light. Insects buzzed lazily through the warm air, and in the distance, he could still see the outlines of Dornheim. But the farther he went, the wilder the land became. Bushes and small woods replaced the fields, and soon, gentle hills stretched before him, crisscrossed with rocky paths and hidden tracks. The scent of pine and damp earth replaced the freshness of the farmland.

The weight of his pack was noticeable but not burdensome. He had packed carefully, following a method he had learned over the years—the heaviest items close to his back, the lighter ones on top for easy access. It was a trick an old traveling merchant had once shared while passing through Dornheim. Years of farm work had strengthened him, and his legs carried him with ease. What unsettled him more was the unfamiliar openness of the land—no fences or trees offering shelter, no familiar sounds to guide him.

That first night passed quietly. Rowen found a sheltered spot near a small stream, set up a makeshift camp, and stared at the sky while the fire crackled softly. The air smelled of damp wood and grass, mixed with the faint scent of wildflowers. Sleeping in complete darkness, without the sounds of the village or the distant lowing of cows, felt strange. But eventually, exhaustion claimed him. His first day as an adventurer was over.

The Second Day

Rowen awoke with the first light of dawn breaking through the trees. The night had been cold, but the stream nearby had soothed his nerves. As he went through his pack, he realized his supplies wouldn’t last much longer. If he wanted to preserve them, he’d need to find food.

With his hunting bow in hand, he moved cautiously through the underbrush. He had heard stories from the older hunters back home—this area held game, if one knew where to look. He knelt, examined the soil, and found fresh tracks. Rabbit.

He followed them slowly, heart pounding. Then he saw it—a small rabbit nibbling at some roots, unaware of him. Rowen drew the bowstring, held his breath, and released.

The arrow missed, the rabbit flinched and bounded away. He clenched his jaw, adjusted his stance, and waited. Another rabbit appeared a few minutes later. This time, he aimed slower, steadier—and the arrow struck true.

The rabbit kicked once, then went still. A strange tingling sensation passed through him. A moment of clarity. And then a faint sound echoed in his mind, like a soft chime.

[Skill Improved: Dexterity +1]

He blinked. That had felt... real. His body didn’t change much, but his grip seemed just a bit more precise. His movements, just a hair more fluid. He remembered something his grandfather once said: “Everything you do shapes you. At first, the changes come fast. But the stronger you get, the slower it grows.”

He exhaled, knelt, and began skinning the rabbit. His father had taught him well—how to prepare meat, how to preserve usable materials. It had always seemed like a chore, but now it was survival.

Later that night, back at camp, he cooked the rabbit over the fire. The scent of roasting meat filled the clearing. For the first time since he’d left home, he felt capable. Not heroic—not yet—but capable.

He looked into the trees, into the shadows beyond his fire, keeping his bow and sword close to him. Whatever lay ahead—he was ready.

The Third Day

Fog clung heavily to the forest as Rowen awoke. The cool mist wrapped around the trees like a silent veil, muffling the sounds of the world. Every step he took was cautious, his boots pressing softly into the damp earth. The once-clear trail had disappeared into the haze, leaving him to rely on instinct.

Branches loomed through the fog like skeletal fingers, twisted and gnarled. The deeper he went, the thicker the undergrowth grew, slowing his progress. His senses sharpened—every rustle, every distant crack of twigs made him pause and listen. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other pushing aside thorny brambles.

The world felt still, too still.

He tried to hunt again, but shadows were all he saw. Shapes flickering just out of reach. Arrows flew and missed, again and again. He began to wonder if the forest was playing tricks on him. Frustrated and hungry, he eventually gave up.

Back at his camp, he chewed on the last scraps of the rabbit from the previous night and a bit of old bread. The fire he built was small, the wood too damp to flare. He huddled in his cloak, the mist creeping close to the flames. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted. Everything else was silent.

He didn’t sleep well that night.

The Fourth Day

Rowen awoke before dawn. The fire had died, leaving only embers. Cold seeped through his blanket. The mist had thickened overnight, and the silence was deeper than ever. He sat for a while, listening.

He packed his things and moved forward, deeper into the forest.

The trees here were older, darker, and spaced just far enough apart to let the fog slither between them like a living thing. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. The only sound was his own breathing and the crunch of wet leaves beneath his boots.

Then—he heard it.

A snap. A soft dragging sound. Something moving.

He froze, reaching for his sword.

A shape appeared in the mist. Not an animal. Not quite human either. It stood still—watching.

A shiver crawled up his spine. The air grew colder. The stench of rot crept in—wet and earthy, with something foul underneath.

The shape moved.

His fingers tightened around the sword hilt. His heart pounded in his ears.

Then it lunged.

He had no time to react. The fog split as a dark figure leapt forward, crashing into him. He hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs. His blade fell from his grasp.

Something loomed over him—faceless, hollow-eyed, breathing in shallow, wet gasps. Its limbs pressed him into the dirt.

He had to act—now.