Looking at his stats, Narvel couldn't help but recall his conversation with himself the night before, about not fully understanding the extent of his strength. Even though there wasn't a physical increment in his more direct stats, he could see that his Mental, Will and Wisdom attributes had risen.
Not by overwhelming leaps, but enough for someone like him—who didn't really understand the value of every small gain—to feel a thrill of satisfaction.
Knowing just how much his Will could affect battles and survival, Narvel couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement pulse through his chest.
'Getting stronger seems to be fun… even though I'm not exactly sure how it happened overnight,' he thought as the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
His gaze shifted over to the tag listed under his Comprehension section: Unfettered. A new wave of confusion washed over him.
As he was, Narvel had no clear understanding of what the term referred to exactly, nor did he have any solid clue. Yet now his stats screen claimed he had begun to comprehend the Cultivation Art.
'All I did was deliberate on its meaning and then... I fell asleep,' he mused and rubbed his temple lightly. Another idea sparked in his mind almost immediately. 'Was it because I was thinking about those words that I fell asleep? Could it be that focusing on it weakens the mind just to make it stronger afterward?' He wondered, his thoughts spinning fast.
The temptation to test this theory came at him, but he knew that there were other, more pressing matters to attend to. If his guess was correct, pursuing the thought now would only drag him back into another bout of unconsciousness, or leave him mentally fatigued when he needed to be sharp.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he stood up and moved toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room. His steps were light, and measured, half-expecting to find someone crouching inside again. He pulled the doors open in a swift motion, but fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, there was no one hidden there this time.
His attention drifted back toward the bed where Voidscale lay coiled into a tight knot of sleep, the beast's form barely moving with its slow breathing.
Unlike its master, Voidscale had remained alert and paranoid for most of the night, keeping a watchful eye on the room, the door, and even the faint noises that came from beyond the window. It had only succumbed to exhaustion a few short hours before Narvel himself stirred.
"Voidscale, wake up," Narvel called, his voice low but firm.
The small beast stirred sluggishly, lifting its head to regard him with bleary, confused eyes, still half-trapped in the depths of its disrupted rest.
"We are leaving this place now," Narvel said, turning without waiting for Voidscale's full response.
Within a minute, he found himself back at the counter of the inn. This time, it wasn't the innkeeper's daughter tending it but the woman herself.
She watched him approach with a wary gaze, her expression tight with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Her hands rested lightly on the counter, but her posture betrayed a readiness, a subtle stiffness that spoke volumes.
Narvel didn't even spare her a glance. He passed by the counter, moving through the space as though she were nothing more than a chair or a painting on the wall.
The innkeeper, unable to resist, finally spoke as he went by.
"You are a strange one... and so is that Ego Beast of yours."
Her voice carried a tone that was half admiration, half unease.
Narvel caught her words but refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. A part of him still believed she had a hand in the events of the night before. Whether through malice or indifference, her role in the breach of his privacy was something he wasn't going to overlook. In the absence of any proof otherwise, she was guilty enough.
Without breaking stride, Narvel pushed through the door of the inn and stepped into the morning bustle of the street.
The city was already alive with movement.
Merchants hawked their wares from small stalls, townsfolk hurried about their errands, and a faint smell of roasting meat and baking bread hung in the air. Narvel slipped into the flow of the crowd, letting its momentum carry him deeper into the heart of the city.
He had a plan.
First, he needed to find a map, one that could show him where exactly he was, how the Ironwood and its surrounding regions were laid out, and just how far he remained from his ultimate destination. Preferably, he hoped to buy one, but he was open to borrowing or bartering if necessary.
In addition, he wanted to confirm whether or not this Anchor City had a public teleportation circle.
Even though he lacked the funds to purchase a teleportation ticket, simply knowing of its existence would open a critical alternative should he find himself truly trapped. If his attempts to physically leave the Ironwood and its axis failed, he could, at least in theory, try to find another way out.
Still, he doubted that a place as isolated as Anchor would have such a convenience.
'If they do have a teleportation circle here, then why hasn't anyone used it to go out and find reinforcements to deal with the Huskmasks?' He reasoned. 'After all, they've been trapped within for a few days, waiting for their Mayor to return.'
The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. And if there was no teleportation circle... then his journey was about to get a bit more complicated.
Soon, he found himself standing inside a modest shop that specialized in weapons. The building itself was narrow, and the walls were lined with racks of swords, spears, and battered shields. Behind a low counter stood a thin, middle-aged man with a sharp face and tired eyes.
Narvel approached him directly, asking if he had a map for sale—or perhaps even one he could borrow for a time.
The man did have a map for sale, but it was a small, rough sketch of the immediate area, hardly detailed enough to give Narvel the clarity he needed.
However, after some probing, the man admitted he had another map tucked away, a far more extensive one, filled with landmarks and routes that stretched beyond the Ironwood Anchor and its neighboring regions.
Unfortunately, that map wasn't for sale.
He was willing to rent it out for a price, and after a brief negotiation, Narvel agreed.
Unrolling the map on a battered table nearby, he carefully studied it. Tracing the faded ink lines with his finger, Narvel confirmed that he was still on the right track. Though the place he intended to reach was still a significant distance away, it was reassuring to know exactly where he was and how to reconnect with the path he sought.
Before leaving the shop, Narvel asked the man about something else that had been on his mind: whether there was a teleportation circle somewhere in the city. The answer came swiftly, with a shrug of the shopkeeper's narrow shoulders.
There wasn't one.
It was disappointing, but not surprising. Still, the man mentioned that there might be a private teleportation circle located within the Mayor's residence.
However, even if Narvel had the coin to afford such a luxury, gaining access to it would be another matter entirely. It wasn't a service open to the public, especially not to unknown travelers.
Nonetheless, this scrap of information was still worthwhile to him. The existence of a teleportation circle, even a private one, kept that option faintly alive in the back of his mind.
With that, he thanked the man and stepped out into the street once more. The morning had grown livelier while he had been inside. The sun climbed higher, casting a warm glow over the city, and the air was thick with the scent of grilled meat and freshly baked bread.
Narvel's stomach betrayed him with a low grumble, he wasn't hungry, or rather, there was no sensation of hunger, but his stomach had been empty for a while.
Soon he gave in to the temptation. At a nearby stall, he bought a skewer of grilled meat for himself and another for Voidscale, who stared at the food with thinly veiled hunger. Narvel that if he didn't get one for the creature, Voidscale would shamelessly steal from him without a second thought.
Munching on the warm, smoky meat, he made his way toward the gates of the Anchor.
As he approached, the atmosphere shifted.
The guards stationed at the entrance turned their heads to watch him, their expressions ranging from disbelief to wary suspicion. Their gazes followed him with silent accusations lingering in the air.
By now, word must have spread through the Anchor: attempting to leave the city was madness. Too many had already tried, and few, if any, had returned the same.
Though he was a foreigner, even they could see that remaining within the city's walls was the safer bet until the Monster problem was dealt with.
Narvel scanned the gathered guards, looking for a familiar face among them, the ones who had inspected him the night he arrived, but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had been assigned elsewhere, or perhaps something had happened to them.
The massive gates stood wide open and yet the road stretching beyond them remained eerily empty. Only a few guards lingered outside the gates, and even they remained close to the entrance, unwilling to venture far from the safety their comrades provided.
No one stopped him as he moved toward the threshold. No one raised a hand or shouted for him to reconsider. They simply watched him go, some with pity, others with resigned curiosity.
Without looking back, Narvel left the Anchor…