I left the capital with one goal: don't die.
Admittedly, it was a low bar, but I was pretty confident I could still trip over it.
Armed with nothing but a map I couldn't read, a single loaf of suspiciously stale bread, and a walking stick that might've once been part of someone's chair, I set off toward the nearest village listed on the back of the guild's quest flier. Supposedly, it was only a day's walk. Easy. Peaceful. Probably scenic.
So of course, it rained.
Not a normal, cinematic drizzle either. No. This was the kind of rain that soaked you through your underwear and made you question every decision that led to your current state—like taking a job in a magical world you didn't apply for.
"This is fine," I muttered, pulling my cloak tighter. "This is how epic journeys begin. Cold, wet, and with a smell that can only be described as 'damp desperation.'"
The path was a winding dirt road flanked by trees that looked like they'd seen better centuries. Every so often, I'd pass a cheerful sign that read "YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN THE FOREST!"—which was not comforting, especially when followed by howling. I'd rather be alone in the forest, thanks.
At some point, I stepped in something that sizzled. I didn't look back.
I reached a crossroads by midday, where a couple of wagons were parked and a handful of shady tents had sprung up like mold. One of them had a crooked sign that read:
"Ye Olde Sharp Objects – Guaranteed to Cut (Probably)."
Inside was a hunched man wrapped in scarves, goggles, and what looked like bits of curtain.
"You look like a man in need of steel," he rasped the moment I stepped in. "Or at least something pointy."
I glanced at the display. Most of it looked like broken cooking utensils and dented butter knives. But in the center, nestled on a velvet pillow that probably used to be part of a sofa, was a perfectly average sword.
Straight blade. Iron hilt. Faded leather grip. It didn't glow. It didn't hum. It didn't whisper forbidden secrets into my brain.
It looked... usable. Which made it a miracle.
"How much?" I asked.
"Two silver," he said, "or three and I throw in a meat skewer."
I stared. "That's the barter system now?"
He held up a skewer like it was the Ark of the Covenant. "Grilled manticore tail. Slightly cursed."
I paid him in coin. I had enough curses in my life.
He handed me the sword and leaned in. "This blade once belonged to a warrior of great renown. Or maybe it was his cousin. Either way, it hasn't been cleaned in decades."
The sword felt balanced in my hand. Not light, not heavy—just exactly sword-like. For a brief second, I imagined myself as a real adventurer, cutting through monsters with confidence and skill.
Then I sneezed, dropped it, and stabbed the ground near my foot.
"Ah," the vendor said. "It already likes you."
The village was smaller than I expected. Maybe a dozen houses, a big windmill, one tavern, and a guild branch that looked like it had once been a stable. Chickens wandered freely. A dog barked at me for two full minutes before getting bored.
I approached the guild just as a large man with a dented helmet crashed through the front doors.
"THE CAVE'S CURSED!" he bellowed. "I AIN'T GOING BACK IN THERE! IT GROWLED AT ME!"
He ran down the street screaming. No one reacted.
I poked my head inside. The interior was barely lit. A receptionist was half-asleep behind the desk, flipping through a bestiary like it owed her money.
She didn't look up. "You here for a quest or to clean the outhouse?"
I paused. "...What's easier?"
She tossed a paper at me with an ink-stamped seal.
"Request: Investigate strange noises near the old cave. Reward: 30 Valds, 1 meal voucher, possible death."
"You're the third guy today," she muttered. "First two ran. You look like you've got nothing left to lose."
"That's disturbingly accurate," I said, and took the paper.
"Congratulations, rookie," she yawned. "Welcome to Bronze Rank."
I hadn't even signed up yet.
I stepped out of the guild hall feeling like I had just been conscripted into a war I didn't know was happening. In my hand, I held the quest slip, a dented bronze badge, and a starter kit that looked like someone packed it using spite.
Inside said kit:
A single healing potion that smelled vaguely like vinegar.
A hunk of ironbread so dense I could probably use it as a blunt weapon.
A "map" of the area that had no scale, orientation, or logic—just a charcoal drawing of a hill labeled "PROB CAVE??" and a suspiciously cheerful sun.
The receptionist waved from the door with the enthusiasm of a funeral director.
"Don't forget to scream if you see fog!"
Great. Screaming was now part of the tutorial.
On the way out of the village, I was stopped by an old woman sitting on a crate of turnips. She looked up from whittling a stick into what may have once been a duck and squinted at me like I was a poorly rendered background extra.
"You headin' to the cave?" she asked, not even trying to hide her disapproval.
"Depends," I said. "Are there any other horrifying pits of darkness on the map labeled 'probably?'"
She nodded solemnly and reached into her apron. "Take this. It'll protect you."
She handed me... a rock. A smooth gray pebble with googly eyes glued on.
"It scares off cave spirits," she said. "Mostly 'cause it's ugly."
I took it. I don't know why. Peer pressure? Social guilt? The remote hope that this woman actually knew something? Either way, Rocko the Spirit Repellent went into my satchel.
Down the lane, a kid—couldn't have been older than ten—flagged me down.
"You going to the cursed cave? Want a monster whistle?"
"I don't know," I said. "Do I?"
He pulled out what looked like a bent nail tied to a piece of yarn. "Ten Valds."
"That's robbery."
"Guaranteed to summon something."
"Something good?"
"No promises."
Reader, I bought it. It made a sound like a dying rodent when I tested it. Perfect.
Then came the local philosopher, passed out on a crate with a bottle of Glugroot Reserve in his lap and an eye patch that looked suspiciously decorative.
"I went in that cave once," he slurred as I passed. "Heard voices... felt cold hands... lost my pants. Never again."
"I'll try to keep my pants on, thanks."
He raised his bottle in a toast. "That's what I said."
Following the map was a mistake. The line that supposedly marked a road led me into a field of overly aggressive goats. I don't know what god cursed these creatures with spite, but one of them chased me for twenty minutes.
I finally escaped by hiding behind a tree and throwing the ironbread as a distraction. The goat took it. I heard crunching. It stared me down the whole time like it knew.
When I emerged on the other side of the field—panting, scratched, and morally defeated—I found myself facing a hill covered in overgrowth.
Behind some bushes was a small stone archway. Vines crawled up the sides. Moss coated the stones. A faded sign stuck in the ground next to it read:
"CAVE CLOSED. DANGER: WHISPERS. NO REFUNDS."
Because nothing says "welcome" like a no-refund policy on your own death.
I peeked inside.
It was dark. The kind of dark that felt alive. Something cold drifted out of it, brushing against my skin like bad vibes made tangible. I could hear... whispering? Or maybe it was just the wind. Or guilt. Hard to tell.
My stomach grumbled. Or maybe screamed. I had just survived a goat encounter. I deserved a break. Also, I really needed to pee.
"I'm not here for hero stuff," I told the cave. "Just a five-minute pit stop, then I'm gone."
It didn't answer. Which was probably worse.
Still clutching my sword—which I had affectionately named "Mediocrity"—I stepped inside.
A system popup flickered into view:
[
Area Discovered: Cave of Whispering Fog
Danger Level: HIGH
Recommended Party Size: 3+
Warning: You are not in a party. You are not ready. Turn back now. ...
... Proceed anyway? [Y/N]
]
I jabbed Y. Out of spite.