The persistent, ghostly blue screen shimmered in Samuel Raveish's vision, a digital phantom against the dim, grimy reality of the common room. It pulsed, a faint digital static dancing across its surface, like an old CRT struggling to find a signal. His breath hitched.
███ ERROR: SOUL INTEGRATION FAILED. REPEAT ATTEMPT 622,822,031. ███
███ TARGET REALM: AETHERIA. ███
███ SUBJECT: [ANCIENT CODE: HEROIC CONVERGENCE_007]███
███ STATUS: RECALIBRATING. PLEASE SELECT NEW PARAMETERS. ███
No. Way.
Samuel's gamer brain, a highly specialized, hyper-efficient organ meticulously honed by countless hours of light novels and Isekai anime, slammed into overdrive. Every synapse fired, connecting dots faster than a gigabit fiber optic cable. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some drug-induced hallucination. This was it.
"Holy... cow," he mumbled, his voice raspy, a little louder than he intended. It felt unfamiliar, thicker, as if his vocal cords hadn't been properly optimized for speech yet.
The "ERROR" message caught his eye, but he dismissed it instantly. Probably a loading bug. Or flavour text, designed to add mystique. The "622 million attempts" resonated more. "Haha, okay, System, I get it. You really wanted to get me into this, huh? 'Heroic Convergence,' too! That's my jam!" His chest puffed out, a surge of adrenaline washing away the lingering disorientation. He was special. He was the chosen one. This was his moment to become overpowered, to escape the mundane, to live the ultimate fantasy life. The ultimate optimization challenge.
He tried to mentally access a menu. 'Stats. Inventory. Map. Quest Log. System Menu. Options. Interface… anything!?' Nothing. The blue screen remained stubbornly fixed, a translucent overlay that seemed to exist only in his head, mocking his every mental command.
He tried again, more forcefully, even whispering, "Open. Menu. Please." Still nothing. He willed a health bar to appear over the sleeping forms around him, an experience bar over his own non-existent character portrait. Blank. Utterly blank.
Samuel lifted a hand, peering at the palm. It was rough and calloused, crisscrossed with lines, tanned by what looked like sun. Not the soft, keyboard-worn skin he remembered, faintly pale from years of avoiding direct sunlight. He reached out with his other hand, his fingers passing right through the glowing interface, as if it were a projection from a high-tech contact lens.
"Huh?" His wide, incredulous grin faltered, replaced by a frown of confusion. He poked at it again, then waved his hand through it. The screen stayed. It was in his head. Not an AR interface. Not a projected display. This was... different. Less convenient. Less game-like.
He sat up with a groan, the straw beneath him rustling loudly, emitting a faint, musty scent. His body felt surprisingly... normal. No sudden surge of mana, no glowing tattoos, no obvious signs of being a cheat-level Isekai protagonist. The cot was hard. The woolen blanket smelled faintly of mildew and unwashed bodies. His stomach rumbled loudly, a very un-heroic sound.
He looked around. This wasn't the pristine, grand hall of a summoned hero, or a picturesque fantasy village common from the LNs he devoured. It was a dingy common room, filled with rough wooden tables and chairs, sticky with stale ale. Several other figures lay sprawled on similar cots in the gloom, snoring or muttering in their sleep. A large, formidable woman with weary eyes and a stern expression was wiping down a counter by a dying hearth in the corner. Her movements were efficient, practiced, utterly devoid of any "tutorial NPC" enthusiasm. Her name, he'd learn later, was Elara.
The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and something indefinably medieval – a mix of damp earth, unwashed bodies, and animal musk. This was... less glamorous than he expected. Far less. The lack of a clear UI was a major setback. How was he supposed to optimize if he couldn't see his stats?
His eyes fell upon a notice tacked crudely to a wooden post near the entrance. It was a faded drawing, crudely done but unmistakable: a young girl's face. Below it, scrawled in hurried script, were words he couldn't quite decipher, but the repeated symbol, like a stylized bird, caught his attention. And the hushed, anxious tones of two men whispering by the hearth, their words carrying fragments like "missing," "child," and a low, fearful murmur of "Weaver."
A plot hook.
Samuel's gamer instincts flared again, overriding his disappointment with the lack of a proper UI. "Right! Okay, okay, System's probably offline for repairs, a minor bug, but the world's clearly running the first quest line. Missing child. Classic starter. Gotta rescue the NPC, get some trust, maybe unlock the actual menu. Smart." This had to be the tutorial. They wouldn't throw him into a high-level dungeon straight away.
He swung his legs off the cot. His feet hit cold, packed earth. His stomach rumbled again. And then he realized another immediate problem: his pockets were empty. Not a single coin. Not even a crumpled tissue. No starting gear? No beginner's pouch? This was a harder start than "Aethelgard" on its highest difficulty setting.
"Oh. Right. First, I need... money. Or I just go, 'Hey, I'm the Hero, quest starts now!' Hmm. Probably not. That usually ends with 'You seem to be mistaken, madman,' or a trip to the local guard station." He muttered to himself, casting a glance towards the formidable Elara, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to notice everything. "Alright, Samuel Raveish. Time to put that meta-knowledge to work. Even if this isn't quite the cheat code I hoped for."
He stood up, feeling the dull ache in his head again, the blue screen still stubbornly fixed in his vision. The reality of his situation, mundane and perilous, was already beginning to clash violently with his grand expectations. He had no idea how many more times he would die to learn just how little this world cared for his "gamer logic."
Loop 1 (Attempt 1): The Swift, Undignified Demise
Samuel decided his first objective was simple: gather information, then execute. He approached Elara, who was meticulously polishing a pewter mug behind the counter, the faint clinking sound grating on his ears.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Samuel began, attempting his best charming hero-of-the-people voice. He tried to project an aura of reliable competence, like a veteran guild leader. "I'm new to... these parts. Heard something about a missing child? Is there a bounty? A reward? I'm quite good at these sorts of things." He even tried to subtly puff out his chest, hoping for some unspoken hero recognition, or at least a hint of a quest marker.
Elara didn't even look up. "Aye, little Miri. Vanished three days ago. No bounty, lad. Just heartbreak." She finally glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. "And you, you're the one sleeping off the wagon? You owe for that cot, same as everyone else. No coin, no answers. Now scoot, I got work." She gestured dismissively with the mug, and Samuel felt the distinct "quest failed" throb in his metaphorical quest log.
His charming hero act deflated instantly. "Right. Uh, payment. Of course." He shuffled away, mentally cursing the lack of an immediate "Reputation" stat or a "Talk" skill. No easy info dump, apparently. This wasn't going to be like an RPG where he could just charm his way through conversations. Dialogue options here seemed limited to "Yes, ma'am" and "Sorry, ma'am."
He drifted towards the notice board again, confirming the crude drawing of Miri. He overheard more hushed conversations: "gone into the woods," "the Weaver," "never seen again." His gamer brain lit up. Okay, classic 'dungeon entrance' setup. Elderwood. Gotta be the first area. Probably a low-level dungeon, full of goblins or slimes. Easy EXP.
Ignoring his empty stomach and Elara's pointed glares, Samuel made a decision. He would cut to the chase. No grinding for gold. No pointless side quests. The main story was calling. He slipped out of the inn, heading in the direction he'd heard whispers about – towards the ominous, ancient trees of the Elderwood, their dense canopy a forbidding wall against the morning sky. The air grew noticeably cooler and thicker as he approached.
He saw a young woman with a kind face and gentle hands by a small, muddy creek outside the village, carefully gathering herbs. This had to be Lyra, the healer he'd overheard someone mention. "Hey!" he called out, trying for casual, "NPC interaction: positive." "Which way's best into the Elderwood? Heard a girl went in that way, maybe I can help."
Lyra looked up, her kind eyes wide with worry. Her simple, homespun tunic and earthy scent were a stark contrast to the sleek, stylized outfits of game characters. "The Elderwood? Oh, no, sir, you shouldn't go in there alone! Especially towards the Whispering Glade. It's... unpredictable. Old Master Borin says the Aether gets twisted out there. You could get lost, or worse, meet one of the wild beasts." She gestured vaguely towards a dense thicket, her face etched with genuine fear. "And the Weaver... no one who sees them returns."
Samuel waved a dismissive hand. "Wild beasts? Please. I've cleared dungeons tougher than this. 'Unpredictable Aether'? Sounds like a standard debuff zone. Just point me to the 'Whispering Glade,' okay? I'm on a tight schedule." He inwardly rolled his eyes. NPCs and their warnings. He knew how this went. Overpowered protagonist ignores warnings, gets cool gear, saves the day. This was a tutorial. It had to be.
Lyra, clearly distressed by his bravado and perhaps his dismissive tone, reluctantly pointed down a faint, overgrown path that seemed to vanish quickly into the encroaching woods. "Just... be careful, please. Miri is such a sweet girl."
Samuel nodded curtly and strode into the woods, confident steps quickly giving way to uncertain ones as the canopy closed over him. The air grew cooler, denser, and the light faded quickly, making everything seem a uniform, oppressive green. The path grew fainter, the trees denser, and the silence, save for the rustling of leaves and the occasional, unsettling snap of a twig nearby, became almost deafening.
Okay, where's the mini-map? No compass? This is ridiculous. I need a skill tree for navigation. He tried to remember basic survival tips from games, but they always involved a clear UI, glowing markers, or obvious objectives. He was just... walking. And getting lost. The "Whispering Glade" was nowhere to be found. Just more trees. And the air grew heavier, and he started to feel strangely lightheaded. His skin began to itch, a faint prickling sensation.
He walked deeper, growing increasingly frustrated and disoriented. The "Whispering Glade" was nowhere to be found. Just more trees. The air grew heavier, and he started to feel strangely lightheaded. His skin began to itch.
He finally broke through a particularly dense patch of thorns, tearing his trousers and scratching his leg, only to stumble right into a small, muddy clearing. A group of Giant Boars, their tusks gleaming wickedly, rooted among some dense, oddly purplish-green plants. They looked up, snorting aggressively, their beady eyes fixing on him. These weren't the cute, pixelated boars of his games. These were massive, snarling beasts, their bristly hides matted with mud and dried blood, their eyes reflecting a primal, untamed fury.
"Oh, come on!" Samuel cried out, raising his empty hands in a gesture of surrender he'd seen work in countless games. "It's just me! No gold, no EXP! Move along! Aggro reset!?"
The largest boar, a colossal tusker with bristly fur like hardened wire, let out a furious squeal and charged. Its speed was terrifying, far faster than any virtual creature.
Samuel tried to dodge, but his city-dweller reflexes were slow. He was used to precise inputs, not raw, primal agility. The boar's tusk ripped across his leg, tearing through his cheap trousers and slicing deep into his thigh. He screamed, a raw, undignified sound, utterly unlike the stoic grunts of his gaming avatars, and fell hard into the mud. The purplish-green plant's leaves, now crushed beneath him, brushed against his open wound. A searing, burning sensation immediately flared, worse than the cut itself, spreading like wildfire through his leg.
He scrambled backward, clutching his leg, the blood already soaking his pants, a dark, rich crimson. The boars snorted again, circling, their heavy hooves squelching in the mud. He could feel the fever already, the plant's poison searing through his veins, making his head pound. His vision blurred, not from fatigue, but from the agony. He couldn't fight. He couldn't run. This wasn't a respawn timer. This was just... pain.
As the large boar prepared for another charge, its tusks aimed for his chest, a horrifying realization dawned on Samuel. This wasn't a game over screen. This was... dying. The pain was real. The fear was visceral, a cold, suffocating blanket. He could smell his own blood, the mud, the wild, feral scent of the animals.
Just as the boar lunged, its tusks aimed for his chest, the blue screen in his vision flickered violently, becoming intensely bright, almost painfully so. The numbers on it began to spin rapidly.
███ FATAL ERROR: SUBJECT TERMINATED. REPEAT ATTEMPT 622,822,031. ███
███ ACTIVATING SOUL RESTORATION. REVERTING TO LAST STABLE STATE. ███
███ ...RESTORATION IN PROGRESS... ███
The light consumed him, a blinding, all-encompassing white that burned through the agony and the fear, replacing it with a sensation of being stretched thin, then snapped back into place.
Loop 2 (Attempt 2): The Chilling Realization
And then, he was back.
The dull ache behind his eyes. The low, guttural murmur of several voices. The rhythmic, wet clink of a mug against wood. The faint, acrid scent of stale ale and woodsmoke.
Samuel Raveish lay on the rough, scratchy cot, covered by the coarse woolen blanket, staring up at the familiar, dimly lit common room of the Stumbling Stag inn. The blue screen pulsed faintly in his vision, the "FATAL ERROR" message now gone, replaced by the original "SOUL INTEGRATION FAILED" message.
His breath hitched. He touched his thigh. No wound. No blood. No mud. He could still feel the phantom pain, the burning poison, the searing rip of the tusks. It was all there, vivid and terrifying, in his memory. The smell of the boars, the taste of fear in his mouth, the feeling of his life draining away. It was all real. Too real.
"No... way," he whispered, a tremor in his voice, his eyes wide, fixed on the ceiling that wasn't there in his last moments. This wasn't a "game over." This was... a reset. A real reset.
His gamer brain, instead of collapsing, immediately jumped to the most terrifying, yet utterly fascinating, conclusion. "Return by Death," he breathed, a mixture of horror and awe in his eyes. He'd read about it. A niche, brutal mechanic in some of the darkest web novels. The ultimate cheat code. But the pain... the real pain. That wasn't in the description.
"Holy. Freaking. Crap. I have 'Return by Death'!" The horror quickly faded, replaced by an almost giddy, but deeply chilling, realization of the ultimate cheat code. He could die. He could try again. He could learn. He could truly optimize this world. This wasn't a game; it was a brutal simulation with unlimited retries.
He grinned, a much more unsettling grin than before. It wasn't the triumphant smile of a victorious gamer, but the grim, slightly unhinged smile of someone who had faced true fear and found a way to exploit it. "Okay, Aetheria. You wanna play hardball? Fine. Let's play."
He swung his legs off the cot again, this time with a cautious deliberation. He still had no money, but he had something infinitely more valuable: data.
He remembered everything. Elara's dismissal. Lyra's warning about the "Whispering Glade" and "wild beasts." The specific, hidden path Lyra had pointed out. The purplish-green plants. The boars. Their charge pattern. He could replay the entire scenario in his head, frame by frame.
"Lesson one," he muttered to himself. "Don't go into the woods without gear. Don't ignore NPC warnings, even if they're generic. And definitely, definitely avoid the giant boars and weird, poisonous flora."
He needed a new approach. Stealth was out, he had no skills for it. Brute force was out, he had no stats. He needed information. Specifics. He needed to find out exactly what the "Whispering Weaver" was, and how to deal with it, or whatever guards the missing child.
He glanced towards the counter where Elara was, once again, wiping down mugs. This time, he wouldn't ask about bounties. He wouldn't try to charm her. He needed to observe. He needed to listen. He needed to survive long enough to gather intelligence.
His first death had been a tutorial in humility. His next loop would be a lesson in strategy. The game had just gotten infinitely harder, and infinitely more real. And Samuel Raveish, the ultimate optimizer, was finally beginning to understand the rules.
He just had to die a few million more times to learn them all.