The inside of the shelter was warmer than Ren expected, and it smelled of iron, coal, and pine resin. A wood-burning stove glowed in one corner, its pipe running up through the roof. The space was small but orderly—tools hung from pegs on the wall, their outlines sharp in the firelight. A thick workbench stood against one wall, scarred from use and stained dark with oil. There were no decorations, no comforts. Everything here had a purpose.
The woman moved around the space without looking at him, her movements efficient. She didn't offer him a seat, but she didn't tell him to leave, either. She picked up a knife and began slicing dried roots into a pot already simmering on the stove.
Ren stayed near the door, boots on the rough wooden floor, watching everything. A sleeping mat was rolled neatly in the far corner. Three sealed crates were stacked beside a water barrel. There was no softness here, only survival, honed to a sharp edge.
"How long have you been out here?" he asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
The woman scraped the chopped roots into the pot and stirred. "Long enough to know better than to ask questions of strangers."
"I didn't see anyone else in the woods."
"That's the point."
She still hadn't given her name. Ren didn't push. He watched the way her hands moved—sure, capable, a little worn. She was used to being alone.
"You mentioned a village," he said. "How far?"
She tapped the spoon on the pot's edge and looked at him, really looked, for the first time. Her eyes were a dark, steady brown.
"Four days southeast if you know the path. Longer if you don't. And you don't."
Ren absorbed that. "Is it safe?"
She almost smiled, a faint, tired twist of her mouth. "Is anywhere?"
He said nothing. She crossed the room, took a wooden bowl from a shelf, and ladled stew into it. She held it out. No words.
Ren took it. It was heavier than it looked.
The stew smelled of herbs and meat, something wild. He took a careful sip. It was salty, hearty, full of flavors he didn't recognize but that warmed him from the inside out. He sat on a low stool near the door, keeping his distance. She returned to her seat by the stove, her gaze drifting back to the fire.
"You don't talk much," he said after a while.
"I don't have much to say."
Fair.
They ate in silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the wind outside. After a time, she stood and brought in the metal rod she'd left to cool, placing it on a rack near the forge with a pair of heavy tongs.
Ren watched her. She wasn't just surviving out here. She was working. Creating.
"You're a smith," he said.
"I mend things. I make what I need."
"Could you make more?"
She turned, wiping her hands on a rag. "Why?"
"People always need things. Tools. Repairs."
"People bring trouble," she said flatly. But she didn't look away.
Ren finished his stew and set the bowl down. "Thank you."
She gave a single nod. Then, "Why are you really out here? Not just surviving. People who are *just* surviving don't have eyes that notice everything."
He held her gaze. "I'm trying to understand where I am. I woke up in these woods with nothing. No memory. Just... instincts."
She studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she went to the back wall, moved a crate, and pried up a loose floorboard. From the space beneath, she pulled a bundle wrapped in linen and tied with leather cord.
She dropped it at his feet.
"Open it."
He untied the cord. Inside was a set of tools. A small hammer, a fine chisel, two hand saws, a set of files. They were old, but well-cared-for, the wooden handles smooth from use.
"I have spares," she said. "If you're serious about lasting out here, you'll need more than a sharp stick and luck."
Ren looked from the tools back to her. "What do you want for them?"
"Nothing today."
"Today?"
"If you live, you'll remember the woman in the woods who gave you a chance. If you die, it cost me nothing."
He rewrapped the tools carefully. The weight of them felt significant in his hands. "I'll remember."
She almost smiled again, just a flicker. "See that you do."
---
Ren stayed the night. She didn't invite him to, but she unrolled a second sleeping mat near the wall and tossed him a rough wool blanket without a word. Then she banked the fire and lay down on her own mat, turning away from him.
He lay awake for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her breathing and the settling of the wood around them. No system messages appeared. No blue boxes. Just the quiet of the night and the weight of the unknown.
He woke at first light. She was already up, feeding pieces of wood into the stove.
"Eat," she said, sliding a bowl of leftover stew toward him. It was lukewarm, but it was food.
He ate. He packed the tools into his pack, rolled the blanket, and checked his gear by the door. Everything was where he'd left it.
He turned to her at the threshold. "I'll remember," he said again.
She nodded, not looking at him. "Head southeast. Follow the sun in the morning, keep it at your back in the afternoon. You'll hit the trade road by dusk on the third day if you don't get lost."
He stepped outside into the crisp morning air and didn't look back.
---
The forest felt different now. Not safer, but known. He moved with more purpose, the new tools a comforting weight in his pack. He used the sun as his guide, as she'd said, and kept his eyes open. The woods were deep, but they were not empty. He saw deer tracks, the scat of some large predator, and once, the distant howl of something that made the hair on his arms stand up.
By midday, the trees began to thin. He found the remains of an old cart path, little more than two ruts overgrown with grass, but it was a sign. People had been here.
In the afternoon, he heard voices.
He dropped low behind a thicket, his hand going to the knife at his belt.
Two men walked into view, talking loudly. One was big, wearing a chainmail vest that looked too small for him. The other was leaner, with a bow across his back.
"—told you, it wasn't a regular wolf. Its eyes were all wrong—"
"You're seeing things, is what. Too much time in the deep wood."
They passed without seeing him, their voices fading back into the trees.
Adventurers. Or hunters. They were armed, confident. They belonged here in a way he did not. Yet.
He waited until they were long gone before moving again. Their presence was a sign. He was getting closer.
By evening, he found the path she had told him about—a proper dirt road, wide enough for a cart. It curved away south, and as the light began to fail, he saw a faint glow in the distance. Not the setting sun.
Firelight.
He followed the road, his steps quickening despite his tiredness. The smell of woodsmoke grew stronger. Then came sounds—voices, many of them. The clang of a hammer on metal. Laughter.
He crested a small rise and stopped.
Below, nestled in a shallow valley, was a village. A real one. A wooden palisade surrounded a cluster of buildings, and torches burned along the wall. He could see people moving between houses, hear the faint strains of a tune played on some instrument.
It was the first real sign of other people he'd seen since waking in this world.
His throat tightened. It wasn't home. But it was a place to start.
He took a deep breath and started down the road toward the gate.
---
The village gate was open, but two guards stood watch—a woman with a spear and a man sharpening a knife. They looked up as he approached.
The woman stepped forward. "Bit late for travelers. You with the merchant group?"
Ren shook his head. "Just passing through."
She looked him up and down, taking in his worn clothes and pack. "You look like you've been through it."
"I have."
She exchanged a glance with the other guard, who shrugged. "Inn's on the main street. Red door. Don't cause trouble."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ren said.
He walked through the gate.
The village was alive. People moved through the muddy streets, carrying baskets, tools, children. The air smelled of cooking food, smoke, and animals. It was messy, and loud, and real.
He found the inn with the red door. The common room was crowded, warm, and noisy. A fire roared in a large hearth. The innkeeper, a stout man with a thick beard, looked up as Ren entered.
"Room?" the man asked, without preamble.
"Looking for one. I can work for it."
The innkeeper laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Can you now? What can you do?"
"I can chop wood. Repair things. I have my own tools."
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. He looked Ren over again, more slowly this time. "Wood pile's out back. Split me a night's worth for the hearth, and you can sleep in the loft. No food."
"Done."
---
The work was hard, and his shoulders ached by the end, but the rhythm of the axe was familiar, almost comforting. When he was done, he stacked the wood neatly against the wall.
The innkeeper nodded, once. "Loft's upstairs. Ladder at the end of the hall. Don't snore too loud."
The loft was dusty and smelled of hay, but it was dry and out of the wind. Ren lay down on the rough blanket, his body heavy with exhaustion.
As he drifted toward sleep, a familiar blue light flickered in his vision.
> [Milestone Reached: First Contact]
> You have successfully located and entered a human settlement.
> [New Ability Available: Basic Barter]
> You can now intuitively assess fair value for goods and services within a settled economy.
> [New Objective: Secure legitimate employment or affiliation within 7 days.]
Ren smiled in the dark. He had made it. He was no longer just surviving.
He was building a life.
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