After an hour's relentless ordeal clinging to the runaway horse—bruised, battered, attire torn to rags, and with only one eye barely open—Blake finally reached his breaking point. Every muscle screamed, each joint felt torn loose from its socket, and his skin burned from the constant whipping of branches. His body was no longer riding—it was merely surviving.
Desperation alone gave him the strength to peer ahead through his swollen eyes, searching for any trace of civilization, any whisper of the so-called "town" Pabel had spoken of. His prayers were answered when, through his haze of pain, he glimpsed a rough set of gates looming ahead.
The structure was crude, nothing like the fortified estates or grand cities he had imagined—just uneven logs hammered together into a barrier. Yet to him, it was salvation. Summoning the last shred of will, Blake released his white-knuckled grip from the reins—his only lifeline until now—and tumbled off the galloping beast. The impact tore the breath from his lungs, but he clawed his way forward on hands and knees, dragging himself inch by inch toward the wooden arch.
Through blurred vision, he read the name carved in faded script above the gate: "Redside."
When he finally staggered inside, his appearance was more wretch than noble heir—face swollen, lips cracked, hair matted, clothes shredded into strips barely clinging to his frame. The mud-caked streets fell silent as he passed. Townsfolk eyed him with suspicion; whispers cut into him like knives. Mothers pulled their children aside. Merchants turned away. To them, he was not a young master or a traveler—only a beggar who invited misfortune.
Only one soul moved. From the shadow of a crumbling corner house, an elderly woman peeked out. Her eyes, though clouded by years, held a flicker of kindness. Against the tide of indifference, she beckoned him to follow. Weak and half-delirious, Blake stumbled after her into a ramshackle tavern, its beams sagging, its windows patched with rags.
Inside, the old woman pressed a battered bowl of steaming soup into his trembling hands. The broth was thin, the bread coarse, but to Blake it was ambrosia. As he sipped, her wrinkled face softened into a gentle smile—the first kindness he had seen in this alien world. For the span of a heartbeat, the terror and loneliness inside him eased.
Afterward, she guided him to a bed little more than a pile of grass beneath threadbare blankets. "Rest," she whispered. "Sleep." The words needed no translation. Blake collapsed, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion, and drifted into darkness.
When he awoke, everything had changed. The tavern was gone. No tables, no hearth, no woman—only the skeleton of a ruin. Broken walls leaned inward, the floor was dirt, the ceiling open to the cold night sky. His stomach lurched. Had he been dreaming? Hallucinating?
A worse horror struck him next. His hands clawed at his chest, his belt, his cloak. The silver ring, the Dunzel signet crest Pabel had entrusted to him—gone. The golden family insignia pinned to his clothes—vanished. Even his garments, though already ruined, now looked looser, duller, as though the very fabric of his noble identity had been stolen overnight.
Overcome, Blake dropped to his knees, fists pounding the dirt floor. Why me? Am I cursed? Why does misfortune follow me like a hound that never lets go? His hoarse cry echoed hollowly against the broken rafters.
By nightfall, hunger gnawed at him again. With no coin, no title, no allies, he slipped into the muddy alleys of Redside in search of scraps. The system window mocked him with its unchanging script: Quest: Safe House. No hints. No direction. Just the same cold reminder of how utterly lost he was.
Driven by need, he stole. From a careless vendor's cart, he snatched a bundle of rough-spun clothes, fleeing through narrow alleys as angry shouts pursued him. His heart hammered until the voices faded into silence. Dressed now in the garb of a commoner, stripped of everything else, Blake became just another face in the crowd.
At last, he stumbled before the town's main inn. Lanterns swayed at its entrance, casting wavering light over a squat wooden building. Its sign creaked overhead, paint flaking, the carved pig's head above it grinning a toothless smile.
"The Timid Hog Inn."
Blake stopped, chest heaving. He understood, with a sinking certainty, that the game had changed. He was no longer Blake Dunzel, young master of privilege. His noble name was ashes. What remained was survival—wits, luck, and the gnawing hunger that drove him onward.