The knowledge that had slammed into Virgil's mind was not just history; it was a brutal, detailed map of vulnerability. He was trapped in a world where power was quantified, gods were real, and his immediate existence was defined by zero. Zero power, zero money, zero weapons.
The sun had begun to rise, casting long, dusty beams into the alley. The cold, logical part of his mind took over. Then he looked at his new body.
Great, I'm stuck in a child's body, plus I weigh less than a sack of potatoes. I am physically useless.
He watched the city wake up: adventurers marching to the Dungeon, carts rattling, and merchants rushing by. In this world, beggars go hungry, the weak get beaten, and thieves get caught—unless the thief can't be seen.
He had no money to buy a weapon, no strength to wield one, and no magical power to defend himself. His greatest asset was his appearance: a starving, pathetic child. He realized his weakness was, paradoxically, his perfect disguise.
If I must be a beggar, I will be the most effective one.
He formulated his plan, a ruthless exercise in low-risk acquisition.
First, he would position himself near high-traffic areas, but always slightly out of sight. His desperate appearance would garner either pity or, more reliably, utter dismissal. People ignore what they think is harmless.
Second, he wouldn't beg for coins, which 90% of the time would get him ignored. He would beg for attention. A moment of distraction and use that moment to acquire necessities. And of course, he needed to be stealthy and fast to be able to steal something.
Third, he needed to find a victim who was preoccupied, non-combative, and carried small, loose items. Never Adventurers. Never guards. Always a civilian, a distracted merchant.
Virgil rose, his body protesting every movement with a sharp, draining ache. He ignored it. He had too much going on to just give up now.
He found a path leading out of the maze of back alleys and into a broad, noisy secondary market street, the air suddenly thick with the smell of spices, fish, and manure. He deliberately allowed himself to look more frail, by being more hunched over.
He settled against the shadowed stone of a large building, a low-risk spot where people passed him quickly but were too focused on the market bustle to notice his razor-sharp focus. He didn't extend his hand. He just sat, head bowed, appearing as a natural part of the city's grime, his eyes silently tracking the flow of people, calculating vectors and risk.
He watched dozens pass. Too fast. Too alert. Too poor.
Then, the perfect opportunity emerged from the main thoroughfare.
The man was a junior guild assistant, identifiable by his neat, if slightly rumpled, tan tunic and the scroll case strapped across his back. He wasn't rich, but he wasn't poor. Crucially, he was distracted. He was haggling loudly and angrily with a fruit vendor over a price discrepancy, gesticulating wildly, his focus entirely on the vendor's face.
Attached to the man's belt, swinging slightly with his annoyed movements, was a small, canvas pouch. Likely containing enough Valis to feed him for a week, maybe two. And carelessly tucked into the top edge of the pouch was a long, thin, wooden writing stylus. A potential tool.
The junior assistant was too absorbed in his petty anger to notice the small, starving shadow watching him from the wall. The man was arrogant, preoccupied, and carrying the necessities he searched for, Valis in a pouch, and it was in reach.
Virgil recognized his prey. He began to shift, slowly, agonizingly, preparing his desperate approach.