The forest reacted after he left.
Branches creaked where no wind stirred.
Leaves whispered long after his footsteps faded.
The man didn't notice.
He walked barefoot through thorns and roots without slowing, eyes forward, posture loose. Pain registered, sorted, then discarded.
Foot durability insufficient, he noted.
Later.
The system pulsed once, a quiet acknowledgment.
> [Minor Pain Resistance: Stabilizing]
"Efficient," he murmured.
His voice sounded strange to him, steady and flat, with no emotional residue. He approved of that.
After several minutes, the trees thinned.
Light spilled through the canopy, revealing a dirt road carved deep by years of travel. Wagon ruts. Old footprints. Dried blood ground so thoroughly into the soil it had become part of the color.
Civilization-adjacent.
He stopped at the roadside.
Logical next step: acquire information.
Secondary objective: clothing.
Tertiary: name.
He dropped the third almost immediately.
A group approached from the left.
Five figures this time. Better armed. Cleaner gear. Iron-tipped spears. Short swords at their belts. Their tabards bore a symbol, three interlocking triangles.
Not bandits.
They noticed him at the same moment.
The group slowed.
Then stopped.
No one spoke.
The man stood still, hands at his sides, gaze neutral.
I appear to be causing this repeatedly.
One of them cleared his throat.
"Traveler," he called. "State your business."
The man considered.
Lying remained an option.
Truth remained an option.
Silence had worked adequately so far.
He chose silence.
The speaker frowned.
"Are you injured?"
"No visible wounds," another muttered. "Look at him. No gear. No pack."
"A drifter?" someone suggested.
The tallest shook his head slowly.
"No aura," he said again, unease creeping into his voice. "Same as the rumors."
That word caught the man's attention.
Rumors.
The system responded at once.
> [Local Narrative Detected]
[Designation: 'Void Drifter' (Unconfirmed)]
He blinked once.
Already.
The leader shifted his grip on the spear.
"You came from Blackroot Forest," he said. "People don't do that without reason."
Incorrect, the man thought.
I did it because I was there.
That answer felt socially inefficient.
"I am heading forward," he said instead.
His voice cut cleanly through the air.
The group stiffened.
"That's… not an answer," the leader said.
"It is sufficient."
Silence settled again.
One soldier swallowed.
Another took a half-step back, then corrected himself, cheeks tightening.
"Sir," the leader said carefully, "for your own safety, we need to know—"
A shout came from behind them.
"Captain!"
A sixth man ran up the road, breathless, eyes wide.
"They're saying it's him," he blurted. "The one from the forest."
The leader closed his eyes briefly.
"Explain."
"The bandits," the runner gasped. "Three of them. They staggered into Westridge screaming. One collapsed, foaming at the mouth. The others kept shouting about a man who touched death without killing it."
The man sighed quietly.
That description is inaccurate.
The group turned back toward him.
Their expressions had shifted.
Not fear.
Not hostility.
Something worse.
Reverence tangled with terror.
The leader straightened.
"…Sir."
The man met his gaze.
"Yes?"
The leader hesitated.
"What are you?"
The man took the question seriously.
Human physiology: present.
Name: missing.
System: active.
World recognition: absent.
"I am a person," he said.
That did not help.
The tallest soldier dropped to one knee.
The others followed, armor clattering against dirt.
"Please forgive our disrespect," the leader said quickly. "We didn't know."
The man stared down at them.
This has escalated incorrectly.
"Stand."
They stayed where they were.
"Stand," he repeated, irritation leaking through.
That worked.
They scrambled upright, eyes averted.
He turned his attention back to the road.
"Is there a settlement ahead?"
"Yes," the leader said at once. "Westridge. Half a day's walk."
"Food?"
"Yes."
"Clothing?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He walked past them.
They parted without thinking.
Whispers followed behind him.
"Did you feel that?"
"He didn't threaten us."
"Then why does my chest hurt?"
The system chimed.
> [World Recognition: Slight Shift]
[Status: Unrecognized → Noticed (Early)]
He paused mid-step.
That was fast.
He continued forward.
Behind him, the leader bowed, lower than protocol demanded.
"Spread the word," he murmured. "If he asks for something, give it."
"What do we call him?" someone whispered.
The leader hesitated.
"…The Unanswered."
The name traveled faster than the man.
By the time he reached Westridge's outer fields, farmers had stopped working.
Tools hung forgotten in midair.
Children froze mid-game.
Dogs whimpered and hid behind fences.
No one blocked his path.
A merchant dropped a crate and left it where it fell.
He entered the town unchallenged.
I appear to be influencing behavior without intent.
The system answered.
> [Passive Presence Effect: Minimal]
[Cause: Psychological Projection]
"Acceptable," he muttered.
He stopped at the center of the street.
Buildings leaned inward, listening.
A woman peeked through a window and shut the shutters at once.
A gate guard swallowed and pretended to inspect his spear.
He exhaled slowly.
Information first.
He approached the nearest sign.
"Adventurers' Guild — Westridge Branch."
He stared at it for one second.
Statistically useful.
He pushed the door open.
Conversation inside died.
Dozens of eyes snapped toward him.
Armor creaked as bodies shifted into defensive readiness.
A mug slipped from someone's hand.
It shattered.
No one laughed.
The man stepped inside.
And the room, all at once, decided he was no longer Unrecognized.