The Seer did not have eyes. Where they should have been, the skin was smooth and unbroken, like a wax doll left too close to a fire. He didn't need eyes to see the script.
He stood in the center of the Rusty Tankard, his tattered grey robes dripping with the mud of the road. He tapped his gnarled staff against the floorboards—tap, tap, tap—a sound that echoed like a clock ticking down the final seconds of a life.
"The Red Hand comes," the Seer rasped. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over a grave. "At the hour of the wolf, the sky shall bleed. The hearths of Oakhaven shall turn to pyres. The seed must burn so the flower may bloom."
Sarah took a step back, gripping her mop like a spear. "Get out," she whispered. "We don't want your bad luck here."
The Seer turned his eyeless face toward her. "Luck is a myth, child. There is only the Weave. And the Weave is tightening."
Elian pushed himself up from the floor. He wiped the blood from his nose with his sleeve. He knew this NPC. The Seer was a [Global_Event_Trigger]. He didn't have a name. He didn't have a home. He simply spawned in towns one day before they were destroyed to provide foreshadowing.
"He's not bringing bad luck, Sarah," Elian said, his voice hollow. "He's reading the schedule."
Elian walked up to the Seer. "The Red Hand? The bandits?"
"The cleansers," the Seer corrected. "They bring the necessary tragedy. The Hero sleeps upstairs, does he not? He requires a wound. A loss to drive him forward. You are the kindling for his glory."
Elian felt a cold knot of rage tighten in his stomach. It was explicit. The System wasn't just indifferent; it was predatory. It was going to murder a hundred people just to give Prince Valerius a sad memory to reflect on.
"Not today," Elian snarled.
He grabbed the Seer by the shoulders. The old man felt frail, like a bundle of sticks held together by rags.
"How do we stop it?" Elian demanded. "Does the Hero have to fight them? Does he have to pay them off? Give me the win condition!"
The Seer smiled. It was a terrible, toothless expression.
"There is no stop," the Seer whispered. "The ink is dry. The chapter is written. Run, little background noise. Run and see how far your tether stretches."
Elian shoved the old man away. He turned to Sarah.
"Pack a bag," Elian ordered.
Sarah blinked. "What?"
"Pack a bag. Food, water, sturdy boots. Don't take anything sentimental. Just survival gear."
"Elian, stop it," Sarah said, her voice trembling. "He's just a crazy old man. The Red Hand operates three valleys over. They've never come this far north."
"They have a pathfinding update," Elian said, grabbing her shoulders. "Sarah, listen to me. I saw the Hero's quest log. I saw the hidden flags. This village is going to burn tonight. Not maybe. Definitely."
Sarah looked into his eyes. She saw the blood on his face, the terror in his gaze. She saw that he wasn't playing a role anymore.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Go," Elian pushed her toward the kitchen. "Get the supplies. Meet me at the West Gate in twenty minutes. I have to warn the others."
Elian didn't wait. He sprinted out of the tavern into the dying light of the afternoon.
The village of Oakhaven was beautiful in the sunset. The golden light filtered through the leaves of the ancient oak trees, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestones. Children were playing tag near the fountain. Old Man Miller was back at his fruit stand, happily stacking apples, having forgotten that Valerius smashed his crates earlier.
It was a perfect, peaceful scene. A perfect scene to destroy.
Elian ran to the bakery first. The smell of yeast and warm sugar hung in the air.
"Thomas!" Elian banged on the door. "Thomas, open up!"
The door swung open. Thomas the Baker stood there, wiping flour from his hands. "Elian! A bit late for the morning delivery, isn't it? Though I suppose I have some stale rolls if—"
"We have to leave," Elian interrupted, breathless. "Bandits are coming. A raid. We have to evacuate the village."
Thomas paused. His smile faltered, replaced by a confused frown. His eyes darted to the left, as if reading a cue card that wasn't there.
"Leave?" Thomas chuckled nervously. "But... the dough is rising. It needs to prove for another hour."
"Forget the dough!" Elian grabbed Thomas's apron. "They're going to kill everyone, Thomas! Get your wife. Get the cart. We go to the caves."
"I... I can't," Thomas said. The confusion in his eyes deepened into distress. "The festival is tomorrow. I promised the Mayor three dozen tarts. If I leave, who will bake the tarts?"
"There is no festival!" Elian shouted. He shook the big man. "Thomas, look at me! You're going to die!"
Thomas's face went slack. The code was fighting the logic. [Error: NPC Schedule Conflict.]
"I have to bake," Thomas whispered, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. He didn't know why he was crying. "I have to bake. That's what I do. I'm the Baker."
Elian stared at him. He realized then that Thomas couldn't understand. His identity was hard-coded to his function.
"Thomas," Elian said, his voice breaking. "Please."
"I have to check the oven," Thomas said robotically. He gently removed Elian's hands from his apron. "Safe travels, Elian."
He closed the door. Elian heard the lock click.
Elian backed away. He turned and ran to the Smithy.
"Barnaby!"
The Blacksmith was hammering a horseshoe. Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Barnaby, we need to run!"
Barnaby didn't stop hammering. "Can't leave the fire, lad. It'll go out."
"Let it go out!"
"Steel gets cold," Barnaby grunted. Clang. "Cold steel cracks."
Elian ran to the Mayor's house. He ran to the flower shop. He ran to the school.
It was the same everywhere.
"I have to grade papers."
"My roses need watering."
"The Mayor is in a meeting."
They were trapped. Not by walls, but by their own relevance. They were scenery. Scenery doesn't move when the stage catches fire. Scenery burns to make the fire look brighter.
Elian stood in the center of the village square. The sun was dipping below the horizon. The shadows were getting long and sharp.
He checked the [Suspension of Disbelief].
[SoD: 95%]
The System was happy. The NPCs were behaving exactly as they should: like sheep waiting for the slaughter.
"Elian!"
Sarah ran up to him. She had a heavy canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a kitchen knife tucked into her belt. She looked terrified, but she was moving.
"I got the food," she said. "Where are the others?"
Elian looked at the closed doors of the bakery, the smithy, the homes.
"They're not coming," Elian whispered.
Sarah looked around. "What? Did you tell them?"
"They can't hear me," Elian said. "They... they're stuck."
"Then we drag them," Sarah said fiercely. She started toward the bakery.
"No time," Elian caught her arm. He pointed to the ridge line to the east.
A single red signal flare rose into the purple sky. It hung there for a moment, a blood-shot eye looking down at the village, before bursting into a shower of sparks.
[Event Start: The Red Hand Raid]
"We have to go," Elian said. "Now."
He grabbed Sarah's hand and pulled her toward the West Gate.
They sprinted past the fountain, past the "Welcome to Oakhaven" sign. The gate was open. Beyond it lay the road to the capital, and safety.
"Come on!" Elian yelled.
He ran through the archway of the gate. His boots hit the dirt road outside.
He felt a jerk.
Sarah wasn't beside him.
Elian spun around. Sarah was standing exactly on the threshold of the gate. Her hand was outstretched, her fingers inches from his, but she had stopped dead.
Her face was contorted in pain. She was pushing forward, leaning her entire body weight against empty air.
"Sarah?" Elian stepped back toward her.
"I... I can't," Sarah gasped. She pushed harder. Her boots slipped on the cobblestones. "Elian, I can't move."
Elian reached out. He grabbed her hand. He pulled.
It was like pulling against a mountain.
[System Alert: NPC [Sarah_Barmaid] cannot leave designated Zone [Oakhaven_Village] without accompanying [Quest_Player].]
Elian stared at the notification.
"No," he whispered.
"It hurts," Sarah cried, tears streaming down her face. "It feels like... like a wall."
"It's the Zone," Elian realized. The horror washed over him, colder than any winter. "You're not a Companion yet. You're not in the Party. You're an environmental asset."
He looked at Valerius's location on his mental map. The Prince was upstairs in the tavern, asleep.
"Valerius," Elian said. "We need Valerius. If he invites you... if he adds you to the party..."
"He won't," Sarah sobbed. She stopped pushing against the invisible wall and slumped against the gatepost. "He hates me. I poured ale on him."
"I can fix it," Elian said frantically. "I can edit his opinion. I can—"
Thwip.
An arrow struck the wooden post inches from Sarah's head. The fletching was red.
Elian spun around.
On the eastern ridge, silhouettes appeared. Dozens of them. They carried torches.
"The Red Hand!" a villager screamed from the square.
The raid had begun.
"Go, Elian," Sarah said. She pushed him away. "You're out. You made it. Just run."
Elian looked at the open road. He looked at the forest where he could hide. He looked at his [HP: 6/10] and his [Ink: 4/10]. He was free. He had evolved. He could leave this doomed place and never look back.
He looked at Sarah. She was trembling, holding her kitchen knife, staring at the approaching torches with the wide, terrified eyes of someone who knows they are about to die for a plot point.
Elian looked at the System message again.
NPC cannot leave... without accompanying [Quest_Player].
"I'm not leaving," Elian said.
He stepped back through the gate. Back into the Zone. Back into the trap.
"Elian, you idiot!" Sarah screamed.
"We need the Hero," Elian said, his voice hard. "We need to wake him up. And we need to make him care."
He looked at the tavern, where smoke was already curling from the chimney—and soon, from the windows.
"Come on," Elian said, grabbing her hand again. "We have a sleeping demigod to annoy."
He turned toward the oncoming hoard of bandits. The music shifted. The gentle flute of the village theme died, replaced by the pounding war-drums of the raid track.
Elian reached into his pocket and gripped the Red Pen.
[New Objective: Weaponize the Hero.]
[Time Limit: Until the Inn burns down.]