– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  The morning sun shone down brightly on the town of Wintermoss, a low buzzing in the background as the people went about their daily routine. The air hummed with the sounds of daily life - the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of smallfolk going about their business. It was a decently sized settlement, home to over three thousand souls eking out a living in the harsh landscape of the North. The air was crisp and cold, biting at Greg's nose and cheeks as he trudged through the muddy streets. His muscles ached from the long night's trek and a lack of sleep, but he pushed the fatigue aside, focusing on the task at hand.

  Greg had only just walked into town after a long night's trek with all the captured near-slaves, his return to Wintermoss after leaving it several hours before oddly quick. The town looked different in the daylight, less creepy and more... well, medieval. Thatched roofs, timber frames, and the occasional stone building dotted the landscape. The smell of woodsmoke and something less pleasant - probably sewage, Greg thought with a grimace - hung in the air.

  He found himself leaning against a wooden post not too far from the father who had hired him, an owner of a small brewery, one hand idly rubbing the smooth white piece of wood that hung from his twine necklace. The man had just finished embracing his son and was now yelling at the eight-year-old who had gotten himself captured by bandits. Berrin, the kid, was staring at the ground as his father admonished him, looking like he wanted to sink into the mud beneath his feet.

  Ye addlepated fool of a boy!" the father bellowed, his face red with a mix of relief and anger. "What was ye thinkin', wanderin' off like that? Ye coulda been killed! Or worse!"

  Greg winced at the volume. Geez, give the kid a break. He's been through enough.

  The man continued his tirade, his Northern accent thick with emotion. "We was worried sick, ye 'ear? Yer mum's been cryin' 'er eyes out, thinkin' ye was dead!"

  Berrin mumbled something, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

  "Speak up, boy! I can't 'ear ye when ye's mumblin' like a simpleton!"

  "I'm sorry, Da," Berrin said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to worry ye. I just... I just wanted to see th' 'ills."

  The father's face softened slightly, but his voice remained stern. "Aye, well, ye've seen 'em now, 'aven't ye? And nearly got yerself killed in th' process. Ye'll not be leavin' th' 'ouse for a month, ye 'ear me?"

  First things first, Greg had delivered the other rescued smallfolk to the town headman. Said headman, a grizzled old man with a limp and a missing eye, had readily agreed to house them in the town hall until runners could be sent to their home villages.

  Huh. Wonder why he was so quick to do what I asked? Greg pondered, scratching his chin. Maybe because everyone keeps thinking I'm some kind of lordling or something?

  He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I'm just doing my part," he spoke under his breath. "No big deal."

  Honest.

  Greg rolled his eyes, and nodded to himself, "I'm just doing my part."

  He glanced down at his hand, thinking back to what happened on the trek out of the outpost in the Lonely Hills with the people the bandits captured. He had felt that weird level-up thing again, finally.

  That strange feeling of his soul...expanding, for lack of a better word. It had happened three times during the fight with the bandits.

  Last time something like that happened was a month ago, he recalled, brow furrowing. Right after I first got to the Lonely Hills. Right after...

  His eyes narrowed slightly. Merek.

  The memory of that encounter sent a shiver down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. Greg shook his head, trying to focus on the present.

  Forcibly pushing the thought aside, Greg focused on the new...what, powers? Abilities? Whatever they were. That last skill he'd picked up had been some kind of people-finding radar. Like he could sense missing persons somehow. Weird, but hey, weirder things have happened. Like randomly getting a magic sword with a bit of my soul in it. Or conjuring gold strength-boosting armbands out of thin air. Or having an entire new outfit just poof into existence...

  But last night...

  Last night had been a whole 'nother level of bizarre. He'd gotten a whole slew of new memories. Flashes of a life growing up in some strange elven ninja village, learning the ways of the shadow warrior.

  Not a great one, but still... "What the fuck?" he scoffed, earning a strange look from a passing villager. I mean, I wasn't a great ninja wizard or anything, but still! Since when is that a thing?

  In comparison, the other two abilities seemed almost mundane. His sword had gotten some kind of upgrade, letting it function like...what, a magic wand?

  "Gonna need to test that one out," he mused, mind already racing with possibilities. Maybe I can shoot fireballs or something. That'd be sweet.

  The other one was what felt like something tiny settling in his soul.

  And by tiny, he meant TINY.

  But he felt it, still.

  It popped up when I was thinking about the hurt and thirsty kids on the way back here, Greg recalled. Something to do with water and healing? I felt...attuned to it, somehow.

  "Whatever that means.”

  Greg rolled his eyes, a heavy bag over his shoulders as he walked away from the yelling father, Ash trotting by his side. The bear cub let out a small grunt, as if sensing Greg's frustration.

  "I know, buddy," Greg said, reaching down to scratch behind Ash's ears. "This place is weird as hell."

  Good thing I got my pay before Dad of the Year started chewing out his kid, he thought wryly. The five gleaming silver stags clinked dully in his pouch, nestled amongst dozens of other silver coins and a few coppers. Spoils from the now very deceased bandits - weapons, valuables, and cold hard cash.

  The bag on his back was full of all the other stuff he had raided from the place. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the night's events. Maybe I should feel bad about looting the place, but... eh.

  And now...

  Waste not, want not, Greg figured, hefting the sack of ill-gotten loot. His eyes focused on a sturdy stone and timber building, incongruously solid amidst the more ramshackle structures of the town. Even the thatched roof looked thicker, better made. Weathered, but reliable.

  The sign above the door creaked slightly in the morning breeze.

  "Wintermoss Post... hm, to the point."

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  The door protested with a loud creak as Greg pushed it open, the heavy wood scraping against the packed earth floor. A gust of frigid morning air rushed in alongside him, the chill wind biting at his exposed skin. But the cold was quickly overwhelmed by the warmth radiating from the trading post's hearth, the crackling fire a welcome respite from the harsh elements outside.

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  As Greg stepped fully inside, his senses were assaulted by the building's unique aroma—a blend of leather, fur, and something metallic that hung heavy in the air. It was the scent of iron and sweat, as if the very walls had absorbed the essence of countless transactions over the years.

  Man, this place smells like my gym locker and a Renaissance fair had a baby, Greg thought, wrinkling his nose slightly.

  His eyes were immediately drawn to the clutter that seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the space. To his left, rough-hewn shelves groaned under the weight of small barrels filled with dried fish, their briny scent adding to the overall miasma. Beside them, sacks of grain were piled haphazardly, tied loosely at the top with fraying twine.

  To the right, an assortment of tools hung from wooden pegs set into the wall—axes, sickles, hammers—their edges dulled by age and heavy use, but still appearing sturdy enough to last a few more seasons, at least. Above them, well out of casual reach, were the real valuables: swords and blades of various shapes and sizes, carefully wrapped in cloth to protect them from prying eyes and sticky fingers.

  Tetanus City, population: all this shit, Greg mused, eyeing a particularly precarious stack.

  Every inch of the wall space seemed to be claimed by something—bundles of dried herbs, coils of rope, even odd trinkets from far-off places: a carved bone whistle, a bit of southern silk, tarnished but real. The place was completely empty of any customers, unsurprising given that the morning was just starting.

  A large counter dominated the center of the room, its surface scratched and worn from decades of transactions. Behind it stood the post's owner, a grizzled man with a graying beard as thick as the rest of him, and eyes as sharp as a whetstone. He glanced up briefly from his ledger, sizing up Greg as he entered without much interest at first, only for the man's eyes to widen as he properly took him in.

  Great, another 'holy crap, it's a kid' look. Just what I needed this morning.

  To his side, an iron scale, blackened with use, sat near a few scattered coins—mostly copper pennies, but the glint of a silver stag caught the light from the fire. Greg found his eyes drawn to it, remembering the weight of his own coin purse. It felt good to have money, even if it was in a currency he still didn't fully understand.

  Greg strode forward and walked over to the counter, slinging the bag off his shoulder. He let it thud on the counter with a muffled jangle of mixed treasures and trinkets. The sound caught the tradesman's attention fully now, his eyes sharpening not out of curiosity, but clear greed.

  The blond found himself recognizing it, the same look on Merek's face familiar now. It sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning cold.

  "Well, now," the tradesman rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "What's this, then? Traveler brings gifts, or trouble?"

  Greg quirked a half-smile, quickly untying the bag's top to reveal the jumbled contents within: three bows, two greatswords, a longsword, two bastard swords, three thinner-than-a-bastard swords, six daggers, two padded jerkins, and three sets of worn leather armor. The scent of blood, faint but unmistakable, wafted up from the pile.

  "Neither," Greg replied easily, watching as the tradesman's eyes darted over the goods. "Just looking to sell. Lighten the load a bit, you know?"

  The man reached out almost reverently, calloused fingers brushing against the hilt of a particularly ornate dagger, the leather wrappings faded but still intricately detailed. "An' where'd a young lad like yerself come by such fine goods, if I may ask?" His tone was light, but the underlying question rang clear.

  "Found 'em," Greg said instead, keeping his own tone casual even as he watched the tradesman's face carefully. "Bandits' stash, out in the hills. Took out the camp, so they won't be needing this stuff anymore. Figured it was better off here than rusting away out there."

  The tradesman let out a dry, rasping chuckle, both appraisal and disbelief fighting for a place in his eyes. "Bandits, eh? Ye look a mite…untouched fer a lordling what's been fightin' bandits in th' Hills."

  Greg's chuckle was dry, his hand absentmindedly touching the pommel of his sword. "...yeah, sure."

  The man harrumphed, but the lure of profit drew his attention back to the bag like a lodestone. He began to sift through the contents with the speed and surety of long practice, setting aside the choicest items and pushing the less desirable ones off to the side.

  "Fine goods indeed," he spoke aloud, more to himself than to Greg. "I'll give ye a fair price for th' lot, minus a finder's fee, of course."

  Greg watched him work, noting the quick, greedy movements. "Long as it's fair," he said, his tone carrying a slight edge. "Fought last night. Took a long walk into town this morning. Not in the mood for cheats."

  The tradesman paused his next words, his eyes meeting Greg's, spotting the sword on his back. Something in Greg's expression must have given him pause, because the greed in his eyes was quickly replaced by a hint of... was that fear?

  "Fair, aye. Always fair 'ere," the man said, his voice a touch softer than before.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  Greg stepped out of the trading post, his mind swirling with thoughts of a well-deserved rest. Ash, comfortably nestled on his shoulder, let out a soft grunt as the cold morning air hit them. Greg's pouch felt heavier, now one hundred and fifty something stags richer. The weight of the coins was a constant reminder of his successful, if bloody, night.

  He nodded to himself slowly, a frown creasing his brow. "...that guy definitely cheated me."

  Whatever, he shrugged, scratching Ash behind the ears. Not like he really cared all that much, considering he had left the rest of the shit in the bag with the trading guy. Being real, there was no way he was seriously gonna carry all that to another town. I mean, come on. Do I look like a pack mule? Back’s already killing me.

  Greg's eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for a sign, any indication of a decent inn where he could rest. Sure, he had more stamina and he was a good bit tougher… but there were fuckin’ limits, goddamnit. Even isekai heroes needed their beauty sleep.

  As he navigated through the mostly empty morning streets of Wintermoss, his boots crunched on the frost-covered ground echoed off the timber and stone buildings. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind already drifting to thoughts of warm blankets and soft pillows. The few early risers shuffling about with bleary eyes and hunched shoulders seemed to share his exhaustion.

  He was so focused on finding somewhere to crash that he almost missed the old woman until she was right in front of him, her frail form materializing from between two buildings like a ghost.

  She stood before him, dressed in what he could only describe as rags, eyes wide with a desperate urgency, her gray hair as thin and wispy as her bony frame. Trembling hands clutched a small doll, the fabric stained a dark, ominous red that could only be blood.

  "Find 'im, please, m'lord," the old woman pleaded, her voice cracking with raw desperation. "Ye must."

  Greg blinked, taken aback by both the sudden address and the unexpected title. M'lord? He still wasn’t used to villagers just assuming shit like people couldn’t wear nice clothes or be clean for no reason. "What? I can't...who?"

  Without hesitation, the old woman thrust the doll into his hands, her voice breaking with each word. "Find th' man who killed 'er. My Sera...please, m'lord. Find th' bastard an' gut 'im like th’ pig ‘e is. I beg ye."

  Greg held the doll awkwardly, his face a mask of shock as he tried to process her words. The weight of it felt unnatural in his hands, heavy with a raw, sinister aura he couldn't quite understand. What the hell? This thing feels...wrong. Like it's pulsing with some kind of dark juju. The fabric seemed to throb against his skin, thick and cloying with something he couldn’t exactly see.

  "I...I'm not sure I—" he began, but the woman cut him off, her voice rising in pitch.

  "Ye must, m'lord! Ye must! Th' gods, they whisper o' ye, a man who finds th' lost, who sees beyond th' veils. I know it, I do!"

  The gods? Okay, this is getting way too weird, even for me. "Look, lady, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not—"

  Suddenly, a man rushed over, grabbing the old woman gently but firmly by the arm. "M'lord, forgive us. Old Mara...she used to be our woods witch, not right in th' head, ye see. Lost 'er daughter an' goodson, an' then 'er granddaughter four moons past ...it broke 'er, it did. Forgive ‘er, if ye would"

  The old woman, Mara, looked up at Greg with pleading eyes, her gnarled hands still extended towards him as if the doll held the key to her salvation. Fuck. I can't just ignore this, can I? She looks so...broken.

  "It's alright," Greg said softly, meeting Mara's desperate gaze. "I understand. But this—this isn't something I usually—"

  "Please, m'lord," Mara interrupted, his voice dropping to a shaking whisper as she stared deep into his eyes. "Ye can find 'im, can't ye? Th' one what spilled blood on th' snow? Pour 'is blood back to th' earth, spill ‘is guts and make ‘im beg for mercy, return 'im to th' Old Gods..."

  "Mara!" the man hissed, his grip tightening on the old woman's arm. "Mind yer tongue!"

  Greg looked down at the doll in his hand, feeling the magic that clung to it like a miasma—an echo of pain and a clear, dark path to follow. This is insane. I'm not some kind of magic detective. I can't just...

  But even as the thought formed, he could feel the trail unspooling before him, not just a physical path, but a magical one, a link to the perpetrator still fresh with malice and sorrow. Son of a bitch. I can, can't I?

  "Please, m'lord," the man pleaded, his face lined with worry. "I beg of ye. Forgive 'er. She don't know what she's sayin'..."

  Greg sighed heavily, the weight of the doll seeming to grow heavier by the second. "I said it's fine, okay? I'll...shit." He ran a hand through his hair, the blonde strands sticking up wildly. "I'll handle it."

  The man sagged with relief, his weathered face creasing into a grateful smile. "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye. May th' Old Gods bless ye."

  With that, he quickly led Mara away, the old woman's sobs fading into the bustle of the waking town. Greg stood there, alone, the doll pulsing in his hand like a thing alive. What the hell did I just agree to?

  He could feel it, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a gingerbread house of horrors. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

  But he knew, deep down, that he couldn't just walk away. Not now. Not with the echoes of Mara's anguish still ringing in his ears. Goddamnit.

  Greg looked down at Ash, the bear cub peering up at him with curious eyes. "Well, fuck.”

  Northern Bane (Kill 10 Northerners) - 200 GP

  Breaker of Chains - 200 GP

  Roll: Device [Lyrical Nanoha] {Magitek} (Free) - "A Device could be seen as a high-tech magic wand. It aids with the complex math involved in manipulating Mana into spells. There are many different levels of power, intelligence and complexity. This grants you a base Device which you can customize with other perks."

  Roll: Freebies [World Seed] {Modus} (Free) - "All people playing Neolife may choose two schools of magic to start with, and so do you. There’s a school of magic for pretty much everything, including Gravity, Sound, Barrier, Blood, Aura, Origin (the creation of matter ex nihilo), Solar, and Summoning magic. Of course, there’s also a field of magic for any element you can think of and more, such as Fire and Earth magic, and even Nature magic and Technomancy exist.

  You can also pick two affinities to start off with at 5%. Affinities, in case you don’t know yet, can be literally anything. If something exists, it has a mana signature. And if something has a mana signature, the signature can be forged (cultivated) and controlled. Be it an affinity for life, fur, time, leaves, bark, a specific fetish, or something more abstract like luck, order, madness, or chaos, the variety of affinities is truly endless.

  Grimoire Points: 650