A Lovely Diner in Drechuis Village

By the time evening fell and Shylock arrived at Drechuis, the village paths were deserted—no one lingered near the forge.

Shylock muttered, "Where'd they all go?"

It took over a minutes to tie his horse to a post. The man approached and opened the freshly repaired wooden door, looking almost new.

.

"Empty, huh?"

Inside the storeroom, only metal tools lined the shelves. Light filtered in, casting a faint glow—not dark, but no one was present except Shylock.

"I guess I should to log out," Shylock mumbled to himself.

Before he could act, a faint giggle drifted from the large barn. He spotted a red-haired man and a young woman playfully teasing each other.

"Len and Inea?"

It had to be them. Though their figures were hazy at over 200 meters, Shylock could confirm their identities.

Assuming Smith was with them, he headed toward a house near the barn.

.

.

"Easy with your hands! Stirring that hard will splash the stew everywhere," the young woman chided as murky broth spilled.

The red-haired youth defended himself, softening his stirring with the ladle. "Come on, I'm no cook. It's not often we get to do this together, right?"

"I've missed this place—and you too, Inea."

"Don't say silly things."

Upon arriving, Shylock found Len and Inea, the two seeming quite close.

"Hey, I'm back! What're you guys up to?"

Shylock greeted them. The three in the kitchen turned toward the merchant's voice, offering friendly hellos.

"We're prepping dinner. Care to join us, Shylock?" It was a village priestess, though she wasn't in her black clerical robes now. Dressed in an apron, she wasn't the religious healer but the household's elder sister.

"Oh no! The fire's out! Trisha, can you check it?" Inea noticed the charcoal stove's flames dying, the black coals turning white, the stew still undercooked before adding vegetables.

"Hold on, I'll handle it," Trisha replied. The young woman turned to her sister, who stared at the stove in confusion. Len stood nearby, scratching his head, puzzled by the extinguished fire.

"Alright…" Trisha murmured softly. She grabbed a dry straw, returned to the stove, and laid it on the white ash.

In an instant, a bright spark flared.

Whoosh!

The straw glowed like a heated metal wire with current flowing through it, and soon, the fire roared back to life on the ash pile.

"Wow… that's amazing!" Len was impressed. The two youths were thrilled to see the stove working again.

Magic.

Shylock observed, sensing it. He wasn't shocked but let his mind wander, brainstorming until he stood still.

"Uncle Shylock?"

"…Yeah?"

Inea called, snapping him back.

"Uncle Smith's here too. He's fixing machinery and farming tools in the village," she added.

"Oh, thanks, Inea."

Shylock left the kitchen. Turning left, he spotted Smith sanding a plow handle.

"Smith, I'm back," Shylock greeted.

Smith paused, finishing his task. The burly man turned. "You tough bastard, how'd the gun sales go this time?"

"Didn't expect a player to buy out the whole lot—327 coins!"

Shylock jangled his coin pouch, the metal clinking—though he'd dipped into his own funds to cover the bribe.

"327? Holy shit!!!! One day, 327 coins? Even a newbie playing a week couldn't earn that!" Smith exclaimed.

"Exactly, Smith. That's enough for a gold bar with 127 left over," Shylock added.

"Anyway, dinner's probably almost ready. We should join Trish's table tonight."

"Oh, I know about that."

"So, how do you feel about Project Aden now?" Shylock suddenly asked, curious about the atmosphere, the experience, from this cutting-edge game.

"Well… it's hard to say. The graphics are real, the vibe's immersive. It feels real enough, but Corner, I'm starting to doubt this is just a game." Smith looked up at the sky, catching the gentle evening breeze, the golden sunlight.

"The NPCs don't feel like typical game NPCs—just quest-givers or background characters. It's like I'm with real people. I feel like I've become a citizen of this world, like Aden's swallowing me. I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Didn't think a guy named Smith could say something that deep," Shylock chuckled, stepping closer. The two men faced the golden sunset sky, brighter than ever, with crow calls and the aroma of food wafting by.

"It's not like some anime where everyone's trapped in a game, right? Ha ha!" Smith cracked a joke. Shylock couldn't hold back a dry laugh.

"The people here are warm—friendly, easy to talk to, all lovable. I've helped fix their stuff, and they trade with me. It's the dream rural life."

"Glad you like it."

Just then, a voice interrupted—"Food's ready! Come eat together!"

It was the red-haired youth calling.

.

In a modest wooden house, the table was laden with food. Five souls dined together—meat stew with vegetables and berries, paired with slime jelly that felt like gelatin. They shared joy until nightfall, when Shylock and Smith retired under the forge's roof.

"What? Alric wants to hire you as a craftsman? No way! You can't go!" Shylock nearly lost it as Smith recounted Squire Lemon's offer.

Smith sat on a chair in the forge, eyeing the gun on the table. "But I told him I'd think about it, Shylock. He offered unlimited materials—means I could perfect the gun, develop the next weapon, get paid by Alric, and become chief craftsman. What do you—"

"Alric's money is NPC money!" Shylock cut in, pacing like he'd lost a key client.

"Smith, listen. If you work for the knight's workshop, you won't create anything of your own! You'll just be a hired hand, making guns to Alric's orders. One day, he might force you to craft spears, swords—stuff you don't even care about!"

"But here, materials are limited, and your money's too little to scale up big projects."

"But my money's from players!" Shylock pointed to the pouch from Thorun, grounding him.

"We're making real money in this game—dollars! Only players can convert in-game cash to real currency."

Shylock jabbed at the pouch. "See this?"

"Three hundred coins from Thorun. Players like him see the gun's value—they know guns better than anyone. NPC money can't buy a damn thing in the real world! But player money—Thorun, Silver Fang, other guilds—that's our power base!"

"And…"

Shylock recalled Sir Bigel. Connecting it with Smith's story, he realized Alric's rebellion might be real. Initially, he'd spun the tale to sway the young knight for business gain, but now he sensed danger and briefed Smith on his talk with Sir Bigel.

"Shylock, you're right. If I join Alric, that sly bastard might screw us over. We'd gain nothing and might have to restart characters."

Shylock gripped Smith's shoulder. "Smith, you're the heart of Drechuis. I sell guns because you make them. If you leave, I'd just be a shitty merchant. And don't forget Thorun—he bought every gun! If we bring Silver Fang on board, we could rule Serera, not just be a knight's craftsman!"

"But first, Kiebrav's politics are unstable. We can't do much. I'll contact Bigel to move to his father-in-law's city, the lord. Meanwhile, I'll reach out to Thorun for a partnership."

"You're right. But if you and Sir Bigel are friends, can I get a workshop?" Smith finally asked.

Shylock nodded. "I'll try."

With their talk done, the two logged out, their forms fading from the space.

.

Smith woke, removing the Neural Link driver from his head. His bedroom was dark. He got out of bed, checked the computer.

"One a.m. already?"

Twelve hours had passed, but in-game, it was over three days. Smith felt no fatigue, like he'd just dreamt.

Grrrowl!

His stomach growled. He remembered starting the game in the afternoon—he needed food.

Opening the fridge, Smith grabbed bread, butter, veggies, and bacon, frying them into a sandwich with toasted bread.

In the quiet night, he chose to rest. Time passed…

His eyelids closed, but his body felt energized, likely from the Neural Link using REM sleep for gameplay, like a vivid dream. Even wanting rest, he couldn't sleep. Smith got up, exercised until exhausted, then drifted off as faint sunlight crept in.

Cutting to Len, lying with Inea—they weren't asleep, chatting back-to-back until near dawn. Len, drowsy but content, turned to embrace her. Inea didn't resist, stroking his red hair reflecting moonlight through the window, revealing his soft face.

"Good night, Len."