Sparks and Questions

The inside of the shelter was warmer than Ren expected.

A wood-burning stove radiated heat from one corner, its pipe connected to the chimney he'd seen outside. The structure was sturdier up close—thick wooden beams supported the ceiling, and stone lined the walls near the forge to prevent heat damage. Tools hung from hooks hammered into wooden pegs. There were no decorations, no ornaments, and no signs of luxury—only function.

The woman moved with practiced ease. She didn't ask Ren to sit, nor did she offer him anything more than a glance once they were inside. She returned to the table near the stove, grabbed a knife, and began slicing dried roots into a pot already simmering over the fire.

Ren didn't interrupt.

He stood near the entrance, boots just inside the threshold, observing everything. There was a sleeping mat tucked into the far corner, folded neatly. A stack of cut logs rested against the wall. Three crates—sealed and unmarked—sat side by side near a barrel that collected runoff water.

No signs of wealth. Just isolation.

"How long have you been out here?" Ren finally asked.

The woman scraped the chopped roots into the pot and gave it a stir. "Long enough."

"I didn't see anyone else in the woods."

"There isn't anyone else."

She still hadn't given her name. Ren didn't push. Instead, he turned slightly and looked out the open door, watching how the afternoon light shifted over the clearing.

"You said something about a village," he said. "How far is it?"

She tapped the spoon against the edge of the pot, then looked over at him for the first time since entering.

"Four days southeast if you know the way. Longer if you don't."

Ren absorbed that. "Is it safe?"

"No place is safe. But it's settled land. You'll find farmers, a few traders, guild hands. If you make it."

He nodded.

The woman crossed the room, grabbed a wooden bowl from a shelf, and ladled stew into it. She held it out without fanfare.

Ren accepted it carefully.

It smelled sharp—herbs, something bitter, something meaty beneath it. He took a cautious sip. The flavor was rough but filling. Game meat. Root vegetables. Salted water.

He sat near the door, keeping distance without being rude. She returned to her seat by the stove, her eyes on the fire.

"You don't talk much," he said quietly.

"I don't need to."

Fair.

They ate in silence for a while. The only sounds were the crackle of fire and the distant rustling of wind through the trees. At one point, the woman stood and checked the metal rod she'd left outside. She brought it in with tongs, placing it onto a rack near the forge.

Ren watched her without speaking. Her movements weren't clumsy—she knew how to handle heat, how to shape steel, how to temper blades. But her setup was minimal. It was the kind of forge built for necessity, not trade.

When she sat back down, Ren finally asked, "You a smith?"

"I was."

"Not anymore?"

"I still know how."

She didn't elaborate. Ren didn't ask again.

He finished his stew and set the bowl aside. "Thank you."

The woman nodded once. Then: "Why are you out here?"

It was the first question she'd asked since meeting him.

Ren answered honestly. "Trying to survive."

She looked at him for a long time. Then, without a word, she stood and crossed to the back wall. She moved one of the crates aside and lifted a floor panel beneath it. From the hidden space, she pulled a wrapped bundle—linen cloth tied tightly with leather string.

She carried it back and dropped it beside him.

Ren waited. When she didn't move, he opened it.

Inside was a rolled set of hand tools.

Hammers, wedges, a chisel, small saws. Used but well-maintained.

"I have spares," she said. "If you're serious about surviving, you'll need more than just clean water and cooked meat."

Ren looked up. "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing yet."

"Yet?"

"You'll either die in a week or you won't. If you don't, you'll remember this."

He wrapped the tools again and nodded.

"I will."

Ren stayed the night in the shelter. The woman didn't say he could. She just didn't tell him to leave.

She unrolled an extra mat for him near the wall furthest from the stove and tossed him a rough wool blanket. Then she climbed into her own bed without another word.

He lay awake for a while, staring at the rafters.

There were no system windows that night—no glowing pop-ups, no whispers of new abilities.

Just the quiet breathing of a stranger across the room and the crackling fire between them.

He woke early. Not because of any noise—just a sense of habit. Of caution.

The woman was already up, feeding the stove.

"Eat before you go," she said, sliding a bowl toward him. No greeting, no warmth, but not hostility either. Just… routine.

Ren ate. Then he packed the tools she'd given him carefully into his makeshift rucksack, rolled up the blanket, and checked the outside gear he'd left near the shelter entrance. His fishing line was coiled, his small satchel of meat and foraged roots untouched.

He strapped everything in place, gave the shelter one last look, and turned to the woman.

"I'll remember," he said.

She gave a small nod without meeting his eyes.

He left without another word.

---

The forest was quieter now. Not safer—he didn't think that was possible. But the path felt more deliberate.

He used the sun as his guide, angling southeast the way the woman had indicated. With no real road, it was more guesswork than anything, but he kept his bearings as best he could, marking trees and watching for landmarks.

By midday, the ground began to change. The dense trees thinned slightly, and he saw signs of old human movement—fallen branches cut cleanly, a rotting wooden post with half a rusted chain still attached.

By afternoon, the air shifted again.

Voices.

Distant ones.

Ren dropped low, crouched behind a thick bush, and listened.

Footsteps. Heavy, armored. Not marching—but confident.

Then the voices got clearer.

"Damn thing nearly took my leg off," one man was saying.

Another voice laughed. "That's what you get for poking at a burrow with a spear like a fool."

Two men passed not ten meters from where Ren crouched. One was broad-shouldered, wearing a chainmail shirt over leather. A longsword hung from his hip. The other wore lighter gear—a bow on his back and knives strapped across his chest.

They didn't see him.

Adventurers.

Ren waited until they were gone, heart steady, before standing.

He didn't know whether to approach them or keep his distance. But it confirmed something for him: there were people who lived by hunting and fighting. Professionals. Fighters. That meant somewhere out there, there were groups—organized ones. Guilds.

And if he could find one, maybe he could get started properly.

Not just scavenging.

But building a place.

---

That evening, he reached the edge of what looked like a worn footpath. It was faint, but clearly man-made. A slight trench, packed down over time. It curved south, disappearing over a hill.

He followed it.

By dusk, he smelled smoke—not forest fire, but cooking fires. Controlled ones.

Then came the voices again—dozens this time. Laughter, shouting, even music.

He climbed the last rise and stopped dead.

Below was a village—small, fenced with rough timber logs. Torches burned at the gate, and a watch post stood on stilts to one side.

He counted maybe two dozen buildings. No stone walls. No battlements. Just a frontier village, rugged but alive.

And people.

A merchant cart stood at the gate. Two guards checked it while a woman in heavy cloth robes argued with a tall man carrying what looked like an axe twice her height.

A guild hall might be here. Or at least someone who knew of one.

Ren's stomach growled, and his legs ached from the march. But more than that—he felt a pull.

This was the first sign of structure in a world that had tried to kill him at every turn.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, took a breath, and walked down the path toward the village lights.

The road down into the village was muddy, but not wild. Boots had worn ruts into the soil. Cart tracks crisscrossed in shallow grooves. The wooden gate stood open, though two guards flanked it—one leaning on a spear, the other crouched and sharpening a short blade.

They looked up as Ren approached.

He slowed, raising both hands slightly to show he wasn't armed—not visibly, anyway.

The standing guard, a woman in her thirties with sun-dried skin and a rough green scarf tied around her hair, eyed him carefully.

"You're a bit late for trade," she said. "Caravan's already moved through."

"I'm not with any caravan," Ren replied.

"You look like you crawled out of the woods."

"I did," he said.

That earned him a raised eyebrow. "You alone?"

"Yes."

She glanced at her companion, who gave a slight shrug and went back to his whetstone.

"You'll find the inn two rows down, left side. Don't cause trouble."

Ren nodded. "Thanks."

He stepped into the village.

It wasn't large—maybe fifty or sixty people at most. The buildings were sturdy but plain, mostly wooden cabins with steep thatched roofs. Firelight flickered in windows, and the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air.

Children chased each other barefoot across a narrow alley. A man with soot-stained hands hammered something in an open forge. A woman dumped a pail of water onto a dirt path outside what looked like a bakery.

It was the most alive Ren had felt since arriving in this world.

But the village wasn't without edge. He noticed the number of weapons. Axes leaned against porches. Knives hung on belts, even among farmers. People didn't carry arms casually here—they did it out of necessity.

And survival.

He found the inn where the guard had said it would be: a two-story structure with a wooden sign carved with a boar's head swinging from chains above the door. The windows glowed with warm yellow light, and the scent of stew spilled into the night air as he pushed inside.

The tavern hall quieted for half a second when he entered. Not out of fear—but unfamiliarity.

Then the noise resumed: conversation, clanking mugs, laughter.

A short man behind the counter, likely the innkeeper, gave him a glance.

"Looking for a bed?" he asked.

"Yes," Ren said. "One night."

"Two silvers. Food's extra."

Ren opened the small pouch he'd made out of hide and bark. Inside were four copper pieces and a single silver coin he'd scavenged from the abandoned supply crate a week ago.

"Can I work it off?" Ren asked.

The innkeeper stared.

Then smirked. "You're new."

"Very."

"You're lucky." He jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. "Old lady back there's short on firewood. You split her a stack, and you can sleep in the attic. No food."

"I'll take it."

---

By the time the logs were split and stacked, his arms ached and his palms burned.

But the attic was dry, and the blanket, though coarse, was clean. He curled up on the straw mat as night swallowed the village outside.

And when he finally slept, the system returned.

---

System Update – Conditions Met: First Human Settlement Reached

New Ability Available (Pending Sleep Processing):

• Basic Trade Negotiation

• Inventory Weight Tolerance +10%

• Passive: Local Map Memory (Limited Radius)

Next Milestone: First Registered Affiliation

---

Ren closed the window with a blink. He didn't know what 'Registered Affiliation' meant exactly—but he had a guess.

Guilds. Factions. Belonging.

It aligned with what he'd started to feel since meeting the woman in the woods. Since splitting firewood for food. Since standing in a place where people lived.

If he wanted to survive long-term, this was the path.

He didn't know what lay ahead—but for once, he wasn't entirely alone.