Rowan dragged himself forward like a wounded animal, instincts screaming that he was too exposed. Nearby, a massive willow tree twisted from the riverbank, its long, drooping branches brushing the water like nature’s curtain, offering just enough cover to disappear. Beneath its canopy, the world was muffled—sound softened by the dense veil of hanging leaves. Dappled light filtered through in streaks of gold and green, dancing across the damp earth. The air was thick with the scent of moss, wet bark, and river mist. It felt like a sanctuary, hidden and ancient, where time moved slower and wounds could be forgotten—at least for a while.
In less than a day, he had fallen from the heights of fame—selling out arenas, adored by thousands—to lying broken and half-dead beneath a willow's shade. This wasn’t the first time he’d crossed the wrong line with another man’s wife, but never had the price been so steep, or the betrayal so sharp.
"She wanted it—wasn't even subtle about it," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. He couldn't entirely blame her. He was classically handsome: tall, lean, with striking ginger hair, well-kept facial hair, pale skin, and piercing green eyes that had once graced magazine covers and backstage walls alike. No one had ever accused him of being humble.
One of his daggers was gone—whether it had been taken by the river or the group, he couldn't say. Only one remained, sheathed at his side. Thankfully, the pouch on his belt had survived. He pulled out a vial of thick red liquid, uncorked it with trembling fingers, and drank. Warmth spread through his battered frame like fire in his veins. The wounds didn’t fully close, and the ache still clung to his muscles, but it was enough. Rolling his shoulder with a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet.
As the sun dipped low, casting a warm amber hue through the willow's curtain, the place carried a strange sense of calm—almost sacred in its stillness. Rowan gathered a few dry branches scattered nearby and began to build a fire with ease. Most people assumed he was a pampered star who couldn’t even wipe his own arse without a groupies help. But they didn’t know the man behind the fame. His dad had taken him and his sister camping often, teaching them how to survive without a stage or spotlight. To celebrate his first album release, his father had dragged him into the wilderness for a week-long trek—no power, no signal, just nature and silence. Rowan hadn’t appreciated it then, but now? Now he clung to those memories like lifelines.
The fire crackled softly as Rowan finally allowed himself to relax. But a flicker of movement beyond the leaf curtain caught his eye. Rising slowly, he stepped out into the dusk, dagger in hand. It was only wind blowing the reed that grew on the bank of the river. It gave him an idea.
Music had always been his sanctuary—he was a nerd for it, obsessed. Guitars, violin, tuba, flutes, harps, drums—if it made a sound, he’d mastered it. His hands itched for a rhythm, for something familiar to ground him.
He knelt and sliced a stalk of bamboo-like reed, its surface tinged with an unusual turquoise sheen. The plant was segmented, hollow, and about the width of his thumb—perfect. He turned it in his hand, already envisioning the instrument it would become.
He muttered, “Dad always said: when the woods are quiet, give 'em something to sing about.”
With practiced ease, he began scraping away the outer layer of the reed, the edge of his dagger glinting in the firelight. It was rougher than the camping knife he'd once used for this exact purpose, long ago. He hadn’t made an instrument since he was a kid—his very first flute, carved under his father's watchful eye during one of their forest trips. And here he was in this new world, doing something so mundane.
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At first, he’d actually felt a flicker of excitement being brought into this new world. The burden of fame, the endless pressure of his career—it had all been slowly wearing him down. He thought this world might be simpler, even with its magic and madness. When they made him choose a class, he’d gone with Light Warrior— he felt it matched his build and personality. That woman had claimed she chose Healer, her husband a Medium Warrior, and his two friends had picked Heavy Warrior and Archer. He was an outsider to their tightly knit group, but the woman had recognized him—or at least knew of his voice from another life.
The mouthpiece was always the trickiest part. It required patience, steady hands, and careful carving. He worked slowly, the dagger's blade etching away at the reed with delicate precision. It took time, but eventually, the shape felt right. Next came the finger holes—he measured them by feel and memory. They didn’t need to be perfect, but he aimed for as close as he could manage. Even here, in another world, he still had standards.
That first day, the group had seemed perfect. They fought a few beasts together, gained some levels in their classes, and worked surprisingly well as a team. But the trouble started early the next morning at camp. Sure, he had flirted a bit—old habits died hard—but she had been the one who sought him out, covering his mouth gently to wake him in silence, then leading him into the trees under the guise of secrecy.
He brought the flute to his lips and blew—a hopeful breath that ended in a sharp, off-key squeal. He winced, jaw tightening with frustration. Not right. Not yet. With a sigh, he turned the flawed reed in his hand, then tossed it into the fire. It flared with a strange blue glow before fading into ash. No matter. He still had plenty of reeds, a sharp dagger, and—most dangerous of all—patience sharpened by pain.
He whispered for her to keep quiet—it would draw attention if they weren’t careful. And it did. The husband loomed out of the shadows, eyes burning with fury, his two companions flanking him like loyal hounds. Rowan barely had time to cover himself before the men lunged, rough hands yanking him up by the arms, stripping away any trace of control or dignity.
"He forced me! He had a knife—he told me to be quiet! That’s why I was loud, I was screaming for you to notice!" Her voice was high and trembling, thick with false panic. Every word dripped with carefully crafted lies.
The man drew back his fist and slammed it into Rowan’s face, his friends gripping Rowan’s arms like shackles. The beating continued, relentless and fuelled by rage. To them, he was filth—lower than dirt. By the time they were finished, Rowan was bloodied, barely clinging to consciousness. Then, without a word, they hurled his limp body into the rushing river. How he survived, even he couldn’t say.
As he blew into his latest creation, the sound floated outward, soft and wavering. The notes mingled with the murmur of the river, the rustle of wind through the willow leaves, and the low hum of nocturnal insects, forming a quiet symphony of life that made the world feel momentarily whole. A notification appeared.
Profession Unlocked: [Songwright – Beginner-Level 1]
Level-Up Bonus: Agility: +3, Intellect: +3, Wisdom:+3, Perception: +4, +2 Free Stat Points
Updated Attributes:
- Strength: 12→ 12(+0)
- Agility: 15→ 18(+3)
- Intellect: 10 → 13 (+3)
- Wisdom: 10 → 13 (+3)
- Vitality: 10→ 10(+0)
- Endurance: 8→ 8(+0)
- Toughness: 8→ 8(+0)
- Perception: 10 → 14 (+4)
Skills Acquired:
[Simple Instrument Crafting (Inferior)]: Grants the ability to craft basic instruments such as flutes, panpipes, or simple stringed tools using natural or scavenged materials. These creations possess limited durability and tonal quality but can be used for expression, minor performance effects, or unlocking further profession abilities. Skill efficiency based on materials, scaling with Agility and Perception.
[Sound Tuning (Inferior)]: Using mana to slightly improve the tonal quality of an instrument. Skill efficiency scales with Wisdom and Perception.
[Play Melody (Common)]: Allows the user to infuse melodies played on crafted instruments with mana, enabling subtle effects based on the tune’s emotional tone, clarity, and intent. The strength and type of effect vary depending on the instrument’s quality and the performer’s connection to the song. Skill efficacy scales with Intellect and Perception.
Rowan performed not for thousands, not for adoring crowds or screaming fans—this time, it was just for himself, the tree, and the river. As the final note drifted into the night air, he felt something shift. His movements became sharper, his pain dulled. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wanted to perform.
"It's actually kind of catchy," Nadu said, swaying slightly as he listened to the tune.
"Still watching for research purposes? Your book pinged a few times—I'm shocked you didn’t leap up to log your precious notes." Cain grinned, voice teasing. "This one must be seriously talented to pull you away from your scribbles and scrolls. What’s next—are you going to write him fan mail? Maybe ask for a signed flute?"