At the top, Eins pushed open a heavy iron door. Inside was a spacious chamber that resembled a hybrid between an office, a workshop, and a vault of forgotten knowledge. Geological maps spanned the walls like ancient tapestries. Blueprints hung on metal hooks. Shelves groaned under rows of thick tomes, their spines cracked from use. And in the center, occupying the room like an immovable king, stood an anvil of pure mithril—polished enough to catch the glow of the forge far below.
“Sit, lad,” Eins said, gesturing to a sturdy chair opposite a scarred oak desk. His earlier fury toward Balin was gone now, replaced by a composed intensity. “Let’s hear what brings a Drifter to my hall, and why you spoke my name with the certainty of someone who knows more than he should.”
Null took a breath and reached into his inventory. The silver pendant—the one Barcus had flared to life—materialized in his hand. He set it gently on the desk. “An ancient sage named Barcus sent me,” he said. He began recounting everything. The ruins of the Agora. The massacre on Stump Mountain. The shattered teleportation gates. Barcus’s fading plea. The title he’d received. The quest to restore the Agora and revive truth itself.
Eins listened without interrupting. Only the subtle movements of his hands—thumb brushing the pendant’s rim, a slow exhale between paragraphs—betrayed the gravity of what he heard.
When Null finished, silence settled heavily across the room.
“Barcus is alive…” Eins murmured under his breath. “Stone take me… the stubborn old scholar actually did it.”
He lifted his gaze, eyes sharpening. “Lad, what he’s asked of you—rebuilding the Agora—that’s a task fit for kings and madmen. Heavy work for any soul.”
“I accepted,” Null said.
Eins nodded once, a gesture of respect. “Aye. And that tells me plenty about the shape of your spirit.” His eyes narrowed. “But that’s not the whole of it. Barcus mentioned an anomaly… something involving me.”
Null hesitated, then spoke carefully. “He said your skills and level were reset today. He said you… regressed.”
For a moment, Eins didn’t speak. Then a shadow crossed his features—old pain, cleanly cut but not yet healed.
“Aye,” he finally said, voice low. “That’s the truth of it. One moment I stood at the peak of my craft. The next… it felt like waking from a long dream to find myself a child again. All strength—gone. Mastery—gone. Like someone reached into my soul and scraped away the edges.” He flexed his calloused fingers as if testing invisible weight. “But we planned for this. Once.”
Null latched onto the word. “We?”
Eins nodded. “The others Barcus named. Eins. Zwei. Drei. Vier. We carried Ego Weapons forged from the world’s essence. That bond changes a person. Links you deeper than blood.” He leaned back, posture steady but voice softening. “If calamity ever struck—true calamity—we swore to regroup at our old base in the East. Start from the rubble if we must.”
“The East…” Null murmured, trying to picture distant lands he’d never seen.
“Aye. Zwei’s already left the Sylvan Concord. Once he arrives, we move.”
“That fast?”
Eins snorted lightly. “When your soul’s been drop-kicked by fate, lad, lingering isn’t wise.”
The weight of it all pressed on Null’s shoulders. He was beginning to realize how large the world truly was—and how small he still felt within it.
Eins leaned forward, attention shifting. “While we wait, we’ve time. And you”—his eyes flicked to Null’s clothes, his crude dagger—“are green as spring moss on a wet rock. Barely geared, hardly armed. That iron knife you forged? Aye, enthusiastic. But enthusiasm alone won’t keep your bones unbroken.” He grinned faintly. “Still, the obsidian one—that showed real talent.”
“You’d… teach me?” Null asked, wary and hopeful at once.
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“Aye,” Eins said. “I might’ve lost my levels, but knowledge isn’t so easily pried from a dwarf’s skull. My techniques, my theory—etched into me deeper than runes. And I need to retrain myself anyway. If I teach you, I hone myself.”
Null hesitated. He hadn’t come here to become a smith. He needed answers, direction—not a vocational course.
Eins’s gaze softened, but his voice carried an iron certainty. “Listen well, lad. Crafting isn’t just hammering metal. It’s a path of power. When you forge something Unique rank or above, a sliver of the item’s essence lodges into your soul. Permanent growth. Strength you keep even bare-handed.”
Null blinked. “…You get stronger by crafting?”
“Aye. Soulcrafting,” Eins said. “Few know of it—mostly former Ego-Weapon wielders and a handful of master artisans. Regular folk hammer metal till their arms fall off and never touch the secret heart of the craft. But you’ve been set on a strange road. If you’re to walk it without dying face-first in a ditch, you’ll need strength. And forging’s one of the safest ways to gain it.”
He tapped the desk once—metallic knuckles on wood. “So I’ll ask again. Will you let me teach you? Learn properly. Learn deeply. Learn what your body already seems half-way to remembering.”
Null didn’t answer immediately. He weighed the pieces:
- Barcus’s pendant.
- The Agora’s ashes.
- The anomaly tied to him.
- The strange instincts in his hands.
- The looming journey East.
And Eins—the one person so far who’d met him with honesty, knowledge, and something that almost resembled hope.
“I accept,” Null said.
Eins flashed a satisfied grin. “Good lad. But not tonight. You’ve marched across mountains, danced with death, and soaked your mind in more lore than most academics spill in a lifetime. Rest first.” He jerked his chin toward the windowless wall. “Head to the Stout Anvil Inn, just down the main track. Tell the innkeep—Bruni—that you’re under my wing. He’ll set you up proper.”
Null nodded, rising.
Eins added casually, “And Null? Might be a good time to log out. Your flesh-and-blood shell’s probably starved and stiff as cold iron.”
Null froze. “How did you—?”
Eins winked. “Even a regressed master can still read a lad’s face. Go on now.”
Null turned toward the door. Before he stepped through, something caught his eye—Eins watching him with a faint, sad smile, hand lifting a fraction as if offering a farewell he wasn’t sure he should give.
Then the door closed softly behind him.
The Stout Anvil Inn was warm, loud, and welcoming. Bruni didn’t ask questions—only beamed at Eins’s name and marched Null to the finest room like he was royalty. The bed was soft, the lights gentle, the stone walls humming faintly with geothermal warmth.
Null lay down, exhaled once, and whispered, “Log out.”
The world dissolved.
Ethan opened his eyes to the dim glow of his apartment. The Dive Capsule hissed open. Cool air brushed his skin.
He checked the clock.
9:45 PM.
He’d lived nearly eight hours in Twilight World. Only two had passed here.
The 1:4 time dilation was real. Disorientingly real.
He moved through the familiar motions—water, bathroom, stretching. But his mind was already somewhere else, back in the forge, in the tunnels, in Eins’s study.
He sat before his terminal. The holographic display flared to life.
No marketing fluff. No curated experience.
He wanted the truth.
He opened the player forums.
The top threads were a chaotic mess of confusion, boredom, frustration, and—occasionally—horror.
He clicked the first.
Forum Thread: What kind of game is this?
NoobSlayer92:
I’ve been “playing” for four weeks in-game and haven’t killed a single monster! Delivered letters… swept floors… fixed fences… Is this a fantasy chore simulator?
GamerGal:
North region here. I’ve been sorting scrolls for a month. I swear this is an office job with extra steps.
TankMaster:
West region: conscripted by knights → quarry labor → thrown in jail → “rescued” by rebels → now forced training. I’m afraid to log back in.
Ethan stared at the screen. He’d been thrown into a life-or-death fight minutes after arrival. Others were trapped in four-week “tutorial” loops.
He clicked the next thread.
Forum Thread: Race Selection and Criteria (Theory-crafting)
MinMaxerMike:
We’ve collected data:
? Human: default
? Dwarf: must be stocky, under 150cm, high strength
? Elf: tall, symmetrical features
? Oni/Yokai/etc.: zero confirmations—likely psychological profile tied
Bio-scan is DEFINITELY reading more than body stats.
Still nothing like his experience.
He clicked one more.
Forum Thread: Crafting Apprenticeship is a SCAM!
CraftyCarl:
Chose [Crafter]. Mentor says I need FOUR YEARS in-game before he lets me touch a hammer. FOUR. YEARS.
Replies echoed similar experiences.
Ethan leaned back, the apartment suddenly too quiet.
No four-week chore cycle.
No forced labor.
No restricted crafting.
No multi-year apprenticeship.
No beginner region.
Instead he had:
- A hidden spawn zone
- A Rank D monster kill
- A crafting skill
- A legendary smith mentor
- A unique quest
- A collapsed power network of four ancient heroes tied to his presence
- And a world-renowned craftsman offering personal training
It wasn’t unusual.
It was impossible.
And someone had set him on this path long before he understood any of it.
He powered down the terminal, drank another glass of water, and returned to the capsule. The hiss of the canopy felt like a curtain lowering.
Ethan lay back, steadying his breath.
When the darkness enveloped him, the message appeared instantly, bright and waiting.
< Welcome Back, Player Null. >