Chương 4: Strange Patrons

Joel hopped back, a quick half-step, while swinging his quarterstaff in an outward arc. It cracked, striking the lunging wolf across the snout. The beast fell in a slump, its lower jaw dangling unnaturally. [Wolf defeated. 100 EXP gained.] The chickens clucked loudly around him as if they were cheering his victory. Joel wouldn't blame them. It was the third wolf to get into the chicken coop in a week. He'd been paying his room and board through his coop-guarding duties, other chores, and the pelts.

The experience points were a welcome and necessary bonus. Just learning to skin the wolves' pelts properly through the Ranger's [Survival Proficiency] skill had cost him a wolf's worth of EXP. It was EXP hard earned. Clearly, there were some threat assessments in the calculations. He'd tested the limitation of how EXP could be gained by stomping on some beetles. No notifications had popped up. Maybe he should've stopped after the first, not the fourth one, but he had to be sure.

Dragging the mangy creature out of the fenced enclosure, Joel pulled out a small knife. He didn't enjoy this part. Fighting was fun, skinning was gross and tedious. Slicing a long cut from the base of its tail to its throat, he began to carefully cut away the pelt from its underlying tissue. The pelts would fetch a pretty penny. Gorum — the innkeeper of the Berrygood Lodge — offered him a room for several days in exchange. It was a decent deal, one that Joel took earnestly.

However, he had a sneaking suspicion that Gorum just enjoyed regular company. In all honesty, he appreciated Gorum more than the old half-orc could ever know. He'd asked some of the passerbys, some who were definitely armed like players might be, whether they were stuck here too. The best of them gave him blank stares, the worst tried to knife him until Gorum calmed them down with a free ale. Joel wiped his brow, looking out to the Ulfenor forest in the far east.

The dense woods seemed to stretch across the horizon. It was where the wolves were coming from. Usually, at his current level, he would rush over there to rack up some easy EXP. However, ever since learning he couldn't log out, it was smarter to play it safe. He didn't want to risk finding out if respawning wasn't a thing. His stained hands continued to cut away, yanking at the wolf's fur. The constant squawking from the henhouse was his music.

What was strange was the fact that the wolves were coming one by one rather than in a group. Joel had assumed that the first wolf was a hungry outcast, driven from their pack, but three exiled wolves seemed odd, at least from what he knew about wolves.

"I'm in no position to complain," Joel muttered to himself, shaking his head. If the wolves wanted to appear one at a time, he'd be glad to fight them that way. It wasn't so long ago that he was almost taken out by a group of hamsters. He massaged his cheek; the fading scar was a reminder. One of the brave rodents had nearly blasted his face off with magic. If it wasn't for the fact that he could [Homebrew] and increase his ability scores on the fly, he might not have left that cellar alive.

The sable hamster, the last one standing, had been on his mind. The one that had charged him so recklessly in the end. There'd been no notification of that one's defeat but when he returned later to check, the hamster had disappeared, alongside any other evidence of battle. He'd given up trying to figure it out about four days ago. None of the hamsters had appeared ever since and Gorum seemed satisfied. Removing the pelt from the head was tricky, the eyes and lips made it easy to mess up.

He'd tried to do it without the [Survival Proficiency] for the first wolf. The whole ordeal ended up frustrating him so much that he just cut the wolf's head off for simplicity. Once Joel got the pelt properly removed, he laid it out flat, fur down to the earth. The fat and muscle of the beast was still clinging onto it. Taking the edge of his blade, he started to scrape away at the excess tissue. Finishing with that, he folded up the pelt and headed to a solitary tree, several paces away from Gorum's yard.

The white ash tree was a sprawling behemoth, its branches spread out like it wanted to seal the sky. Gorum didn't have a stretching rack that he could use, so the tree's branches would have to do. Drying the pelt out in the shade would avoid the sun damaging the fur or shrinking the skin. He carefully laid out the pelt on one of the lower limbs. The ancient tree was also one of the few constants that reminded Joel that he was in his old game, First Fantasy.

It had been there when Prum — Gorum's great-grandfather — was around. The tree's trunk had grown since Joel had last logged in, centuries ago in the game's time. Joel glanced at the small set of flowers he'd placed at the base of the tree. Gorum had mentioned how his great-grandfather was buried behind the Berrygood Lodge. But there was no marker or headstone for Joel to give his respects. So he chose this tree, it seemed fitting enough.

A tiny dust cloud began to form in the horizon, coming down the southeast road. More wary travellers and merchants, if the carriage cart meant anything. The modest roadside inn was seldom empty but also rarely busy. The incoming patrons were bound to lift Gorum's mood.

"Might be able to squeeze in a quick run," muttered Joel, squinting down the road. It was hard to explain, but ever since getting stuck in First Fantasy, he'd been feeling inspired to train in any way possible. Like he had a second shot at life. Not to say his life beforehand had been awful. He had a loved childhood and a life that most would be thankful for, though he had been feeling more lost recently. It was easier here. His usual mornings were now chopping firewood or practicing swings with his quarterstaff.

Perhaps simpler was a kinder description. Washing his bloodied arms off with his waterskin, he shook the water off his hands. He broke into a steady jog, the breeze picking up to cool him. The half-hour didn't feel long. The Ulfenor forest loomed larger as he made his way closer. Even with the sun shining down upon the woods, the lumbering towers of trees crowded away any morning light. Approaching the edge of the forest felt like standing at the mouth of a cave. His runs always took him to the tree line.

These woods were originally a low level area where players could gain some easy EXP. He'd done it several times himself with various classes, all those years ago as an excited kid. But something about the woods felt different now, almost dreadful. This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The recent visits from the wolves reaffirmed that to Joel. He'd ventured a couple steps in, with his trusty former broomstick, but never for long.

Despite his best efforts, none of the closer spots seemed to be inhabited with the usual wolf packs, so he didn't risk going too far. He wiped his brow, stopping for a quick breath. [+1 VITALITY gained.]"[Status]," he said, checking his own stats had become a regular habit. — Name: Joel Early Class: Classless Level: 1 HP: 100% MIGHT: 152 DEFTNESS: 355 VITALITY: 253 FOCUS: 145 SPIRIT: 140 RESOLVE: 145 Anomaly: 1 — He'd been spreading out his ability score increases. He wasn't sure how good or bad his stats were.

The previous game had stats capped at 100 per level. He was above that, but he didn't feel particularly powerful. There was time, and as long as the chicken coop kept getting raided, there'd be plenty of EXP to spend.

"[Homebrew], [Class Features]," he said absent-mindedly, scrolling through the classes. There was 355 EXP remaining for spending, and it was tempting to pick up some extra class features. But then he exited out of the menu. For now, it was better to have some in the bank. The golden hamster from a week ago almost took him out. It was because he spent into his VITALITY quickly before the blow landed that he had endured. A few hundred EXP would serve as a solid safety net.

A nearby snap made Joel whip his head toward the sound. The air caught in his throat. His sweat went cold. Two hulking bears — a black bear and a grizzly — had locked their multi-colored eyes upon him. Even a half step back felt like tempting fate. The snarl from the bruin seemed like a warning, or he hoped it was just that. The brown bear had deep scratches, recent and red, across its face. Its fur bristled, and Joel's whole body tensed in response. A loud growl from the black bear almost made Joel bolt.

But he realized it wasn't aimed at him, but to the other bear. Promptly after, the black bear turned, heading deeper into the woods. The grizzly, still baring its teeth, slowly backed away before turning to join the other bear's departure. Once both bears had disappeared into the brush, Joel put his hands on his knees, letting out a deep sigh. He wasn't looking to test his skills against two bears. His legs finally stopped trembling.

After catching his breath, he sprinted back, seeing no reason to stay and see what else the woods would spit out at him. He'd have to be more careful from now on if bears were around. A weapon had to be mandatory for future runs, something light. Maybe it was time to pick up that [Dagger Proficiency] from the Fighter or Rogue class. Once more, the warm summer wind cooled him as he arrived back at the lodge. The nearby chickens announced him with a chorus of clucks.

He headed through the back door into the empty kitchen, only the savory smell from Gorum's cauldron greeting him. A set of laughing voices came through the door from the back of the bar. As Joel entered, he saw seven individuals — muddied cloaks and armed to the teeth — enjoying Gorum's stew. He had unintentionally interrupted their mirth as they all turned their gazes to him.

"Who's the kid?" asked a tall, weaselly man, leaning upon the countertop. His bow and quiver occupied the bar stool next to him. A long scar, running from his brow to the nose's bridge, wrinkled alongside the rest of his face when asking Gorum the question. Joel could speak for himself.

"Name's Joel, I'm-""The new help I hired," interrupted Gorum, turning to him.

"Ya handle those chickens?" A nod.

"Yeah, they're good."

"Strange to see someone like you out here," voiced the figure at the far end of the bar counter. The gravelly voice belonged to a dwarf, the first Joel had seen since he got stuck here. The stout dwarf's grey beard was tied into thick braids, decorated with sea shells and dried starfish, that hung in front of his dusty jerkin. A hefty cutlass rested at his hip, its well-worn ivory grip contrasting his darker clothes.

"Not this far from the Ahnjin Archipelago," continued the dwarf, sipping his ale as he stared at Joel. Joel, in spite of all his previous experience, did not know where the dwarf was talking about. That wasn't any zone that was available in Early Access.

"I've been wandering for a while now," said Joel, shrugging. It wasn't a great attempt at appearing nonchalant, but it was his best. As if sensing his worries, Gorum interrupted a second time.

"Joel, grab me some firewood, will ya?"

"Sure," he replied. Joel could take the hint. They might've all been smiling, but these people made Gorum uneasy. Leaving through the front door, he spotted a large parked carriage. Not the fancy ones that you would expect nobility to ride. Rather, it was a lockbox of dense wood and rusty iron. Perched on top of the carriage's high seat, a cloaked elf ignored Joel. The pointed ears, the youthful looks. Elves always had this ethereal gracefulness about them. But a pale blue-white elf?

They were a type of elf Joel had never seen before. Another surprise the game had for him. He should've been getting used to it. Instead, it was annoying him. Joel went to the side of the lodge, to the pile of stacked firewood. He stuck close to the nearby window, hopeful to catch some of the conversation inside. It was hard to hear, only a small handful of words clear.

"[Homebrew], [Ability Score Upgrades], [+55 FOCUS]." The inside conversation gradually became comprehensible to his ears. He recognized the weaselly man's voice.

"... we could use the extra hand the rest of the way to town."

"That'd mean closing down the tavern for half a week," replied Gorum.

"I can't afford it."

"And you'd know me and my brothers would appreciate that. You're doing well enough to hire some extra help. Have that foreigner watch the place." An uncomfortable silence lingered.

"There's seven of ya, Curzan. Ya don't need this old man to slow ya'll down." A loud slam, a fist against the countertop. Joel had heard more than enough at this point. Grabbing some firewood, he scampered towards the front door.

"I could help escort your stuff to town!" he announced as soon as he entered.

"No, Joel, you don't hav—" It was Joel's turn to interrupt Gorum.

"I'm not half bad with a quarterstaff and I've trained in hand-to-hand combat. I've taken out three wolves. I'll keep your goods safe."

"Three wolves, huh," said Curzan with a whistle. An unsettling smirk crossed his face as he glanced over to Gorum.

"That true, old man?" Gorum didn't reply, bothering himself with the cleaning of a jug. Curzan's grin grew wider in an ugly way.

"Alright, kid, you don't mind if we check that you're the real deal?" Curzan asked, pushing back his brown, dirty hair.

"I don't mind," Joel replied, ignoring the slight twist in his stomach. Why did he feel a test coming?

"Flendel, run a round with him," Curzan yelled to a burly man near the fireplace. The knot in his stomach tightened. He realized just how large this Flendel was when they stood up fully, a whole head above himself. The bald man wielded a weighty mace, a malformed iron ball at its end. Joel gulped as Flendel walked past, arming himself with his cudgel.

"Let me grab my staff," said Joel, squatting to toss logs into the fireplace. He clapped the dirt off his hands as he rose.

"I left it in the back."

"No, no. You said you've trained in hand-to-hand combat," Curzan said as he shook his head.

"Show us that archipelago strikecraft." Joel hesitated. He could protest that it was unfair, though he doubted they'd care. If it was just a round of sparring though, he felt confident in his [Martial Arts Proficiency] to survive.

"Alright." The brute of a man charged with a grunt, mace raised.