The roadside flowers were everywhere. Blue, red, violet. In the game, you could scoop them up without a second thought, their names and uses neatly labeled. Out here, they were just flowers. Dozens of species sharing the same colors, mocking him with their anonymity.
Rowan Mercer crouched briefly, then stood back up.
Useless.
In his previous life, he had never bothered with potion-making. Too fiddly. Too slow. If he played a mage, he enchanted gear. If he fought up close, he forged weapons. If he needed healing, he relied on raw recovery magic. He had heard of elaborate crafting loops and optimized builds, but he never touched them. That habit carried over now, and without labels floating in the air, he couldn't tell valuable herbs from decorative weeds.
"So much for the gentle approach," he muttered. "Guess I'll earn my money the direct way."
Outside the cities, the province was crawling with predators wearing human faces. Makeshift camps. Roadside ambushes. Desperate men with blades and fewer scruples. If you stayed alert, coin practically walked toward you.
And if you wanted something more lucrative, there were the ancient tombs. Old burial sites packed with relics, spellbooks, enchanted weapons. They were also packed with traps and walking corpses, which explained why most travelers wisely kept their distance.
Rowan remembered one such tomb in the mountains near Riverwood. Big. Old. Famous. If it was still intact, it would pay handsomely.
After two hours of walking at an ordinary pace, he still hadn't seen the landmark stones or the waterfall ruin he remembered. The distances here were not as forgiving as the game had suggested.
He exhaled. "All right. Enough pretending."
The ground cracked softly beneath his feet as he pushed off. His body blurred, the world stretching into streaks as he tore northward faster than sound. He didn't need food. Didn't need rest. But he did appreciate a warm bed, a mug of something strong, and a roof that didn't leak. Even immortality had standards.
Dusk bled across the mountains when he finally saw it. Halfway up a northwest slope, a massive stone structure jutted from the rock like a broken tooth.
"There you are."
The ruin was unmistakable. An ancient burial complex, infamous across the region. Legends said it housed a carved stone tablet detailing the resting places of dragons, creatures thought long dead.
Long dead, but not truly gone.
Rowan knew the truth. Dragons were fragments of a greater god, impossible to erase completely. Destroy the body and the soul lingered, waiting. Only those born with the same divine essence could end them for good.
He had no interest in that power. Absorbing such souls would draw the attention of forces best left uninterested in him. He had reached a point where raw energy was no longer his concern. Knowledge was.
More importantly, the tomb's presence meant Riverwood was close.
Just as he prepared to accelerate again, his steps slowed.
Movement.
A whisper of intent from the brush ahead.
"Perfect timing," Rowan said quietly. "I was just thinking about lodging."
He hadn't walked five minutes before the ambush sprang. An arrow burst from the undergrowth, aimed cleanly at his heart.
Rowan raised two fingers and caught it.
The archer barely had time to breathe before the arrow flew back, moving far faster than it ever had before.
A scream ripped through the trees.
Two men charged from the grass, iron swords flashing, leather armor creaking as they swung for his head.
Rowan didn't dodge.
His foot lashed out twice, the strikes landing before the attackers could register impact. Both men were thrown backward, blood spraying as bones collapsed inward.
When Rowan stepped into the brush, the fight was already over.
Three bodies lay still. One with an arrow clean through the skull. Two with chests crushed beyond recognition.
They were amateurs. Highway robbers who preyed on merchants and lone travelers. Men who didn't ask questions before killing.
Rowan had noticed them long before they acted. He had slowed deliberately.
If they had only wanted coin, he might have left them breathing. But they had gone straight for the kill.
That choice ended them.
He searched their bodies and came up with just over a hundred septims.
"Pathetic," he said, though he pocketed the coins.
He ignored their armor and weapons. Worthless to him. Bloody. Heavy. Not worth the trouble. The money would cover a night's stay, and tomorrow he would explore the ruin anyway.
As he resumed his journey, he glanced at the dirt on his sleeves and clicked his tongue.
"No magic really is a pain."
Strength could shatter bone, but it couldn't clean clothes. No effortless gestures. No instant polish. Just hands and water like everyone else.
He surged forward again, stopping ten minutes later.
Three massive standing stones rose from the earth ahead of him, ancient and humming with dormant power. One of the old sites. Places where travelers chose blessings tied to the stars themselves.
Rowan studied them briefly, eyes sharp, thoughtful.
Then the wind shifted, and the night crept closer.