Chapter 2: The Academic City
The smell woke me before the light did.
Horse manure. Old hay. Leather and sweat and the faint undertone of mildew. I lay in the straw for a moment, orienting myself. Stable. Oxenfurt. Third morning in this body.
"Still not a dream."
I sat up. Straw fell from my hair, my clothes, the folds of my borrowed blanket. Across the stable, the old man—Gregor, he'd said—was already at work, forking fresh bedding into a stall. He moved slowly but steadily, the rhythm of decades of repetition.
"Breakfast is bread and water," he said without turning. "On the barrel by the door. You'll work for lunch."
"Fair."
I found the bread. Dense, slightly stale, absolutely delicious to a stomach that had been running on stream water and foraged berries. I ate slowly, forcing myself to chew instead of inhaling. My body wanted to gorge. My brain knew better—starving people who eat too fast end up worse than before.
[NUTRITION STATUS: RECOVERING]
[Note: Continued caloric intake required for optimal function.]
The interface flickered at the edge of my vision. I'd learned to ignore it when necessary, letting the information wash over me like background noise. Useful, but not distracting.
Today's plan was simple: find work. Real work, not stable chores. The kind that paid in coin instead of bread.
"I'll be back tonight," I told Gregor, dusting straw from my shoulders.
He grunted acknowledgment. "Don't get arrested. I'm not bailing out strangers."
The city hit me like a wall.
Oxenfurt sprawled across both banks of the Pontar, a maze of bridges and spires and narrow streets that smelled of fish, river mud, and something frying in distant kitchens. The academy dominated the skyline—stone towers and arched windows that promised knowledge to those who could afford it. Students in colorful robes hurried between buildings, clutching books and arguing about philosophy.
I navigated by instinct and the system's path guidance, both proving equally unreliable. The ghostly line wanted me to cut through private courtyards. My instincts kept getting distracted by market stalls selling things I couldn't afford.
"Focus. You need money. Money requires work. Work requires convincing someone you're worth hiring."
The docks seemed promising. Ships crowded the river, offloading cargo from upstream mills and loading goods bound for Novigrad. I spotted a foreman directing workers—a broad man with a voice like gravel being crushed.
"Looking for day labor," I said, approaching with my shoulders back and chin up. Confidence. Project confidence.
He looked me over. Fifteen years old, thin as a whip, wearing clothes that had seen better decades.
"Piss off."
"I'm stronger than I look."
"Everyone's stronger than you look. Move along."
Three more attempts. Three more rejections. The dockworkers wanted muscle. The warehouse managers wanted experience. The carter I approached actually laughed, then apologized, then laughed again.
"Nobody trusts a scrawny teenager with no references. Shocking."
Midday found me sitting on a bridge, watching the river traffic and trying not to think about how hungry I was. The bread from morning had burned off hours ago. My stomach was starting to voice complaints.
[CURRENT GP: 1]
[GUILD SHOP: INACCESSIBLE (No headquarters established)]
[Note: Resource Scanner ability available. Activation pending trigger event.]
Resource Scanner. I'd read that in the system overview—the ability to identify valuable items and materials. But it was locked behind some kind of trigger. What trigger? The system wasn't saying.
"Fine. Let's try something else."
I stood, brushing grit from my trousers. Walked back toward the merchant district with a new approach in mind. If I couldn't sell labor, maybe I could sell knowledge. Twenty-eight years of marketing experience had to count for something, even if the specific skills didn't translate to a medieval economy.
"Good afternoon," I said to a cloth merchant who looked less busy than his neighbors. "I notice your display isn't catching foot traffic as effectively as the stall to your left. Would you be interested in consultation on visual merchandising?"
He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"I'm fifteen and I know words he doesn't understand," I muttered, walking away before he could call the guards. "Brilliant strategy, really. Top marks."
By evening, I was back at the stable, having accomplished nothing except wearing holes in my borrowed boots. Gregor watched me slump into my corner without comment. He'd probably seen a hundred boys like me, dreaming of city success and finding city walls instead.
"There has to be something. Some angle I'm missing."
I stared at the ceiling beams, exhausted but unable to sleep. The system interface pulsed softly in my peripheral vision—a constant reminder that I had tools. I just didn't know how to use them yet.
My gaze drifted across the stable's interior. Tack hanging from pegs. Tools rusting in corners. And there, on a shelf near Gregor's sleeping area, a collection of random objects that looked like decades of accumulated junk. A cracked lantern. Some broken pottery. A tarnished medallion on a frayed cord.
I looked at the medallion.
Something shifted in my vision.
[RESOURCE SCANNER ACTIVATED]
[TRIGGER: Observation of potentially valuable item]
[Scanning...]
The world gained a new layer. Colors I couldn't name pulsed around objects within—I checked—about ten meters of where I sat. Most things glowed dull grey: no significant value. The hay. The tools. My own terrible clothes.
But the medallion.
The medallion glowed soft gold. Text materialized beside it:
[ITEM IDENTIFIED]
Minor Luck Charm (Damaged)
Classification: Magical Artifact - Common
Condition: 65% (Tarnish, minor enchantment degradation)
Market Value: 47 crowns
Notes: Passive luck enhancement, approximately +3% favorable outcome probability. Damaged state reduces effectiveness.
"Forty-seven crowns. Sitting on a shelf in a stable."
I sat up slowly. Gregor was snoring in his corner, oblivious. The medallion hung there, utterly unremarkable to the naked eye, apparently a family heirloom he'd never thought twice about.
"I could steal it. He's asleep. I'm desperate."
The thought came and went. Aside from the ethical problems—and there were many—theft was a short-term solution with long-term consequences. Get caught, lose a hand. Get away with it, gain forty-seven crowns and a guilty conscience.
"No. Better way. Honest way."
I lay back down, but sleep was impossible now. My mind raced through possibilities, building a plan that could work. That would work.
Tomorrow, I'd make Gregor an offer he'd have no reason to refuse.