I spend the next hour wandering through the back alleys of Millhaven, trying to remember where I found the sword in the game.
It was a well. A hidden well in some back alley. But which alley? The town has dozens of them, all looking the same with their narrow passages and shadowy corners.
I turn down another street, this one darker than the others. The buildings here are older, more run-down.
Fewer people. The kind of place you'd hide something valuable.
Or something dangerous.
I walk slowly, scanning every corner, every doorway. And then I see it.
A narrow gap between two buildings. An alley so small I almost missed it. The entrance is partially blocked by old crates, like someone tried to hide it.
My heart starts pounding.
This is it. This has to be it.
I squeeze past the crates and into the alley. It's dark here, the buildings on either side blocking out most of the sunlight. The ground is uneven, covered in old cobblestones and debris.
And at the end of the alley, maybe thirty feet away, I see it.
A well.
Old stone construction, half-collapsed, with a faint glow coming from inside. Just like in the game.
The Sword of Beginning is down there.
I take a step forward.
And then I stop.
A chill runs down my spine. Cold. Visceral. Like ice water dumped over my head.
My hand moves on its own, reaching up to touch my throat. My fingers press against the skin there, feeling my pulse, feeling the vulnerability.
The rabbit.
In the game, I climbed down into that well. I found the sword on its pedestal. And then something dropped from the ceiling. A rabbit. Except it wasn't a normal rabbit. It was the size of a large dog, with fangs like a sabertooth tiger and claws that could tear through steel.
It latched onto my throat.
I remember the scene. The tearing. The blood. Luna's scream cutting off as the creature ripped into her.
My hand is still on my throat, and I realize I'm shaking.
I can't go down there. Not without a weapon. Not without some way to defend myself.
If I go down there now, I'll die. Again. And this time, the wheel might not give me a free revival. This time, I might lose something I can't get back.
But, worst of all. I will feel it. The entire thing.
No.
I need a weapon first.
I back away from the well, my eyes still locked on that faint glow. The sword is right there. So close. But I can't risk it.
Not yet.
I turn and head back toward the main streets, my mind racing.
A weapon. I need a weapon. Which means I need money. Or I need to steal one.
But stealing got me killed in the game. The shopkeeper stabbed me the moment he caught me. And if that's how this world works, stealing is too risky.
So I need money.
Which means I need a job.
I remember the blacksmith from the game. There was a forge near the town square. Maybe he needs help. Maybe I can work for him, earn some money, buy a weapon, or make it myself.
It's a long shot, but it's better than dying to a demonic rabbit.
I make my way back through the streets until I find it—a large building with smoke rising from a chimney. The sound of hammering echoes from inside. The sign above the door reads "Forgeheart Smithy" in faded letters.
I take a breath and step inside.
The heat hits me immediately.
The forge is blazing in the corner, casting flickering orange light across the workshop.
Tools hang on the walls—hammers, tongs, files, all well-used and maintained. The smell of hot metal and coal fills the air.
And standing at the forge, hammering away at a piece of glowing steel, is a massive man.
He's easily six and a half feet tall, built like a bear, with arms thick as tree trunks.
His beard is black and streaked with gray, his face weathered and scarred. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"We're closed," he grunts between hammer strikes.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
"I'm not here to buy anything," I say, raising my voice over the noise. "I'm looking for work."
CLANG. CLANG.
"Don't need help," he says.
"I don't need much pay," I try. "Just enough to—"
"I said no." CLANG. "Now get out before I throw you out."
His tone makes it clear he's not joking.
"But I—"
He finally looks up, and the expression on his face stops me cold. It's not anger. It's dismissal. Complete and total dismissal, like I'm not even worth his time.
"Out," he says flatly.
I know when I'm not wanted. I turn and head for the door, my shoulders slumping.
So much for that plan.
I push open the door and step outside, my mind already trying to figure out what to do next.
Maybe I can find work somewhere else. Maybe the inn needs—
I collide with something.
Someone.
"Oof!"
The impact knocks me backward. I stumble, catching myself against the doorframe. But whoever I hit isn't so lucky.
I hear a yelp, and then a woman falls backward, arms flailing as she tries to catch her balance.
She hits the ground hard, landing on her back with a heavy thud.
Time seems to slow down.
She's wearing an apron over her clothes. The apron flies up with the impact, and underneath—
Oh god.