Baomont froze.


    The voice was soft, curious, and close — too close. Shadow, in her humanoid form, stepped instinctively beside him, tail low and ears angled back.


    He turned slowly.


    Behind them, standing at the edge of the path with a curious tilt of her head, was a girl. About their age, with short brown hair tied in a loose side braid, a simple travel cloak, and a satchel slung over one shoulder.


    Her eyes sparkled with interest, not suspicion. Her tone had been light. Friendly.


    “You’re definitely new,” she said again, stepping forward with a smile. “I would’ve remembered seeing a guy with that hairstyle and a companion with ears that fluffy.”


    Baomont blinked. “Uh… thanks?”


    “Not an insult!” she laughed, waving her hands. “I mean it. You two kind of stand out. Most travelers come through with carts or wagons, not leather belts and… is that a bark canteen?”


    Shadow glanced up at Baomont, lips twitching in what might’ve been amusement.


    “Long story,” Baomont replied. “We’re just passing through.”


    “Well, welcome to Greendale!” the girl beamed. “It’s not big, and the tavern smells like pickled everything, but the bread’s warm and the roofs only leak a little. I’m Mira.”


    “Baomont,” he said, giving a small nod. “And this is Shadow.”


    Mira’s eyes flicked to Shadow, who gave a slight bow of her head — silent but alert.


    “Nice to meet you!” Mira chirped. “You’re not from the east, are you? You don’t talk like them.”


    Baomont shook his head. “Far away. First time in this part of the world.”


    “Lucky me!” Mira clapped her hands together. “I love meeting new people. You have no idea how rare that is in a town where the most exciting thing is the seasonal beet competition.”


    “…Beet competition?” Baomont asked.


    “It’s intense,” she said with a straight face, then grinned. “Anyway! You’re in luck — I’ve got the morning off, and I happen to be an excellent tour guide. Wanna see the town?”


    He hesitated.


    Shadow looked up at him, eyes cautious but not opposed.


    Baomont nodded slowly. “Sure. Just... maybe go easy on the beet facts.”


    “No promises!” Mira turned and began marching toward the town. “Come on. It’s not far.”


    The dirt path wound gently into the heart of Greendale. It wasn’t much of a town — more like a collection of weather-worn stone buildings, wooden homes with thatched roofs, and the occasional crooked chimney puffing smoke into the blue sky.


    But there was a warmth to it. A rhythm. Chickens scratched at patches of grass, a dog barked lazily from a porch, and the distant ring of a hammer echoed from somewhere deeper in town.


    Baomont took it all in quietly. Shadow stayed close to his side, her tail still but not tucked — alert but calm.


    Mira walked ahead, pointing things out as they passed.


    She gestured to a faded sign painted with a steaming mug and what might have once been a loaf of bread.


    “That’s the inn — you can’t miss it, it’s the only building with three full floors. Watch your head on the staircase though, it leans a little to the left.”


    “And over there’s the smithy. Old Man Feron runs it. Grumpy as a gorgon but sharp as his blades. If you need anything forged or fixed, he’s your guy — just don’t haggle. He nearly clomped a merchant’s head once with a horseshoe.”


    “That’s… comforting,” Baomont muttered.


    Mira giggled. “It’s Greendale charm! You get used to it.”


    They rounded a bend and stepped into what passed for a market square — five stalls, two carts, and one bored-looking man trying to sell pickled radish in jars the size of barrels.


    Baomont raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Beet competition champion?”


    “Oh no,” Mira said with mock seriousness. “That’s radish Ron. The beet family’s on the other side of town.”


    Shadow gave a quiet snort. Baomont wasn’t sure if it was a laugh, but it was adorable all the same.


    As they passed a produce stand, Baomont slowed, noticing a row of small coins in a shallow dish — copper, silver, and one that shimmered faintly like polished obsidian.


    Mira caught his glance. “You haven’t used local currency before, have you?”


    “Not exactly,” Baomont said carefully.


    “No problem. It’s simple — copper, also known as gleams, is for cheap stuff, silver for anything important, and obsidian coins are rare. They''re called shadestones. Mostly used by nobles or guilds.”


    “And gold?” Shadow asked softly.


    Mira tilted her head. “We don’t really see gold here. Maybe in the cities. Most folks never touch it.”


    Baomont nodded slowly, filing that away.


    They wandered further — past the town’s notice board (mostly requests for firewood, pest control, and one scrawled “lost goat” flyer), a small stone chapel with no clear deity symbols, and a general goods shop with a sun-bleached awning and cracked display window.


    Mira bounced from spot to spot like like she was a tour guide extraordinaire, excited to share everything — and Baomont let her. Every name, price, and side comment painted another corner of the world in his mind.


    So this is what normal life looks like here. People. Commerce. Simplicity. It feels real.


    He didn’t even notice how far they’d walked until Mira turned and clapped her hands together.


    “And that’s our humble Greendale! Not bad for a town that smells like pickles, right?”


    Baomont chuckled. “Not bad at all.”


    Shadow gave a small smile, just enough to be seen.


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    Mira led them back toward the square with a spring in her step.


    “You two should totally stop by the tavern tonight. It’s stew night — first bowl’s free for travelers, and they do this awful thing with stringed instruments that’s somehow still charming.”


    Baomont smiled faintly… but his hand drifted to his belt pouch. He opened it.


    Empty.


    Not just coinless. Utterly barren.


    “Uh… about that stew,” he said. “Do you know if the free bowl covers a ‘very hungry person and his hungry friend who may or may not eat enough for three people’?”


    Mira blinked. “You don’t have any coin?”


    “Not a single… what did you call them? Copper clink?”


    “Gleam,” she corrected. “Copper gleams. And you won’t get very far without coins, though just a few coppers is plenty.”


    Baomont scratched the back of his neck, thinking.


    There was that notice board… firewood, right?


    He looked around. “Hey. That firewood request we saw earlier — is that something we can get paid for?”


    Mira’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! It’s always up. Winters hit hard here and the local logger moved two towns over. But you’d need a lot to get anything decent. Like a full cart.”


    Baomont nodded. “We can do that.”


    Shadow tilted her head. “You can make that much firewood?”


    He grinned. “I’ve been practicing.”


    They turned to a nearby produce stall run by a wrinkled old man with a straw hat and a vaguely suspicious glare. Baomont approached with Mira and Shadow in tow.


    “Excuse me, sir,” Mira said politely. “Could my friends borrow your cart for a bit? They’re collecting firewood to turn in at the board.”


    The man eyed Baomont, then Shadow, then Mira — then the coin dish Baomont wasn’t holding.


    “…Bring back half the haul,” he grunted. “Dry. Clean. No barky garbage.”


    Baomont gave him a confident nod. “You’ll get the good stuff. Promise.”


    The man grunted again — either approval or indigestion — and waved them off.


    Soon after, they rolled the cart toward the edge of the nearby woods.


    It was quiet there, but not eerie — just the soft stillness of a forest in early autumn. Birds chirped lazily overhead.


    Baomont stopped at the base of a large tree.


    “Alright,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see if level eight can handle this.”


    He placed both hands on the trunk.


    Matter Manipulation: Process Tree — Dry Firewood.


    The glow from his palms pulsed outward, golden lines swirling across the bark like veins. The tree shuddered. Leaves fell.


    And then — with a creaking sigh — it deconstructed itself. Bark slid away, moisture drifted off as steam, and the wood split into clean, uniform pieces of firewood. Dry. Stackable. Perfect.


    Shadow’s eyes widened.


    “Whoa,” Mira breathed. “That’s... really good.”


    Baomont dusted off his hands. “Took me three days to make a cup. Now I can dismantle a tree. I’m basically nature’s worst nightmare. Shadow, remind me to put ‘professional lumberjack’ on my adventurer résumé..”


    Shadow simply gave him a blank expression.


    They began loading the cart. Mira helped stack. Shadow arranged them with alarming efficiency.


    Might not be glamorous, but it’s something. We’re not just surviving now. We’re contributing.


    And for the first time since arriving in this world, Baomont felt like maybe — just maybe — he was starting to get the hang of it.


    The trip back to Greendale wasn’t as breezy as the walk out.


    The cart creaked with every step. Each wheel groaned under the sheer mass of firewood now packed tightly inside — a pile taller than Baomont and twice as wide.


    He and Shadow each pushed from one side while Mira walked ahead, occasionally turning around to offer helpful advice like:


    “Try not to hit that rock!”


    Or:


    “If the wheel falls off, I’m not fixing it!”


    Baomont gritted his teeth and shoved harder.


    So this is the real fantasy grind: manual labor and back pain.


    Sweat ran down his back. His boots slipped in the dirt more than once. Shadow, now in wolf form, tried her best to help by dragging one side of the cart with a rope in her teeth.


    They finally rolled into the town square with the grace of a collapsing tent.


    The stall owner blinked when he saw them.


    “…I was expecting a bundle,” he said slowly. “Not an entire grove.”


    Baomont wiped his forehead and gestured to the perfectly chopped, dried, and ready-to-stack logs.


    “All delivered, as promised.”


    The man nodded, somewhat impressed. “Not bad. Real good work. Tell you what — this’ll fetch double the standard. Don’t get hauls like this in a week, let alone a morning.”


    He handed over a small leather pouch, the faint clink of coins inside more satisfying than any treasure chest Baomont could’ve imagined.


    He peeked inside.


    A mix of copper gleams… and a few silver ones too.


    Jackpot.


    Mira led them around the corner and through a squat wooden door under a weathered iron sign that read: The Sputtering Kettle.


    The inside wasn’t fancy — and honestly, it smelled like three kinds of stew battling for dominance — but it was cozy. Warm. And surprisingly homely.


    Lanterns cast flickering gold light across the wooden beams. A fire crackled in a corner hearth. Long tables were crowded with townsfolk laughing, shouting, and raising mugs high. A duo of musicians on a small stage — one on a stringed instrument that was definitely out of tune, the other tapping rhythm on a barrel — provided a melody that was more enthusiasm than talent.


    Baomont took it all in with a slow breath.


    Shadow stayed close but no longer tense, scanning the room with cautious curiosity.


    “This is… kinda great,” Baomont muttered.


    Mira beamed. “Told you. It’s not much, but it’s ours.”


    They found a table near the corner, just close enough to the fire to feel its warmth. Baomont took a seat with a groan, his legs sore from the haul. Shadow sat beside him, back straight, tail tucked neatly to the side. Mira plopped into her chair like someone who belonged.


    Baomont raised a hand and flagged down the innkeeper, a round woman with flour-dusted sleeves and sharp eyes.


    “Three bowls of stew,” he said, “and a round of whatever counts as celebratory around here.”


    The woman raised a brow at him.


    “…We’re paying,” he added, and jingled the pouch.


    Mira blinked. “Wait, you don’t have to—”


    “We’re treating you,” Baomont said. “For helping us with the cart. And the tour. And the firewood guy who probably would’ve said no if you hadn’t stepped in.”


    Mira flushed and shrugged. “Okay… but only if you let me get dessert.”


    “Deal,” Baomont grinned.


    Time slipped by like ale through a leaky mug.


    The trio ate until their bowls were dry and scraped. The stew was simple — potatoes, chunks of meat, something green he chose not to identify — but it was warm and not charred, and Baomont couldn’t remember the last time a meal hit so well.


    They laughed.


    They talked about everything and nothing — how Mira wanted to become a proper mage (“I’ve only singed my eyebrows twice”), how Shadow could apparently tell the age of meat by smell alone, and how Baomont once tried to build a chair out of sticks and accidentally made a crown instead.


    “Still sat in it,” he muttered. “Best throne I ever had.”


    As the night wore on, the trio found themselves drawn into the tavern''s rhythm.


    One of the musicians managed to fix his tuning halfway through a song, and the crowd erupted like it was a miracle. A few people danced. Others shouted drinking songs. Someone juggled onions.


    Mira clapped along to the music, then grabbed Shadow’s hand and dragged her into the loose crowd. Baomont followed, uncertain at first — until one drink turned into two, then three. By the fourth mug, he was singing badly and dancing worse.


    Shadow didn’t say much, but she smiled freely, her tail flicking with the beat. At one point, someone gave her a flower crown. She kept it on all night.


    Baomont toasted three separate strangers and gave a heartfelt speech about stew being the glue of civilization.


    It was warm. Loud. Ridiculous.


    And it felt like home.


    Until someone bumped into him.


    Hard.


    Baomont turned and found himself staring at a broad-shouldered man with half a beard and a full mug of spilled ale soaking his vest.


    There was a long pause, then, a fist met his face.


    Everything went black.