The morning sun streamed through the windows of the tavern’s common room, casting warm light over the worn wooden floors. The scent of fresh bread and sizzling meat filled the air as John, Kaia, and Thorin gathered around a table, going over their plan for the day.

  John sat down and poured himself a cuppa wakeroot. Taking a sip, he let the delicious warmth wash over him. It was not by any means coffee, but this otherworldly brew was really growing on him. Could he steal the Starbucks business model and open a chain of Wakeroot brew shops and become a billionaire?

  Noticing Kaia and Thorin staring at him, he put down his mug.

  “Alright,” John said, stretching his arms over his head. “Before we go diving into some dark, monster-infested death trap, we need to stock up.”

  Kaia nodded. “We’ve got a lot to handle today—selling off what we don’t need, sharpening weapons, buying supplies, potions, food…”

  “Don’t forget armor,” Thorin grunted. “Dungeons have traps, and I’d rather not be skewered ‘cause I didn’t think ahead.”

  "If this is anything like video games back home, any armor you buy in town will be vastly inferior to the stuff we casually find in the dungeon," John said

  With huge eyes, Thorin asked, " You think there will be good armor in the dungeon?"

  With a smile, John said, "Oh trust me, homeskillet there will be the best armor and weapons in there."

  "I can't wait to get in there and start fighting," Thorin said excitedly.

  John grinned. “ Alright, first stop—the trader. Time to turn our trash into treasure.”

  The trader’s shop was a cluttered space filled with crates, sacks, and an overwhelming mix of scents—dried herbs, leather, and something vaguely metallic. The shopkeeper, a thin man with a sharp nose and sharper eyes, gave them an appraising look as they entered.

  John walked up to the counter, set his tiny black

  lunch bag down, and smirked. “You might want to clear some space.”

  The trader raised an eyebrow as John reached into the bag.

  And pulled out a sword.

  Then another.

  And another.

  And a shield.

  A helmet.

  A bundle of goblin-crafted knives.

  A necromancer’s amulet.

  A stack of bloodstained robes.

  The pile grew until the trader looked like he was questioning reality itself. “Where… where were you keeping all that?”

  John winked. “Trade secret.”

  "Is that little bag for sale?" The trader asked with amazement in his eyes.

  "Nope, this is a treasured gift from my wife, and I would fight an army of undead all over again to keep it," John said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. '

  The trader stepped back and got to work appraising everything.

  "Ok, Mr. Bradford, I can give you twenty gold for the lot," The Trader said

  John looked as though he had just taken a barrage of arrows.

  "Clearly, you seek to dishonor me and my ancestors with such a low bid. Did I somehow cause you offence?" John said in a hurt tone. "Let's correct this What did you say your name was?"

  " My name is Roland Draymoor, and I certainly didn't mean to offend you, good sir. I made quite the honorable offer for such a brave hero," Roland the trader said.

  "Roland good sir a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Surely you must have a buddy to bring down for a second opinion on this top-rated gear. I couldn't possibly take less than fifty gold pieces for this massive pile of quality gear." John replied.

  A look of stunned surprise momentarily passed Roland's face. "Fifty gold! Now who is being dishonored, the most I could possibly do would be twenty five gold"

  Smiling, John said, "Twenty-five gold for this rare loot from an undead horde controlled by the vilest of necromancers? I could possibly let it go for forty-five gold 'cause I like your name."

  The trader smiled, obviously in his element. " Look, the best I can do is thirty gold and only because you are such a great hero and saved the world."

  John made a characteristic face his wife often made fun of. His "yeah, ok" face with raised eyebrows and an inverted grin and said, "I believe we have ourselves a deal."

  Kaia and Thorin chuckled as the trader grumbled. The group walked out significantly richer, their coin purses jingling with gold. John was treated with a ding and a notification

  New Skill [Haggling]

  The forge was alive with heat and sound, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal reverberating through the stone-walled workshop. Sparks flared in the dim light as the blacksmith worked, his massive arms flexing with each strike. His face was lined with soot, his apron scarred from years of labor.

  John, Kaia, and Thorin stepped inside, the scent of hot iron and burning coal filling their noses. The blacksmith barely spared them a glance before letting out a grunt. “You again.”

  Thorin unslung his axe, setting it on the counter with a heavy thunk. “Needs sharpening. Maybe reinforce the handle while you’re at it.”

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  Kaia handed over her dagger and staff, her fingers brushing away some grime from the blade. “Just a tune-up on these.”

  John slid his weapons across the counter. His knife and his dagger—each one bore signs of heavy use. “Do whatever magic you do. I’d rather not have a blade snap mid-fight.”

  The blacksmith picked up John’s dagger, turning it over in his calloused hands. “You put this through hell,” he muttered.

  John shrugged. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  The smith gave him a long, unimpressed look before grunting. “I can have all this ready by sundown. Any special requests?”

  Thorin leaned on the counter, his eyes gleaming. “Anything new in stock? Something with a bit of weight to it?”

  The blacksmith stroked his beard. “Got a fresh batch of dwarven steel in. Expensive, but worth it.”

  Thorin’s fingers twitched, tempted, but he hesitated. “Maybe next time.”

  John chuckled. “Dwarven steel’s nice, but I like gold more. And I’d like to keep some of mine.”

  The blacksmith let out a raspy chuckle. “Suit yourself.”

  Kaia looked between them. “We’ll be back before we leave town.”

  The blacksmith nodded and waved them off, already turning toward the grindstone to begin work on their weapons.

  John clapped his hands together. “Alright, next stop—the tailor.”

  As John stepped into the tailor’s shop, he took one look at the man behind the counter and nearly burst out laughing. The tailor was a well-groomed man with a neatly trimmed beard and slicked-back hair, dressed in an immaculate white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The resemblance was uncanny.

  John nudged Kaia with his elbow. “Holy hell, I just walked into a medieval episode of Miami Vice—this guy’s one cheesy white suit away from being Don Johnson.”

  The tailor, oblivious to the reference but catching John’s amused tone, raised an eyebrow. “I assume that’s a compliment?”

  John grinned. “Only if you’ve got some designer threads that’ll keep me looking sharp while I skulk around in the shadows.”

  John browsed the fabrics, eventually finding a roll of sleek black cloth that caught his eye. “What’s this?”

  The tailor lifted the material and let it drape over his arm. “Shadowweave. Light as silk, strong as chainmail, and muffles sound when you move. It’s not cheap, but it’s perfect for someone who values stealth.”

  John whistled. “Buddy, you had me at muffles sound.”

  As the tailor cut the fabric, John glanced around the shop and noticed a framed picture on the table behind the counter. His heart nearly stopped.

  The woman in the photo looked almost exactly like his wife—with the same sharp features and the same warm smile—but with deep brown hair instead of blonde.

  The tailor followed his gaze, picking up the picture with a fond smile. “My daughter.”

  John swallowed, staring at the image. “She looks just like…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Just… she looks familiar.”

  The tailor studied him curiously but said nothing. After finishing the transaction, John left the shop deep in thought.

  The group wove through the bustling marketplace, the air thick with the scent of sizzling meats, spiced breads, and the tang of fermented drinks. Stalls lined the streets, merchants calling out their wares while townsfolk haggled over prices. The trio stopped at a particularly busy open-air stall that boasted one of Bjornfell’s specialties—roast thornbeast.

  The vendor, a burly man with a singed apron and a missing eyebrow (likely a casualty of his own cooking), turned a spit over a roaring fire. The thornbeast—a massive, tusked creature John had never seen before—was marinated in a rich, citrusy sauce, its skin crackling as fat dripped into the flames below. The smell was intoxicating.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Kaia said as she handed John a thick slice of rustic bread piled high with shredded meat.

  John took a bite and groaned in delight. “Oh, hell yes. I could live off this.” The smoky, slightly charred edges melted in his mouth, the tangy marinade giving just enough bite to make his taste buds dance.

  Kaia smirked. “It is good.”

  Thorin, already halfway through his second helping, merely grunted in agreement, his beard glistening with juices. He gestured to the vendor for another portion, swallowing hard before adding, “Best thing I’ve had in weeks. Maybe ever.”

  The vendor chuckled, slicing off another hunk of meat. “That’s because thornbeast’s got the perfect balance of tenderness and flavor. Hard to catch, harder to kill, but damn worth it when you do.”

  John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding. “Tastes like if brisket and pork had a baby, then raised it on pure, unfiltered badassery.”

  The vendor laughed, handing over another portion to Thorin. “That’s one way to put it.”

  The three of them found a wooden bench nearby and sat, eating in comfortable silence. The market bustled around them—merchants bartering, children darting between stalls, and the occasional street performer drawing a small crowd. For the first time in a while, things felt… normal.

  John leaned back, rolling his shoulders. The soreness from the past battles lingered, but the weight of everything else—the fights, the near-deaths, the chaos—felt a little lighter in the warm afternoon sun. He let himself relax, even if just for a moment.

  But as he chewed the last of his meal, his mind drifted back to the tailor’s shop. More specifically, to the picture behind the counter. The tailor’s daughter.

  She looked just like his wife—same delicate features, same sharp eyes—except for the rich brown hair in place of blonde. It was uncanny. Impossible. And yet…

  He exhaled slowly, staring down at the wooden plate in his hands.

  Kaia caught the change in his expression. “Something wrong?”

  John hesitated, then shook his head. “Just thinking.”

  Thorin snorted. “Dangerous pastime.”

  John smirked, but the thought still gnawed at him. He didn’t believe in coincidences, not in a world where gods played games and people got dragged into fantasy realms. He’d have to follow up on it later.

  For now, he let it go. He had a dungeon to prepare for.

  “Alright,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Let’s go get some potions before Thorin eats the entire market.”

  Thorin grinned but didn’t deny it.

  Kaia chuckled, tossing her scraps into a bin. “Lead the way.”

  With their stomachs full and spirits lighter, the trio set off toward their next stop.

  With full stomachs and renewed energy, the trio moved through Bjornfell’s market district, gathering the last of their supplies. The potion vendor, a wiry old man with a long white beard and a missing finger, eyed them with a knowing grin.

  “Stocking up for trouble, are we?” he asked, already reaching for glass vials filled with shimmering liquid.

  John smirked. “Aren’t we always?”

  The vendor chuckled and lined up their purchases—a mix of healing potions, antidotes, and a small pouch of bitter-smelling herbal salves. Kaia inspected the potions carefully, holding them up to the light.

  “These should hold,” she said, nodding. “Though, let’s hope we don’t need them all at once.”

  Thorin grunted as he hoisted a freshly packed satchel over his shoulder. “Hope’s nice. I prefer preparation.”

  John clapped him on the back. “That’s why we love you, big guy. Always ready for a worst-case scenario.”

  After securing enough provisions for several nights of camping—dried meats, travel bread, and some questionable-looking cheese—they made their way back toward the blacksmith. By the time they arrived, the forge was still glowing, the air thick with the scent of hot metal and burning coal. The smith, now wiping sweat from his soot-covered brow, greeted them with a nod.

  “Your gear’s ready,” he grunted, motioning to the weapons laid out on a thick wooden workbench.

  John reached for his daggers first, running a hand over the freshly polished steel. The edges gleamed wickedly in the dim light. He gave them a few experimental spins in his hands, feeling their weight.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “These are gonna do some damage.”

  Kaia inspected her staff, noting the reinforced grip and the faint runic etchings now carved into its surface. “Good work,” she said, giving the blacksmith an approving nod.

  Thorin took his axe, running his thumb along the newly sharpened edge. “You reinforced the handle, yeah?”

  The blacksmith snorted. “Aye. Wrapped it in iron bands. You’d have to be swinging at a mountain to break it now.”

  Thorin tested the weight in his hands, then gave an approving grunt. “Good. Maybe I’ll find a mountain to swing at.”

  The blacksmith chuckled and leaned against his anvil. “So, what’s next for you lot? You off to cause more trouble?”

  John sheathed his daggers and exchanged a look with Kaia and Thorin. “Something like that. We’ve got a dungeon to clear, some seals to collect, and a tournament to win.”

  The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. “Tournament, eh? Big stakes?”

  John exhaled slowly. “Biggest there are. If I win, I get to go home.”

  The blacksmith studied him for a moment before nodding. “Then you best not lose.”

  John smirked. “That’s the plan.”

  Kaia adjusted the strap on her bag. “Everything’s set.”

  Thorin stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Then let’s get back to the inn. We head for the dungeon at dawn.”

  With their weapons reforged and their packs full, the trio made their way through the torch-lit streets of Bjornfell, ready for whatever awaited them in the depths.