I can see the gate now—massive, towering, with horses and wagons flowing in and out of the city like a steady stream of water. Geez, this place is way bigger up close and in person.

  Looking ahead, I spot a checkpoint at the gatehouse. I don’t remember the game having checkpoints… That might be a problem. I don’t have any documents or identification on me.

  I glance down at my clothes, remembering what those bandits said—“fancy,” wasn’t it?

  Makes sense. The quality and detail of common clothing in my world are a lot more refined than what they have here. I wonder if I could trade these in for something a little more… appropriate for this place.

  As I scout the area, I spot a small group of people sneaking toward what looks like an old, weather-beaten barn. Naturally, I follow—discreetly, of course.

  When I reach the barn, I hear an older gentleman’s voice speaking to the group inside. His tone is filled with worry.

  “Hate to be the bearer o’ bad news,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “Our escort ain’t shown up today… and truth be told, I reckon somethin’ might’ve gotten to him. Those damn Duskrats’ve been gettin’ bolder lately. If that’s the case… we might not be gettin’ any of y’all inside.”

  A woman responds, her voice strained with desperation. “We don’t have a choice,” the woman pleads, her voice trembling. “There’s nowhere else for us to go. We have sick people—children—starving, injured… dying.” She pulls her son closer. “My boy’s wounds are festering. He hasn’t eaten in days. If we don’t get to the refugee camp inside those walls… he won’t make it. Please…”

  The old man shakes his head, voice low and heavy. “I’m real sorry… but I can’t let y’all go down there. That tunnel runs straight through Duskrat territory, and without an escort, you ain’t got much chance makin’ it through. They’ll tear your group apart."

  Duskrats?

  They weren’t hard to kill—just really annoying to fight.

  Still, this might be my shot—both to help and to get into the city without dealing with the checkpoint. I step into the barn.

  A few people gasp in surprise, clearly startled.

  The old man squints at me, trying to make out my face. He sees I’m not wearing any kind of uniform and asks cautiously, “You lost, son? You shouldn’t be in here right now.”

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  I try to sound tough. “If it’s an escort you need… I can do it. For a price.”

  I was going for badass bounty hunter, but based on the awkward silence that follows, I probably landed somewhere closer to wannabe idiot.

  The old man chuckles, loosening up a little. “No offense, son, but you don’t look like you’ve spent a day workin’ a field—let alone crawlin’ through rat-infested tunnels. Those damned Duskrats’ll tear a fella to bits before he even knows what hit ’im.”

  Lost for words, I try to keep up the tough guy act. “I’ve killed dozens—no, hundreds—of these things. I may not look it, but I’m a natural-born Duskrat killer.”

  The old man sighs. “We ain’t got much of a choice now, do we? Name your price.”

  He actually bought it!

  I mean… technically I have killed dozens of Duskrats—on my Astravia account. I just hope they haven’t changed...

  I straighten up and give him my “terms.” “I’ll need a new set of clothes. Maybe some armor. Oh—and a weapon. Something practical.”

  The old man nods and disappears for a few minutes.

  When he returns, he’s holding a worn but well-kept set of leather armor. As I sort through the pieces, my heart skips. This is Rogue armor!

  Sleek, snug-fitting leather built for stealthy movement. The hood draped perfectly to cast a shadow over the face—giving off that total mysterious, lone-wolf vibe. I used to love this armor set in-game.

  “This used to be mine,” the old man says as I gear up. “Back during the last Great War. I was a spy for Viremont.”

  He pauses, then reaches behind him and pulls out a slender, wicked-looking blade.

  “Also—take this.”

  It’s old, but sharp as hell. A dirk. A thrusting dagger with a longer reach than a typical blade.

  “That should be plenty to deal with those damned rats,” he says with a grin.

  I finish suiting up, tightening the last buckle of the leather armor as I prepare for my impending fight with the Duskrats.

  The old man steps up just as I’m ready, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Now listen here, son… we appreciate the fire in your belly—whether it’s courage or just plain foolishness, well, time’ll tell,” he says with a dry chuckle. “But truth be told, these folks… they ain’t quite sold on you just yet.”

  He shifts his weight and looks me dead in the eye. “We had ourselves a talk. Folks figured you oughta head in alone, clear out a chunk o’ them rats, and bring back somethin’ to show for it. Do that, and you’ll have earned our trust—and the right to lead us through the tunnels when the time comes. Hell, we’ll even find you a spot in the camp if you need it.”

  My first quest!

  Man, this really is like the game... but it’s also real. These aren’t NPCs with scripted lives—these are real people counting on me. I’ve never carried this kind of weight before.

  Still, I straighten up and try to sound like the confident adventurer they need. “I won’t fail you. You have my word.”

  That seemed to do it. The room, once dim and tense, felt a little lighter—like hope had finally crept in through the cracks.

  The old man leads me down into the storage cellar, then pulls aside a dusty old rug tacked to the wall. Behind it, a narrow entrance, barely lit and carved straight into the stone.

  A breeze rolls out from the darkness, warm and foul, like old wet socks mixed with something worse.

  He lets out a tired sigh and grins, just a bit. “Smells like trouble,” he mutters. “May the gods watch over you, son.”

  I nod, grab a torch from the wall, and step into the shadows—down into the stink, the stone, and whatever’s waiting for me in those tunnels.