“If they’re going for next-level realism,” he remarked, squinting at the horizon, “they nailed the dust factor. I can practically feel it in my nose.”
Beside him, Petros shifted, re-snugging the strap of his pouch. “No kidding. My eyes keep watering like I’m actually here. I can’t decide if I love the immersion or hate that I can’t turn off the ‘dust texture’ setting.”
From the driver’s seat, Barrow let out a hearty hum, flicking the reins at his pair of sturdy horses. The afternoon sun bathed them all in a gentle glow, turning the passing meadows into a tapestry of gold and green. For the hundredth time, Jack tried to spot a “render glitch” or some hidden VR hardware—anything that might reveal the simulation’s secrets. He found none.
Petros, fiddling with his small leather satchel, had an excited gleam in his eye. “Hey, we gotta talk about these pouches again,” he said, lowering his voice as though confiding a cherished discovery. “We have a real-life… well, VR-life bag of holding. I can’t believe the devs coded something so advanced.”
“Totally,” Jack agreed, tapping his pouch. “Infinite inventory with item recognition. Man, the devs must be ex-Blizzard or something because this system is insane.”
They tested their theory anew. Petros withdrew a cooked boar steak and then put it back. Jack produced a bundled boar hide, only to slip it back in moments later. The bag responded perfectly to their intentions, delivering or removing objects without a hitch. Meanwhile, Barrow continued driving, seemingly oblivious to their hushed enthusiasm.
“I’d kill for a mini-map, though,” Jack added, peering at the dusty road. “Or a quest log.”
Petros snickered. “We do have a map in our journals. But it’s not exactly a giant floating HUD.”
They next turned their attention to the leather-bound journals in their laps—mysterious tomes that had defined their “gaming” experience. That morning, they’d tested a bizarre fail-safe: the journals would vanish the instant someone else tried to keep them. Petros wryly remembered when Jack tossed his journal off the side of the cart, only for it to reappear inside Petros’s pouch once the wagon rolled on.
“Dude,” Petros muttered, shooting Jack a mild glare. “Don’t throw my stuff off a moving wagon again. I don’t care if it’s ‘part of the system.’”
Jack smirked. “I swear, if your journal hadn’t teleported back, I’d have hopped out and grabbed it.”
Petros rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a grin. “Sure, sure. Just wait until I throw your precious tome onto a dev-coded ravine and see if it reappears.”
A thought struck Jack: he’d looted a mysterious item from the goblins a few days back. Driven by curiosity, he concentrated on retrieving it. He felt a solid shape form under his fingertips within the intangible space of the pouch and pulled out a small, worn book with a gilded clasp.
“Oh, right,” he murmured, turning it over. “I forgot about this. Some kind of… ‘Spell Tome’ or something.”
Petros leaned closer, brow furrowing. “One of the goblins dropped that? Talk about random loot.”
Jack traced his fingers over archaic runes etched into the leather. His mind’s translation ability—whatever the devs had programmed—helped him read the gold filigree title:
“Spell Tome: Fire armor.”
As if on cue, Jack’s journal buzzed. He set the tome aside and flipped open the journal’s pages, scanning a fresh block of text:
Spell Tome, Fire Armor.
When read, grants the ability to conjure a cloak of fire that shields from damage and harms melee attackers for 60 seconds.
Requirement: Elemental Mage, Level 5.
You lack the requirements to use this tome.
Jack let out a low whistle. “So it’s basically a new skill. But I need to grind some levels first.”
Petros nodded, eyes wide. “Imagine a cloak of literal fire! That’s, like, top-tier mage stuff. Guess the devs don’t want you OP right away.”
Jack set the spell tome on his lap, half-convinced the entire “Fire Cloak” concept was a carefully curated “endgame” skill. “Well, guess I’ll stash it. Might come in handy once I’m level five.”
On a whim, Jack mused aloud, “Wonder if we can see character sheets in this VR. The menu system’s not exactly standard.”
He hardly finished speaking before the journal inked fresh lines:
Human: Jack Hart
Class: Elementalist
Level: 2
Concept: Specializes in the raw forces of nature—fire, ice, lightning, earth, wind.
Playstyle: High damage, AoE attacks; vulnerable if rushed.
Signature Abilities:
- Firestorm (Level 1): Call down a localized rain of fire. Cooldown: 0 seconds. Low mana consumption.
- Chain Lightning (Level 1): Electrify multiple foes at once. Cooldown: 0 seconds. Low mana consumption.
- Earth Shatter (Level 1): Splits the ground, sending shockwaves. Cooldown: 60 seconds. Medium mana consumption.
Petros’s jaw dropped slightly, pointing at the zero-second cooldowns. “Is that even balanced? You can chain lightning non-stop?”
Jack’s grin spread wide. “Yep, baby. Real-time spam. The devs obviously didn’t factor in, you know, ‘fairness.’ However, the mana usage makes up for that, spamming the abilities will eat away at my magic; we will need to be strategic in a battle and not just blindly toss at spells.”
Petros silently nodded at that realization, remembering his unusual exhaustion after bringing Jack back from near-death injuries during the goblin attack.
Despite his excitement, he glanced quizzically at the cart’s interior. “But man, if this is truly a VR sim, it’s nuts how real everything feels. Even the flavor of that boar steak was off the charts. No aftertaste of pixels or whatever.”
Petros shrugged, half-lost in reading his stats. “Maybe they designed some new neural interface technology. Hyper-advanced. That’s gotta be it. I could do away with the all to real feeling pain though, or atleast some control on the intensity.”
“That is why this is a beta test,” Jack shrugged, “We will have to note this to the devs when they pull us out.”
Ahead of them, Barrow cleared his throat. “Pendle Village soon, lads. There’s a warm meal, a decent bed, and maybe some trade to be had if you need gear or fresh clothes.”
“Thanks, man,” Jack called, eyeing the rolling fields where farmhouses dotted the landscape. They seemed so… genuine. If this was all code, the devs had truly outdone themselves. “We could use a break.”
Petros ensured his journal was secure in its pouch, then frowned thoughtfully. “Think they’ll have potions or spells we can buy? Typical MMO shops, maybe?”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “If so, I’m definitely snagging some new threads. I feel like a medieval peasant in these ragged clothes.”
A contemplative hush settled over them, broken only by the clop of horses and Barrow’s continued hum. A swirl of gentle wind fluttered through the cart, lifting a few stray pages in Jack’s open journal. He clamped it shut, taking in the rolling hills that sloped down to a modest cluster of timbered buildings in the distance.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
He mused that these devs are gaming gods, or they blew their entire budget on next-gen VR illusions. Because if I didn’t know better…
He left the thought unfinished. There was no reason to doubt he’d eventually find a UI panel or a “log-out” prompt. Right?
Warm afternoon light streamed across the wagon, and as the trio ventured onward, signs of civilization began to emerge like distant waypoints. First came a pair of weathered barns, long deserted and sagging into the earth, then a scattering of farmsteads that gradually drew closer together. The fields shrank in scope, replaced by small clusters of tilled land and tidy gardens.
Jack perched on one side of the cart, leaning out to take in the shifting landscape, while Petros clung to the opposite side, entranced by the sight of tendril-like vines wrapping old fences. The farmland’s bustle—farmers in straw hats herding goats, a stray dog nosing about the roadside—gave the place a cozy welcome.
Eventually, they passed beneath a robust wooden archway that might once have supported gates. Now, it stood half-open, the hinges lost to time and neglect. Beyond it lay Pendle Village, its timbered houses and cobbled alleys reminiscent of an old-world ren fair. The wagon’s wheels transitioned from dusty earth to uneven stones, clacking loudly in the village square.
“Huh,” Jack mused, eyes flicking around the crowded center. “They really went all out with… everything.”
“It feels so authentic,” Petros agreed, voice low with awe.
The center of Pendle bustled with a scattering of market stalls, and villagers gathered around a communal well. Barrow guided the horses to a stop near a small fountain carved from pale stone. Before the wagon halted, a cluster of giggling children swarmed forward, vying for the treats and trinkets Barrow habitually doled out.
While the children scrambled, a handful of townsfolk stepped out from shops or homes, waving at the returning merchant. Some wore linen aprons dusted with flour, others leather aprons spattered with soot or paint. Jack watched as Barrow hopped down from his seat, rummaged in a large crate, and produced a handful of wooden whistles for the kids.
“It’s like the traveling merchant is the event of the season,” Jack observed, smirking at the sight.
“Which makes sense,” Petros said, shrugging. “He’s got to be more interesting than watching crops grow day in, day out.”
Settling in the Village, Barrow turned and waved the pair over.
“Right, you two! This is Pendle, heart of the farmland hereabouts.” He gestured grandly at the quaint buildings arranged in a horseshoe around the square. “I’ll set up a stall here, sell me wares, share a few stories. You’re free to wander, see about clothes or provisions—whatever you need.”
Jack hopped off the cart, pressing a few copper coins into his palm.
“Here, for your trouble,” he said, offering them up. “We appreciate the ride, really.”
But Barrow waved the coins away with a broad grin.
“Not necessary. Didn’t cost me a thing to help a couple of weary travelers. ’Sides,” he added with a wink, “you two look like you need every coin to replace those rags.”
Jack and Petros exchanged an embarrassed chuckle.
“Much obliged, Barrow,” Petros said. “We owe you one.”
Barrow clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Thank me by sending folks my way once you’re set up. Never hurts to spread the word.”
Looking around the town square, Jack spotted a modest shop topped by a painted sign: a wooden spool of thread suspended overhead. Petros pointed out the same.
“Must be our tailor,” he said. “No pun-based name, but let’s hope they do decent work.”
They approached the storefront, where a thin older woman stood on the threshold, drawn out by the sound of Barrow’s arrival. Her keen eyes flicked from Jack to Petros with quiet curiosity.
“Came in with Barrow, did you?” she asked, voice warm but businesslike.
Jack gave a friendly nod. “Yes, ma’am. We ran into some trouble on the road and lost most of our gear. Barrow was kind enough to give us a lift here to restock.”
The woman’s gaze took in their worn garments—Jack’s cloak practically in tatters, Petros’s fraying shirt. With a slight hum of sympathy, she stepped back to let them enter the shop.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I can fix you up, but I’ll need to see what you’re offering in exchange.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “We’re kind in Pendle, not foolish.”
Jack shared a glance with Petros, who produced a boar hide from his pouch—pristine, thanks to the system’s magic. Jack set a few coppers on the table as well.
The woman’s brows rose at the quality of the hide.
“Which of you is the huntsman?” she asked, running her hand appreciatively over the pelt.
Jack forced a casual grin, careful not to break the immersion of the moment with an outlandish explanation. “We had it from home, in case of trade,” he said vaguely. “Luckily, we kept it safe when everything else got lost.”
Her assessing look lingered, but she accepted the reasoning.
“In that case, I can do two sets of traveling pants and shirts, plus boots, for the hide and some of your coin. Ready by tomorrow morning.”
She measured them quickly—Petros fidgeting with mild embarrassment, Jack standing taller to appear more confident. The woman made short marks on a small ledger, then ushered them back outside with a brisk nod.
“Tomorrow, lads. I’ll have something sturdy for you then.”
Petros exhaled once they were out. “That was easier than I thought.”
“Yeah, I half-expected a big quest to gather special threads or something,” Jack joked. “But apparently coin—and a good hide—works just fine.”
Hunger and fatigue gnawed at them. Even for a single night, a bed sounded downright luxurious after sleeping on hard ground. They followed the sound of muffled laughter and clinking glasses, eventually stumbling upon a broad, weathered sign depicting a boar’s head and a mug of frothing ale: the Boar & Brew.
“Catchy name,” Jack said, pushing open the tavern door. “Feels appropriate.”
A wave of warm air enveloped them—spiced meat on the spit, the tang of ale, and the hum of conversation. The interior was smaller than Jack expected, more like a large home’s living area repurposed into a taproom. A handful of wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and a stone hearth crackling in the corner gave it a homey vibe.
Only three patrons populated the place: two men at a table near the entrance engaged in a rowdy board game—complete with carved pieces that looked vaguely like knights and monsters—and a lone figure slumped in a shadowy corner, an empty mug balanced precariously near his limp hand.
Petros inhaled, shoulders relaxing. “Oh man, that roasted meat smells incredible.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “I’m starving.” He stepped up to the sturdy bar on one side of the room. The barkeep, a middle-aged fellow with a friendly grin, promptly stepped forward.
“Welcome to the Boar & Brew,” he greeted, wiping his hands on a towel. “What can I do for you lads? A meal, a bed, or both?”
Jack glanced around, noticing how the tavern’s dim light played across battered wooden beams overhead. Despite the small crowd, the mood was warm, a refuge from the dusty road. Petros lingered close, trying not to stare at the passed-out man in the corner, who might’ve been the local drunk.
“Both, if you’ve got the room,” Jack said, producing some coins. “We’ll need dinner and a place to sleep for the night.”
The barkeep brightened. “Right, you are. We’ve got a pair of spare beds in the loft—nothing fancy, but clean sheets, I promise.”
As Jack counted the necessary coppers, Petros watched the two men at the board game. They appeared deeply immersed in intricate rules, occasionally breaking into laughter or mild curses. Petros found himself oddly tempted to learn how to play—another sign he was sliding deeper into the world’s charm.
“I’ll get you some stew and bread shortly,” the barkeep said, nodding at their payment. “Feel free to grab a table.”
The two travelers drifted toward a corner spot, setting their pouches down. Outside, the sun had nearly sunk below the horizon, painting the sky in purple and orange streaks. Inside, oil lanterns and the glow of the hearth illuminated the tavern in a comforting haze.
“I could get used to this,” Petros whispered, eyes shining with an almost childlike excitement.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed softly, a subtle grin tugging at his lips. “You know… we might as well enjoy it while we’re here.”
And so they resolved to lean wholly into the experiences this land had to offer, at least for the moment. If it was indeed a grand, immersive simulation, Jack couldn’t deny it felt more real and inviting than any game he’d ever played.
A slender woman emerged from behind the tavern’s back door, steam curling around the edges of two heavy ceramic bowls balanced expertly in her arms. She set them on the table in front of Jack and Petros, along with two mugs. Jack’s nostrils flared appreciatively at the rich, meaty aroma rising from the thick stew.
“Aw man,” Petros grumbled, eyeing his mug, “milk.” He gave a dramatic sigh, slumping back with folded arms.
Jack quirked a brow, chuckling softly at his companion’s displeasure. Just then, the barkeep wandered over, wiping down a neighboring table with a rag that might have seen cleaner days. Seizing an opportunity, Jack sat a bit straighter.
“Good sir,” he said, adopting a somewhat formal tone. Petros glanced at him curiously but let it pass. “I’m Jack, and this here is my brother—” He hesitated for a heartbeat, then continued with a playful smile. “Petros.”
The barkeep set aside his rag, extending a calloused hand. “Aye, I’m Trevor, and the lass back there is me daughter, Raven.” He nodded toward the slender woman now rearranging bowls near the bar. “Pleased to meet you both.”
Jack gripped Trevor’s hand in a firm shake. “We, uh, had a run-in with some overzealous boars on the road,” he explained. “We ended up with a bit more meat than we can handle, and we’re looking to trade for provisions. Maybe some salted stuff that’ll last us on the road and a few waterskins if you have ’em.”
Trevor’s eyes widened slightly as Jack and Petros each pulled out a couple of raw boar steaks—pristine, thanks to the boars they’d bested earlier. Petros placed them carefully on the table like trophies of a hard-fought hunt.
“Those are fine cuts,” Trevor observed, stroking his chin. “I can cure them myself, no trouble. As for provisions—” he gestured to some strips of salted meat hanging above the hearth, “—I’ll gladly trade you a few days’ worth, plus a couple of waterskins. Fill ’em at the well in the square, no charge. I’ll have it packed for you by morning.”
Jack flashed a relieved grin. “Thank you. That’d help a lot.”
They completed the exchange, and though it meant parting with some premium steaks, Jack rationalized there’d likely be more chances to hunt or scavenge down the line. After all, the road—and whatever roamed it—was vast.
With their bellies full from the hearty stew—chunks of tender meat floating in a thick, savory broth—Jack and Petros leaned back, relishing the warmth that spread through their limbs. The tavern was cozy, if a bit cramped, but the low hum of conversation soothed their road-weary nerves.
Suddenly, a sharp cry split the comfortable quiet:
“ALE!”
Both men jolted, startled by the drunkard who lurched upright in the tavern’s dim corner. The two fellows playing a board game near the door shot him a glare.
“Shut yer gob, old man,” one of them retorted, rolling his eyes.
But the drunkard staggered to his feet, swaying like the ground was moving beneath him. A single ray of twilight from the nearby window fell across his unshaven face, revealing deeply etched lines and bloodshot eyes. Something about him tugged at Jack’s memory—like a snippet of a half-forgotten dream.
“I’ll have you know,” the man started, voice slurring unevenly, “that I’m… I’m far more important than—”
He never finished. Jack jolted so violently he nearly overturned his stool. Grabbing Petros by the sleeve, he hissed in a low, urgent whisper.
“Oh… oh, crap! Petros, do you see him?”
Petros’s eyes darted from Jack to the drunkard and back again. “What? Why? You know him?”
Jack’s heartbeat thundered in his chest as he stared at the disheveled figure.
“That’s Gondel. Gondel the High Wizard from ER3.”
He’d seen that distinctive droop around the eyes, the arch of the nose, countless times in splash art or cutscenes from his favorite single-player RPG. But here—swathed in threadbare robes, stinking of ale, and glaring blearily around the tavern—it was an image so jarringly real that Jack felt momentarily dizzy.