Alone now in the quiet darkness, you push the creaky wooden door fully open and step inside the Fletcher's cabin. You pull the door shut behind you, plunging the small space into near-total darkness. The air inside is cool and still, carrying the scent of old, dry wood, settled dust, and the faint, cold smell of long-dead ashes.
As your eyes adjust, faint moonlight filtering through small cracks in the walls and perhaps a tiny, grime-covered window high on one wall provides the barest illumination. It's enough to make out shapes, but not details.
You feel around beside the door and find the promised 'bar latch' – a heavy, thick piece of wood that slides into sturdy brackets on the doorframe. You slot it into place; the solid thud offers a small measure of security.
Pulling out your phone, you switch on its flashlight function. The sudden beam cuts through the gloom, illuminating the small, single-room cabin. It's exactly as Torvin described: basic. The walls are rough-hewn timber, chinked with dried mud that has crumbled away in places. The floor is hard-packed earth, uneven but swept clean relatively recently. Dust motes dance in the phone's beam.
Against the far wall sits the promised cot – a simple wooden frame with interwoven rope supports, currently bare. No mattress, just the ropes. Beside it, leaning against the wall, is a pitifully thin, rolled-up pad that might be an old straw pallet, looking rather uninviting.
In one corner stands a small hearth made of rough fieldstones mortared together with clay. It's cold and dark, filled with grey ashes. A simple iron hook hangs above it, likely for a cooking pot. There are no other furnishings – no table, no chair, just empty space. A few wooden pegs hammered into the wall near the door might have once held coats or tools. Cobwebs hang undisturbed in the corners near the low, timber-beamed ceiling.
It's stark, empty, and cold, but it's dry, enclosed, and within the relative safety of the village walls. Far better than the forest floor. You have the blanket Meredith gave you, the cot (or floor), and a roof over your head. For tonight, it's enough.
The silence of the cabin settles around you, broken only by the faint sounds of the village outside filtering through the wooden walls and the distant crackle of your own phone's light source reflecting off the dusty surfaces.
You sit on the edge of the rope cot, the thin straw pallet feeling inadequate beneath you. The phone's light casts long shadows in the small cabin, making the empty corners seem deeper. The adrenaline has fully faded now, replaced by a profound weariness, both physical and mental.
You try to cast your mind back, searching for solid ground in the swirling fog of your past. Earth... yes, you remember concrete, cars, tall buildings, the hum of electricity. A vague sense of routine – waking, working, eating, sleeping. But the details… they slip away like smoke. What was your job? Where did you live specifically? Faces flicker at the edges of your consciousness – were they friends? Family? Colleagues? You grasp for names, for specific memories, shared jokes, moments of joy or sadness, but find only hazy impressions, disconnected feelings without context. It’s like looking at a heavily pixelated image – you know something is there, but the resolution is too poor to make it out. The only concrete anchor is your name: Keelan.
Frustrated, you focus your intent inwards. 'Oracle, access my memories. My past life. Before... this.'
<< Analyzing request... Accessing pre-integration host memory files... >> There's a pause, then the usual calm tone returns, devoid of the answers you crave. << Data inaccessible. My operational parameters began upon activation within this reality matrix. I retain baseline host identification 'Keelan' and core language comprehension frameworks transferred during
integration. No verifiable data pertaining to the host's existence prior to arrival point is stored within my active or archival memory. I cannot access memories you yourself cannot consciously recall. >>
A cold knot forms in your stomach. Even the god-like AI in your head has limits, bound by the rules of this... arrival. You are truly adrift, not just in a new world, but from your own history.
Then, an idea sparks – the phone. Your last tangible link to that lost world. You raise the device, its screen bright in the dim cabin. Unlocking it with a familiar swipe pattern (muscle memory, at least, persists), you navigate to the photo gallery, heart pounding with a fragile hope. Albums... Camera Roll... Cloud Storage...
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Disappointment crashes down. Almost every album is greyed out, marked with a tiny cloud icon. 'Cannot connect to retrieve media.' Of course. No signal, no cloud access. You frantically tap through the few locally stored files. Nothing personal. Screenshots of game wikis, downloaded memes you don't find funny anymore, pictures related to sports teams you vaguely recognize but feel no connection to.
Then, in the main camera roll, one solitary image. You tap on it, enlarging it. It’s a photo, slightly blurry, taken outdoors in what looks like a city park – green grass, trees, a paved path behind. There are four people. A younger version of yourself, smiling awkwardly, stands between a man and a woman – presumably your parents. The man looks stern but has kind eyes; the woman is smiling warmly, her hand on your shoulder. Beside your mother stands a younger girl, maybe early teens, sticking her tongue out playfully at the camera – your sister? You know, instinctively, that these are your parents and sister. You should know their names, the feel of their hugs, the sound of their laughter. But looking at their faces brings only a profound sense of loss, a hollow ache where recognition and love should be. There are no names saved with the photo, no context. Just four strangers who should be everything to you.
You swipe further, checking other apps. Music: a collection of pop and rock songs, vaguely familiar but evoking no strong emotion. Books: mostly manuals and histories related to various sports, plus, ironically, a half-dozen isekai light novels with titles like 'Reborn as a Weak Slime but I Have Admin Privileges!' and 'My Cheat Skill is Logarithmic Progression!'. It seems your past self had a taste for escapist fantasy. How fitting.
Setting the phone aside, the screen casting a lonely glow on the cot, you lean back against the rough wooden wall, closing your eyes. The failed memory search leaves you feeling empty, anchorless. So, you focus on what is real, what just happened. The goblin fight.
You replay it meticulously in your mind, aided by Oracle's perfect recall subtly feeding details back – not as an active report, but as enhanced clarity in your own memory.
- The stealth kills: The silent approach, the hand over the mouth, the quick slash across the Shaman's throat. The stab to the base of the skull on the climber. Lesson: Speed, silence, and surprise are devastating, especially against unaware or lower-ranked foes. Target priority (Shaman) was crucial.
- The open combat: The Hobgoblin's charge, the crude but powerful swing. Dodging, not blocking heavy hits when possible. The quick kick to the knee – exploiting balance. Parrying its thrust, feeling the strength difference (STR 9 vs your 21) but managing with leverage and timing. Weaving between multiple attackers, using their numbers against them, forcing them into each other's way. The efficiency of targeting vital areas – ribs, neck, chest.
- Coordination: Your shout to the guards, the simple tactic of drawing focus. Seeing how the militia reacted, their effectiveness when given an opening. Lesson: Even basic teamwork drastically multiplies effectiveness.
- Weaknesses: Your pocket knife was useless. The goblin dagger, though crude, made all the difference. Armor would be good – even the militia's simple leather vests offered some protection.
You visualize the movements, the feeling of the dagger in your hand, the impact, the necessary ruthlessness. You analyze mistakes – the slight crunch of gravel that could have alerted the Shaman, the moment you were nearly caught between the Hob and another goblin. You internalize the successful maneuvers, burning them into your muscle memory, reinforcing the instincts that served you well. This mental training feels productive, sharpening the newly gained skills Oracle quantified earlier.
<< Combat analysis logged. Experience points processed from recent encounters: 9 E/E+ rank hostiles neutralized (7 solo kills, 2 assists/shared kills, significant bonus for Shaman & Hob leader elimination). Proficiency gains allocated to relevant skills. >> Oracle's internal notification confirms your mental efforts translate directly to the system governing your abilities. << Accumulated XP threshold surpassed. Stat and skill point allocation available upon waking consciousness. >>
Level up. The thought provides a small spark of satisfaction amidst the larger uncertainties. Progress.
Exhaustion finally overrides the swirling thoughts. The combination of the filling meal, the physical exertion, the adrenaline crash, and the emotional drain of confronting your memory loss pulls you down. You unroll the thick wool blanket, wrap yourself in its comforting weight, and lie down on the surprisingly unforgiving ropes of the cot. The Fletcher's cabin is dark, quiet, and for tonight, safe. Sleep claims you quickly, pulling you into a dreamless void.
Time: Late Night (Deep Sleep)
Date: 01/05/1042
Status:
- Health: Healthy
- Hunger: Satisfied
- Thirst: Hydrated
- Stamina: Resting (Full upon waking)
- Injuries: None
Experience: Level Up Pending (Stat/Skill points available)
Inventory: Unchanged