Chapter 3: The First Deed
The grass gave way to pine needles long before the trees closed overhead. The air cooled, carrying resin and damp earth. My bare feet found a rhythm on the soft ground. No blisters. No fatigue. The body the System had given me felt tireless, at least for now.
I walked for hours, or what felt like hours. The golden light never shifted toward evening. No sun tracked across the sky to mark time. Just endless day.
The wolf did not howl again.
Eventually the pines thinned, revealing a clearing no wider than a city block. A spring bubbled up from black soil in the center, steaming faintly. Waist-high stones ringed it, ancient and moss-covered. The water smelled of minerals and something sweet underneath.
At the edge of the spring knelt a creature out of a nightmare sketched by someone who had never seen a deer.
Its body was stag-like, but stretched wrong. Legs too long, joints bending at unnatural angles. Antlers spread wider than a man's arm span, branched like dead lightning. Fur the color of wet ash clung to visible ribs. One hind leg ended in a ragged stump, dark blood still oozing into the dirt.
It heard me approach. Ears twitched. Head lifted. Black eyes fixed on me with exhausted wariness. It tried to rise, failed, and collapsed with a low, trumpeting groan of pain.
I stopped ten paces away.
No health bar floated above its head. No quest prompt appeared. No glowing exclamation mark.
Just a dying animal and me.
The wind shifted. I caught the scent of its blood, sharp and coppery.
Tracks led away from the clearing in two directions. One set was the creature's own, limping and deep. The other set made my skin prickle: three-toed prints, widely spaced, claws long enough to score earth like plow furrows.
Whatever had done this was big. Fast. And it had not finished the job.
The stag-thing watched me. No aggression. Just pain and resignation.
I took a slow step forward. It flinched but did not try to flee. Too weak.
Another step. Closer now. I could see the wound clearly: torn flesh, white bone splintered, muscle shredded. Infection would kill it even if blood loss did not.
I knelt opposite it, careful movements. The heat from the spring warmed my face.
My hands were empty. No potions. No spells. No healing skill.
But the water steamed gently.
I cupped my palms and scooped. The liquid was hot, almost scalding, but bearable. Clear with a faint golden tint.
I held it out.
The creature sniffed. Nostrils flared. Then it stretched its long neck and drank carefully. Warm water ran down its muzzle. When my hands emptied, I scooped again. We repeated this four times, five, until its breathing steadied and the bleeding slowed to a trickle.
Only then did I move to the wound.
I tore a wide strip from the bottom of my tunic. The linen was tough, finely woven. I folded it into a pad, pressed it against the stump, and bound it tight with another strip. The creature trembled but held still, black eyes never leaving my face.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels.
It tested the binding, shifting weight. Pain flashed across its features, but the leg held. Slowly, laboriously, it rose on three legs. Towered over me by a full head even wounded.
For a long moment we regarded each other.
Then it dipped its massive antlers in what could only be called a bow. Not submission. Gratitude.
It turned and limped into the trees on the far side of the clearing, gray fur vanishing between trunks.
I stayed by the spring.
The clearing felt larger in its absence. Quieter.
I waited for something to happen. A chime. A level-up. Glowing text announcing my reward.
Nothing came.
I almost laughed. Of course. Deed-based. I had to figure out the rules myself.
I examined my hands. Skin still smooth. No new calluses. I flexed fingers, stood, jumped once. Same strength. Same speed.
But when I cupped more water and drank, warmth spread through my chest like sunlight. An ache in my lower back I had not noticed faded entirely.
Then text appeared at last. Faint gray letters shimmering above the spring, visible only to me:
Deed recorded: Mercy shown to a wounded creature of Aetheria without demand or reward.
Affinity gained: Wild (Minor).
Skill unlocked: Basic Field Dressing (Passive).
Note: Further growth requires consistent action in similar domains.
The words lingered a few seconds before dissolving.
I stared at the empty air.
One skill. One minor affinity. For hours of walking and minutes of risk.
It felt like nothing.
It felt like everything.
Basic Field Dressing. I focused on the words in memory. A faint understanding settled in my mind: how to clean wounds properly, how tight to bind without cutting circulation, which plants might stave off infection if I found them.
Not magic. Knowledge. Earned.
The spring water had cooled slightly. I drank again, deeper this time. The taste was iron and pine and something electric.
Footprints caught my eye on the far side: the three-toed tracks. They circled the clearing once, then veered north. Deep. Fresh. Whatever had attacked the stag-thing was still hunting.
I followed them for twenty paces, careful not to step in them. The prints were longer than my forearm, claws dragging furrows.
Big.
I returned to the spring and washed the blood from my hands. The golden light had not dimmed, but shadows under the trees grew longer. Time was moving, even if the sun refused to set.
I needed shelter. Food. Weapons.
But first, direction.
North: the predator's trail. Dangerous.
South: back toward the meadow. Empty.
East: rising ground, distant mountains.
West: smoke. Thin gray ribbon against the sapphire sky, maybe half a day's walk.
People.
Village. Supplies. Information.
I stood. The torn tunic hung shorter now, but the air was warm enough.
I took one last drink from the spring, filled my belly with hot mineral water.
Then I turned west and started walking.
The forest swallowed me again. Needles crunched softly underfoot.
Behind me, the clearing returned to silence. Ahead, the smoke rose steady and inviting.
No map. No compass. Just instinct and choice.
I adjusted my pace to something sustainable. Listened to the woods. Birds called overhead. Small creatures rustled in underbrush.
Hours passed. The trees changed slowly. Pines mixed with broadleaf oaks. Ferns carpeted the ground.
Near what felt like late afternoon, the forest opened.
Fields of golden grain stretched toward a wooden palisade. Thatched roofs peeked above it. Figures moved between buildings, tiny at this distance.
A dirt road led straight to a gate.
I paused at the tree line.
No fanfare. No announcement of arrival.
Just a village, and me approaching alone, barefoot, unarmed, tunic torn and blood-stained.
Two guards at the gate spotted me early. One raised a spear. The other called inside.
I kept my hands visible and walked slowly.
The spearman stepped forward as I neared. Thirtyish, scarred cheek, leather armor patched but serviceable.
"New arrival?" he asked. Voice gruff but not hostile.
I nodded.
"Class?"
"None."
He blinked. Exchanged a look with his partner.
Then he sighed. "Figures. We get a few every wave. Name's Torv. Captain of whatever passes for militia here. Come in. But keep hands where we can see them till Mira clears you."
He turned and waved me through the gate.
As I passed beneath the wooden arch, faint text flickered in the corner of my vision:
Location discovered: Elden Hollow (Starter Village).
Reputation: Neutral.
Inside, the village was small but alive. Forty buildings at most. Central well. Blacksmith forge glowing orange. Children chasing each other between houses. An old woman stirring a massive iron pot that smelled of onions and meat.
People stared as I passed. Some curious. Some wary. A few pitying.
Torv led me toward the largest building: timber and stone, carved raven above the door.
"Mira's the elder," he said. "She'll decide if you stay. Rules are simple: pull weight, don't steal, don't start fights you can't finish."
He pushed the door open.
Inside smelled of woodsmoke and stew. Long tables. Fire in a huge hearth.
At the far end, a woman studied a map by lantern light. Mid-thirties. Straw-colored braid. Leather armor. Short sword at hip.
She looked up as we entered.
Gray eyes sharp as flint.
"You the Null who walked in alone?"
Word traveled fast.
I nodded.
She rolled the map and set it aside.
"Sit. Eat. Then we'll talk."
A boy brought me a wooden bowl of thick stew and dark bread without being asked.
I sat.
The first hot food since Earth.
It tasted like hope.
And the Game, at last, had begun to listen.
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