He stood in front of the exit to the vestige hollow dungeon, breathing in the air of the forest before setting off without looking back. He didn't need to, there was nothing left for him to do here.
Sunlight pressed harder once the canopy thinned. Kieran felt the change immediately. No burn. No pain. Just a quiet drag—an ambient resistance that wanted him to move with intent rather than instinct. A subdued notification flickered.
-------------------------
Sunlight Exposure Detected
Racial Limitation: Vampire
Physical Attributes Reduced by 10%
Blood Reserve: 70 / 130 —
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The text faded. The debuff lingered. A faint hollowness pressed under his sternum—subtle, but sharper under the sun.
He adjusted his balance, letting the drag settle into his limbs until it became another piece of terrain to manage. The forest ahead felt gentler than the one behind him—roots buried deeper, branches spaced wider, small animals darting through grass without fear.
A temporary luxury.
The faintest pressure tugged under his ribs—a hollow beat from his blood dependency. Not urgent. Not pleasant. A reminder.
He followed the slope down to a narrow river running fast over smooth stones. Kneeling, he dipped his fingers in. Cold water bit lightly against his skin.
Honest.
His reflection rippled—a pale face, crimson eyes narrowed under sunlight, dark hair tied back loosely. Sharper than before. More aligned with itself.
He pushed to his feet and crossed the stone bridge downstream. Moss clung to its sides. Runes on the keystone had worn into near-oblivion. No prompts. No glow.
The land ahead rose into rolling ground. Smoke curled in measured columns. Walls and rooftops broke the horizon.
Ashfall.
Kieran paused on the rise overlooking it. No need to rush.
NPCs moved with purpose—children running between carts, guards discussing routes as they walked the perimeter, merchants unloading crates with practiced rhythm. A group of new players approached loudly, unaware of how much space they consumed.
He moved toward the gate at an even pace.
A guard stepped forward—a broad man with light stubble, efficient and unhurried in his assessment.
Ashfall Gatewarden — Level 17
"Passing through?" The GateWarden asked.
"Yes."
"You're welcome inside. Keep your fights outside our walls unless you're defending them."
"Reasonable," Kieran said.
The warden's mouth tightened—not approval, but familiarity with someone who understood boundaries.
Ashfall unfolded wider inside the walls.
The outer ring smelled of hay, iron, and damp earth. Warehouses lined the street. Carts rattled over stone. Workers argued about storage in tones too practical for theatrics.
"You logged it wrong," one growled.
"No, you stacked it wrong."
Their supervisor didn't look up from his ledger. "If it breaks, it comes out of both salaries."
Silence. Work resumed.
Kieran drifted through the street, letting the city introduce itself.
The Leatherworker
A small workshop sat open to the road. Strips of hide hung from beams, tools arranged with obsessive precision.
A wiry woman with scarred hands didn't look up. "Looking for gear?"
"Looking," Kieran replied.
"Touch anything without asking and I charge inspection fees."
He examined a bracer—sturdy stitching, clean tension. "Quality's high."
"Because I made it."
He set it down gently.
That earned a glance. Then a nod. "Custom work by appointment. Not now. Busy."
"I noticed."
A faint snort. "Smarter than half the customers today." She didn't watch him leave.
The Armorer
Oil and metal scented the air. A broad man hammered at a breastplate without looking up.
"You planning to buy," he said, "or just verifying I'm doing it correctly?"
"Observing."
"Shift left. Heat rolls out."
Kieran moved the side by a few feet. A nod followed. "Better."
"Your spacing's consistent," Kieran noted.
"Consistency keeps people alive."
"Understood."
Another glance—appraising. Respect hidden in brevity.
The Produce Vendor
A young man behind crates of fruit eyed him hopefully. "Apples. Fresh."
Kieran lifted one. "Define fresh."
"Picked this morning."
He inspected it. No bruising. "Accurate."
"You're the first to check."
"Most people assume labels are honest."
"You'd be surprised."
"I've noticed."
The Potion Cart.
A sharp argument snapped across the street, pulling his attention.
Two players stood rigid in front of a merchant whose stall overflowed with brightly colored vials.
"I'm telling you," one player insisted, voice sharp, "you said this cures poison."
The merchant shrugged. "Slows it. Big difference between dying fast and dying slow."
"That's not what you advertised!" the second player snapped.
"It's what the fine print says," the merchant countered, pointing at a scrawled, barely legible line.
Kieran slowed just enough to watch the exchange.
The potion smelled wrong even from here—sweet, sharp, masking something sour underneath. Low-tier. Diluted. The kind of item meant for desperate beginners.
The players didn't notice. But the merchant absolutely did. Kieran filed the interaction away. Patterns mattered. Liars especially.
He kept walking, but nodded once to himself. That merchant is a swindler.
The market square opened suddenly, a wide circular space paved in stone, stalls radiating outward like spokes. Cloth awnings cast shifting shadows as the sun climbed, colors overlapping in layered patterns. Vendors called out prices, not in loops, but in variations, adjusting tone depending on who passed.
"Fresh bread, still warm!"
"Leather, tanned local, won't crack on you!"
"Information of the western routes, updated this season!"
Kieran slowed near the information seller, glancing at the parchment spread across the table. Hand-drawn, imperfect, with annotations scratched into the margins. Roads marked clearly. Forests shaded unevenly. Some areas left blank entirely.
"Those blanks dangerous?" Kieran asked.
The old man behind the stall squinted at him. "Dangerous? Maybe. Or just forgotten. World's bigger than most folk care to walk."
Kieran nodded. "Figures."
He moved away from the broker and began to search for an inn for the night, he had just arrived so he might as well.
Ashfall felt alive. NPCs negotiated with practical efficiency. Players carved noisy paths between stalls.
Two nearby argued loudly:
"Six goblins, no drops—broken system!"
"It's just RNG!"
Kieran passed them without slowing. "One of you is wrong but neither of you are smart enough to figure out which."
They went silent. Mouths opening and closing as they tried to rebuttal. He didn't look back.
He stepped into the shade of the inn. The relief was immediate—subtle, but welcome. Shade from an overhang eased the sun's drag. Hunger thrummed faintly under his ribs—but controlled. Contained.
The inn sat low against the street, stone darkened by years of smoke and weather, windows glowing with a steady, tired warmth. Kieran pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Heat met him first. Not comfort—just function. A fire working because it had to. The smell of stew, damp wool, old ale. Voices clustered in uneven pockets, players louder than they needed to be, locals quieter than they looked.
He paused just long enough to let the room take him in. No one reacted. A few glances slid his way and moved on, interest spent as soon as it found nothing to hold.
Kieran crossed to the counter, boots dull on the worn floor. The innkeeper looked up, eyes flicking to his blade, then to his face.
"Room," Kieran said. "One night."
A key scraped across wood. "Stairs. Back."
He took it and turned away, already feeling the weight ease—not safety, just pause. For tonight, Ashfall would hold him.