I stared at the crumpled parchment in my hand, the words "Clear the Vermin from the Cellar beneath the Old Mill" taunting me. The weight of what I’d just done settled in like a lead cloak on my shoulders.

I’d accepted the quest.

But I had no idea where the mill was. More than that, I had no weapon—nothing to defend myself with if things went sideways. And something told me they would.

This sucked.

I gritted my teeth and shoved the parchment into my pocket, glancing back at the job board like it might have a hidden solution waiting for me. It didn’t, of course. The quests still sat there, silent and out of reach. I felt a pang of regret for not going to "school," whatever that entailed. Maybe if I had, I’d have something to fall back on. At least then I wouldn’t be fumbling through this like a complete idiot.

I needed help. A guide. Someone who could explain how the hell all this worked—preferably without charging me for it, because I didn’t even have a single coin to my name.

With a resigned sigh, I turned and walked back to the counter. Mason was polishing a glass, the faint smile on his face making him look almost amused by the chaos around him.

“Excuse me,” I said, forcing myself to be polite this time. No more blurting out half-formed questions.

He looked up, arching an eyebrow. “Yes?”

I hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Is there… I don’t know, an apprenticeship or something? To learn about, well… everything?”

He stopped polishing the glass and set it down carefully. For a moment, he studied me, his sharp eyes searching my face like he was trying to piece me together.

“Well,” he said at last, his tone thoughtful, “you’d normally learn the basics in school.” He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “Most people with a class go through formal training. Some do so well they get recruited straight out of school—offered places in prestigious guilds before they even finish.”

“Of course they do,” I muttered under my breath, my stomach sinking.

He smirked but didn’t comment on my frustration. “Some families have a legacy in a guild,” he continued, “so they grow up around it, learning from older siblings, parents, or even grandparents. For everyone else…” He shrugged. “You apply to a guild and find a party that’s in need of your class. Learn as you go.”

I swallowed hard, feeling like a lead ball had dropped into my gut. “Is… is a Ranger class usually in demand?”

Mason tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Not normally,” he said slowly, like he was picking his words carefully. “But recently, things have been… different.”

“Different how?”

He sighed, his gaze drifting briefly to the side. “With the attack on the school, we’ve been short on new recruits. Rangers included.”

“Attack on the school?” I echoed, my voice rising slightly.

His eyes flicked back to mine. “You really are out of the loop, aren’t you?”

I winced, resisting the urge to snap back. It wasn’t like I chose to be out of the loop—I didn’t even choose to be here. But before I could respond, he continued.

“A few months ago, the Ranger training academy was attacked. Burned to the ground. No one knows who did it or why, but it was bad. A lot of people didn’t make it out.” His voice grew quieter, more somber. “The ones who did were scattered. Some joined guilds, but most…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

I stared at him, the weight of his words settling over me like a stone. This world just kept getting worse.

“So,” Mason said, straightening up, “that’s why we give free rooms to Rangers. We’re hoping to draw more in, rebuild the numbers. Right now, there’s a real shortage.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered, though the words felt hollow.

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not all bad,” he said with a faint smile. “You’ve got a room, and you’ve got a guild to work with. That’s more than a lot of people have.”

I nodded absently, though his reassurance didn’t do much to lift my spirits. A shortage of Rangers? A burned academy? This wasn’t some game where I could reload a save if things went south. This was my life now—or at least it felt like it. And if I didn’t figure things out soon, I’d be in serious trouble.

Mason leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. “If I were you, I’d focus on that quest you just picked up. It’s a low-level job, and it’ll give you a chance to get your bearings. You don’t need fancy gear for a vermin hunt—just something sharp and a little courage.”

I nodded again, more firmly this time. He was right. I’d figure out the mill, find something to use as a weapon, and handle the quest. One step at a time.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the counter, the crumpled quest parchment still in my pocket. My brain was buzzing with everything Mason had said, but one nagging thought rose to the surface: Where the hell is this mill?

I had a quest log. Maybe I had a map, too? It seemed logical, right? If this world wanted to play by RPG rules, a map would be a basic feature.

I focused, thinking map as hard as I could. My vision didn’t shimmer, ripple, or do anything remotely useful. I tried again, this time with more intention. "Map," I muttered under my breath, like an idiot trying to activate some hidden voice command.

Still nothing.

"Of course," I said to myself, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "That would be too easy."

I sighed heavily and leaned against the counter, rubbing my temples. I wasn’t sure if I was more frustrated with the system—or whatever it was—or with myself for assuming it would work. Maybe "map" was an unlockable feature. Maybe I had to do something to earn it. Or maybe this whole thing was just broken.

"North out of town," Mason’s voice cut through my internal grumbling.

I blinked and looked up. He had leaned in slightly, his sharp eyes watching me with a hint of amusement.

"The Old Mill," he clarified, his voice a low murmur. "It’s north out of town. About a half hour’s walk if you keep to the main road. Can’t miss it."

Relief washed over me, and I straightened up. "Thank you," I said, my voice sincere.

He nodded, already returning to the glass he’d been cleaning. "Good luck," he added casually.

I hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask more questions—about the mill, about the quest, about everything—but I held back. He’d already done more than enough. I needed to figure this out myself.

Turning toward the door, I pulled my cloak tighter around me and stepped outside into the cool morning air.

The air outside was crisp, with just enough of a chill to remind me that I was underdressed. My boots scuffed against the cobblestones as I walked, and the quiet hum of early morning activity surrounded me. A handful of townsfolk bustled about, setting up stalls or sweeping doorsteps, but most ignored me entirely.

I kept my head down, my pace steady, and followed the road Mason had mentioned. The narrow streets began to widen as I moved further from the center of town. The buildings, which had leaned in close like old gossips before, now spread out, giving way to small cottages with thatched roofs and tiny gardens fenced with weathered wood.

My mind churned as I walked.

North out of town. About a half hour’s walk. Mason made it sound so simple. Like I wasn’t walking toward a creepy, abandoned mill to hunt "vermin" with absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I sighed, adjusting my pace as the cobblestones faded into packed dirt. My lack of a weapon gnawed at me. The quest log hadn’t said anything about what kind of "vermin" I’d be dealing with, but I doubted it was something as mundane as mice or rats. And even if it was, I wasn’t about to throw punches at rodents in a dark cellar.

Ahead, the dirt road curved gently through rolling fields dotted with patches of yellow wildflowers and the occasional grazing goat. A breeze rolled through, carrying with it the faint scent of hay and something earthy I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it reminded me how different this place was from home.

Home.

The word felt heavy in my chest. It wasn’t just the town or the smell of horse manure that reminded me I didn’t belong here. It was the way everything felt slightly off—like the colors were a little too vivid, the sounds a little too sharp, the air a little too heavy. Even the sky seemed brighter, with clouds that looked painted against the brilliant blue backdrop.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I couldn’t afford to get lost in nostalgia or panic right now. I had a job to do, and if I didn’t focus, I was going to fail before I even started.

The road stretched on, the town now fading behind me. A wagon passed me at one point, pulled by a stout horse and driven by an older man who barely glanced in my direction. A young boy sat beside him, swinging his legs and laughing at something the driver said.

I envied their simplicity.

Before long, the road veered slightly uphill, bordered on either side by sparse woods. The trees were tall but thin, their leaves starting to shift into the golden hues of autumn. A few birds chirped high above, and I heard the distant rustle of something moving through the underbrush.

My pace slowed as my unease grew. The closer I got to the mill, the quieter the world seemed to become. Even the birdsong faded, leaving only the crunch of my boots on the dirt road and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees.

I tried to keep my breathing steady, but my mind wouldn’t stop running in circles.

What am I doing?

Every rational part of me screamed to turn back. To go back to Mason, admit I wasn’t ready, and beg for advice—or at least a weapon. But I didn’t turn back. Maybe it was pride, or stubbornness, or some tiny thread of hope that I could handle this, even if I wasn’t sure how.

And then I saw it.

The Old Mill.

It stood at the top of the rise, silhouetted against the bright sky. Its once-white walls were now a patchwork of dirt and decay, and the roof sagged in places where the shingles had rotted away. The massive waterwheel at its side was still, its wooden slats cracked and overgrown with moss.

The place looked abandoned, sure, but it also looked like it was waiting.

The dirt road narrowed as I approached, the edges overgrown with weeds. A wooden sign hung crookedly near the entrance; its faded letters barely legible. I stopped just short of the doorway, my chest tightening as I stared into the dark maw of the building.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the parchment, the crumpled quest details reminding me why I was here. My fingers trembled slightly, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.

"Alright, Sigvard," I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to take another step forward. "Time to see if this was a terrible idea."

I walked up to the mill’s warped wooden door, swallowing hard as I raised my fist to knock. The sound of my knuckles rapping against the wood echoed in the still air, unnaturally loud against the eerie quiet.

For a moment, nothing happened. I almost wondered if the place really was abandoned—until I heard the faint shuffle of footsteps approaching from inside.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The door creaked open just a sliver, and an eye peered out at me through the gap. Then the door swung wider, revealing an old woman. And I mean old.

She wasn’t just elderly; she was ancient. Her hunched frame seemed barely held together by her faded gray dress, and her deeply wrinkled face looked like a crumpled piece of parchment. Her eyes, milky with age, stared at me with such intensity that I felt like she was boring a hole straight through my skull.

I took an involuntary step back, fumbling to find my voice. "I’m here to… uh…" I cleared my throat, willing myself to sound more confident. "I’m here to get rid of the vermin."

The old woman didn’t say a word at first. She just stared at me; her expression unreadable. Then, without warning, she gave a single nod.

"The cellar entrance is around back," she said, her voice dry and crackling like dead leaves. And before I could respond, she slammed the door in my face.

The sound made me flinch, and I stood there for a moment, blinking at the rough wood where the door had been. "Well, that was warm and inviting," I muttered under my breath.

Shaking my head, I turned and made my way around the building. The weeds grew thicker here, curling around the edges of the building like claws. The double doors leading down into the cellar sat nestled against the ground, their iron hinges rusted and their wood dark with age. They looked about as welcoming as the old woman.

I stared at the doors for a long moment, my nerves prickling. "Something sharp and courage," I reminded myself, quoting Mason’s advice as if saying it aloud would make it easier to follow.

I scanned the area for anything I could use. A stick, a rock, anything. My eyes landed on a nearby tree, its low-hanging branches swaying slightly in the breeze. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

I walked over and grabbed one of the branches, yanking it down with all my weight until it snapped off with a dry crack. I turned it over in my hands, studying it. It was rough, uneven, but sturdy enough.

Gripping the branch tightly, I braced it against my knee and snapped the end at an angle, splintering it into a crude, jagged point. The result was laughable—this wasn’t exactly fine craftsmanship—but at least it felt like a weapon.

I held it up, inspecting it critically. And then, to my surprise, words appeared in my vision, faintly glowing against the backdrop of the tree.

"Makeshift Spear"

Item Type: Weapon

Material: Wood

Requirements: None

Tooltip: "Well, it’s sharp-ish. Don’t poke your eye out."

I blinked, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself. "Snarky little system," I muttered, lowering the spear.

The words faded, leaving me holding what still looked like a glorified stick. But at least it had a name now—Makeshift Spear. That had to count for something.

I turned back to the double doors, gripping the spear tightly in my unbruised hand. The makeshift weapon felt small and inadequate compared to the weight of what might be waiting for me below. But it was better than going in empty-handed.

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the cellar doors, each step feeling heavier than the last. My stomach churned, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario it could conjure. What kind of "vermin" would require a quest? Oversized rats? Giant spiders? Something worse?

I stopped in front of the doors, staring down at the rusted handles. My grip on the spear tightened.

"Alright, Sigvard," I muttered, my voice barely audible over the wind. "Time to see what the hell you signed up for."

I stared at the rusted handles of the cellar doors, my heart thudding in my chest. My knuckles whitened around the makeshift spear as I tried to muster the courage to pull them open. It’s just vermin, I told myself. You’ve got this. Probably.

With a deep breath, I reached out and gripped one of the handles. The metal was cold and damp beneath my fingers. I tugged, and the door groaned loudly as it scraped open, flakes of rust crumbling off the hinges. The smell hit me immediately—damp, stale, with a faint, sickly-sweet undertone. I wrinkled my nose and pulled the other door open, revealing a set of narrow stone steps descending into darkness.

I peered down, trying to see anything through the gloom. A faint flicker of movement at the edge of the shadows made my stomach twist. I took another breath, gripping the spear so tightly my fingers ached, and started down the steps.

The air grew colder as I descended, and the faint light from the open doors above barely reached more than a few feet ahead of me. My boots scuffed against the stone; the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. Each step felt heavier than the last, and my nerves prickled with every creak and groan of the old wood surrounding me.

At the bottom of the steps, the cellar opened into a wide, low-ceilinged room. Broken crates and barrels were scattered around, their contents long since rotted away. The damp stone walls glistened faintly with moisture, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deeper inside.

And then I saw them.

Eyes. Dozens of tiny, glinting eyes reflecting the faint light from above. They shifted and darted in the darkness; their owners hidden among the debris. My breath hitched, and I tightened my grip on the spear, the rough wood pressing into my palm.

The first one scuttled into view, and my stomach turned. It was a rat—or at least, it looked like a rat, if rats were the size of small dogs and had jagged, yellowed teeth that looked like they could cut through bone. Its matted fur was slick with filth, and its beady eyes glared at me with a disturbing intelligence. Behind it, more began to emerge from the shadows, their bodies moving in a grotesque, writhing mass.

Vermin, the quest log had said. Sure. Let’s call them that.

The lead rat hissed, its body lowering as if ready to lunge. I took a step back, raising the makeshift spear in front of me. My heart was pounding so loudly now that it drowned out the sound of their scratching claws.

"Okay," I muttered under my breath, trying to steady myself. "Something sharp and courage. Let’s see how far that gets me."

The first rat lunged, its jaws snapping inches from my leg. I yelped and swung the spear in a wide arc, the jagged point slashing across its side. It squealed and stumbled, but didn’t stop—it came at me again, teeth bared. I thrust the spear forward, the crude point driving into its chest. This time, it let out a high-pitched screech and collapsed, twitching for a moment before going still.

I barely had time to register what I’d done before the others swarmed toward me.

Panic surged in my chest as I stumbled backward, swinging the spear wildly. The next rat darted toward my left, and I twisted just in time to jab the spear into its side. Another lunged at my leg, its teeth grazing my boot before I stomped down on its head with all the force I could muster. A sickening crunch echoed through the room, and bile rose in my throat.

They kept coming. My arms burned, my breaths came in ragged gasps, and the jagged point of the spear was already starting to splinter. I thrust, jabbed, and swung with everything I had, my movements growing more desperate with each passing second.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last rat let out a shriek and skittered back into the shadows. My chest heaved as I stood there, trembling, the broken remains of the spear still clutched in my hands. The room was quiet now, save for the sound of my labored breathing and the occasional drip of water.

I looked around at the carnage—bodies of the oversized rats littered the floor, their dark blood pooling on the damp stone. My stomach churned, and I had to fight the urge to throw up.

And then, as if on cue, glowing words appeared in my vision:

"Quest Complete!"

Vermin cleared from the Old Mill cellar. Reward: 20 Gold.

Congratulations, you’ve proven yourself slightly more competent than a broom."

I let out a bark of laughter—short, sharp, and almost hysterical. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, leaning against the wall to steady myself. My whole body ached, and my hands were sticky with blood—some of it mine, from where the rats’ claws had grazed me.

But I’d done it. My first quest was complete. Somehow.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled quest parchment. It now felt heavier, and when I unfolded it, I found a small pouch of coins tied to the back. I opened it, the clink of gold reassuring me that this hadn’t all been for nothing.

"Alright," I muttered, staring at the dark, bloodied cellar around me. "One step at a time."

Clutching the pouch of gold, I turned and headed back up the stairs, the weight of the cellar lingering behind me like a shadow.

As I climbed the cellar steps, I felt every ache and bruise in my body. My arms burned from the wild swings of the spear, and my legs felt like lead. My lungs still hadn’t caught up, every breath coming in shallow gasps.

It wasn’t until I pushed the cellar doors open and stepped back into the fresh air that I noticed something strange. In the corner of my vision, faint but unmistakable, were two small bars. One was red, about halfway full, and the other was green, hovering just above the same mark.

I blinked hard, thinking it was some kind of afterimage from the fight, but the bars didn’t disappear. They followed my gaze no matter where I looked, like they were glued to the edge of my vision.

It took a moment for it to click.

Health bar. Stamina bar.

I stared at them, my mind racing. The red bar—my health—was dangerously low, and now that I was paying attention, I could feel why. My arms and legs throbbed, and the cuts from the rats’ claws stung with every step. The green bar—stamina—wasn’t much better, ticking up ever so slightly as I stood there.

I paused, watching both bars for a few seconds. The red one seemed to rise as well, slower than the green, but it was definitely moving. A passive health regeneration mechanic? That was… useful. And it explained why I wasn’t already on the ground.

I took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill my lungs, and muttered to myself, "Which stat raises that, I wonder?"

Was it Endurance? That seemed the most obvious answer. Maybe Dexterity or Strength played a role too. Or Intelligence—if this world worked like a game, maybe smarter characters had better control over their stamina. I had no way of knowing, but the thought stuck with me as I turned to leave.

The old woman didn’t come out to check on me. The mill stood as still and silent as before, like it hadn’t just been the site of a life-or-death struggle. It felt almost surreal, stepping back into the daylight after the dim chaos of the cellar.

I glanced back at the doors one last time. A faint, sticky smear of blood on the handle was the only evidence of what had happened down there. Shivering, I adjusted my grip on the small pouch of gold I’d earned and started back toward town.

The dirt road felt longer on the way back. My legs dragged with every step, and my body screamed for rest. Every time I glanced at my health and stamina bars, I willed them to refill faster, but they ticked up at their own frustratingly slow pace.

It wasn’t just my body that was tired—my mind was spinning too. The health bar. The stamina bar. The quest log. The item descriptions. The system. Everything about this world felt like a game, but it wasn’t a game, not really. The blood on my hands and the ache in my chest were proof of that.

Still, if the system was real, it meant I wasn’t entirely helpless. I had a way to measure myself, to grow stronger, to adapt. It wasn’t much, but it was something to hold onto.

By the time the town’s weathered gates came into view, the sun was climbing higher in the sky. The early morning chill had burned off, replaced by the warmth of a clear day. People were out and about now, their voices carrying across the streets as they opened shop stalls and chatted with neighbors.

I barely noticed them. My stomach growled loudly, and my mind locked onto a single, urgent thought: food.

I stepped into The Sword, the mercenaries’ guild, and the warm, savory smell of roasted meat and fresh bread hit me like a freight train. My mouth watered instantly, and I realized just how long it had been since I’d eaten.

Mason was behind the counter again, polishing the same glass—or maybe a different one—with his usual calm efficiency. He glanced up as I entered, raising an eyebrow.

"Back so soon?" he asked, his voice light with curiosity. "Didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow."

I dropped the pouch of gold on the counter with a heavy clink, leaning against the edge to steady myself. "Food," I said, my voice hoarse. "Please."

Mason chuckled, nodding as he reached under the counter. "Rough first quest, huh?"

"You have no idea," I muttered, rubbing my temples as I straightened up.

He placed a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of bread on the counter in front of me. The smell alone was enough to make my knees weak.

"On the house for your first job," he said with a smirk. "Think of it as a guild tradition."

I didn’t argue. I grabbed the bowl and practically collapsed into the nearest chair, shoveling the stew into my mouth without caring about how hot it was. The warmth spread through me like fire, dulling the edges of my exhaustion.

As I ate, my health and stamina bars ticked up just a little faster, and for the first time since this nightmare started, I felt something resembling relief.

As I finished the last bite of bread and set the bowl aside, I noticed something strange. The health and stamina bars that had lingered in the corner of my vision were gone. I blinked a few times, half wondering if the system had glitched out, but everything felt normal—no pain, no exhaustion.

That’s when it hit me. They only show up when I’m hurt or low on stamina. A passive feature. Hidden unless I needed them.

Curious, I focused, willing the bars to return. Sure enough, they shimmered into view, hovering faintly at the edges of my vision. I thought off, and they disappeared just as easily.

"Cool," I muttered under my breath.

It felt like a small victory—another piece of the puzzle falling into place. The scratches from the rats’ claws and the ache in my muscles were completely gone now, the bars having quietly ticked up to full during my meal. Whatever "passive health regeneration" was tied to, it worked well enough to patch me up without any fancy potions or spells.

Leaning back in my chair, I thought about the spear I’d crafted earlier—or rather, the Makeshift Spear I’d left behind at the mill. It had served me well enough during the fight, but now I realized something important: That’s probably how everyone can tell my class and level.

When I inspected the spear earlier, it had shown my stats—or at least, something tied to me. If items could be inspected, maybe people could too. It would explain how Mason and the judge had known I was a Level 1 Ranger without me saying a word.

I glanced toward the counter, where Mason was chatting with another guild member. My curiosity got the better of me, and I focused on him, thinking the word inspect.

To my surprise, text appeared in my vision:

Name: Mason

Class: Guild Attendant

I blinked. That was it—no stats, no levels, no details about his abilities. Just his name and class.

Still, it confirmed my theory. So you can inspect people, but it’s limited. Maybe it depends on their class—or mine.

I shifted my focus away, and the text faded as quickly as it had appeared. A faint smirk tugged at my lips. This wasn’t just a world of combat and monsters. There were layers here—things I could dig into, experiment with, learn.

I drummed my fingers on the table, the edges of my curiosity starting to burn brighter. If I could inspect Mason, could I inspect everyone? Did it work on animals? Objects? And why were some things hidden?

For now, though, I let the questions rest. My body felt better, my mind clearer, and the pouch of gold at my hip reminded me I had a few resources to work with. One quest down, and it hadn’t killed me.

That was a start.