David lowered his bow, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he weaved through the forest with effortless grace. In seconds, he stood before the fallen deer, arrows piercing its side, its chest rising weakly.

Without hesitation, he crouched, set the bow aside, and drew his dagger. The final blow was swift and clean, the venison still steaming as he hefted it onto his rough back frame. Every motion was smooth, almost rehearsed.

“Gotcha,” he whispered to himself, exhaling deeply. Standing upright, he felt the weight of the kill press heavily against his back. Much heavier than anticipated.

“Damn, I’ve really gotten weak,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll recover soon enough.”

The forest had been generous today. Venison for days—more than enough to make jerky. His lips curled slightly. If luck stayed on his side, maybe things would finally go back to normal.

He adjusted the quiver slung over his shoulder and began the trek back to his ‘home.’ The path was familiar but silent, leaving David with only his thoughts as company.

Once, he’d been an ordinary office worker on Earth. Somehow, through the twisted fate of an untimely death, he found himself here, in this medieval fantasy world. The rigid class system gnawed at him; he was no noble, just a commoner with limited means.

His early years here had been under the wing of Addis, an old hunter, but David’s ambitions had driven him to break free.

He had become a pioneer, determined to claim new land and rise above his status. Pioneers who succeeded could earn the title of knight, even a lordship, but reality hit hard.

David glanced up, seeing the makeshift village ahead—a few wooden houses huddled together, barely a shadow of the dream he’d once had.

“Some dream, huh?” he muttered as he approached the buildings.

The deer slung over his shoulder was the bounty of his efforts, but it was hardly a victory. The others had abandoned this place—starvation, attacks, sickness—each blow harder than the last. Now it was just him, clinging to the scraps of his ambition.

Inside the largest of the wooden structures, David laid the deer down. His hands moved expertly, skinning and butchering the meat, cutting cleanly through sinew and bone. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was necessary.

Once done, he stewed himself a bowl of broth, its rich scent filling the air as he sat outside on a worn bench.

As the warm broth touched his lips, his gaze drifted west, across the vast river. The future seemed unclear—should he continue pioneering, or retreat back to Iron Tree Castle? The thought of going back as just another hunter left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His gaze drifted lazily over the landscape, when suddenly, a figure appeared in the distance.

It was faint, hazy, almost like a trick of the light. Even under the bright sun, he couldn’t make out any details. His hand tensed, fingers hovering over the bow beside him.

“What the hell...?”

The shape reminded him of ghosts, the undead, and all those haunting figures he’d heard of in old stories. The idea sent a chill down his spine. He set the wooden bowl aside and reached for his bow, instinctively readying himself for whatever this was.

His eyes stayed locked on the figure as it began to sharpen, slowly revealing itself in bits and pieces, like an image coming into focus.

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His breath caught. “No way…”

A dirty camisole clung to the figure’s form, paired with rugged overalls and worn leather boots. Despite the grime, her beauty was undeniable. A ponytail swung lazily behind her as she staggered forward, hands planted firmly on her hips as if she'd just survived something impossible.

David blinked. The shape, the posture... everything about her was familiar. Too familiar.

It couldn’t be.

But there she was—Lara Crawford, as unmistakable as ever. The Tomb Raider herself, standing before him in the flesh.

It was impossible. He’d crossed dimensions once, sure, but now? Had he somehow landed in a game world?

“Lara?” he whispered, the name tasting foreign on his tongue despite the recognition.

In his world, she was a legend—an archaeologist with a rich family history, renowned for her daring escapades. Yet, she left destruction in her wake. Relics crumbled, tombs collapsed. She wasn’t just a treasure hunter; she was a force of nature, earning the nickname 'God of Demolition.'

Her image had evolved through the years, from the pixelated heroine of early games to the gritty survivor of modern reboots. And now, as if ripped straight from the screen, she stood in front of him, flesh and bone.

David’s mind reeled. Had he stumbled into another world entirely? Or was this some bizarre convergence of realities?

“Alright,” he muttered, shaking his head, “this is getting way too weird.”

David stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked on the figure before him—Lara, unmistakably from the first part of the new trilogy. Her rookie days. Fresh out of university, thrown into a world of chaos with her first real taste of danger.

His mind raced, trying to recall the game's plot. The shipwreck, the island, the strange events, and Lara, evolving from a wide-eyed archaeologist to the hardened survivor she would become. But this Lara, the one in front of him now, was just beginning her journey.

He stood up, watching her as she made her way slowly into the village, her face showing the same confusion he felt. His English was rusty—he hadn’t used it in years. Would he even remember how to speak it properly?

Before he could think of what to say, she noticed him. Their eyes met. Lara stopped a few meters away, her expression shifting from caution to curiosity. Even in broad daylight, David could see every detail—her wary posture, the guarded tension in her muscles. She didn’t trust him, but she wasn’t backing down either.

"Hello." David spoke in the common tongue of this world, the words slipping out automatically. "Do you need help?"

Lara tilted her head, obviously not understanding. Still, she waved cautiously, her voice uncertain. “Hello! I need some help.”

English. The sound of it brought a flood of memories, but forming a coherent sentence in response? That was the challenge.

David scratched his head, putting the bow and arrow aside as he approached her. Lara, seeing him lower his weapon, seemed to relax—at least a little. She started talking rapidly, too quickly for him to catch all the words. His mind scrambled, catching fragments: *help, wound, shipwreck.*

He raised a hand, gesturing toward her side. "Wait." His voice was strained, but clear. He wasn’t going to pretend he understood everything she said.

Lara’s gaze followed his hand to her waist, where blood had started to seep through her fingers. She winced but nodded, understanding enough to know what he was pointing at.

The story came back to him in fragments. She had fallen into the sea during the wreck, then washed ashore—injured. The penetrating wound on her waist was serious, probably the worst of them all.

David handed her a small bag of medicinal powder and a roll of cloth he’d kept for just such situations. His eyes met hers again, and he pointed to his own eyes, then to her wound. She hesitated for only a second before nodding, lifting her vest slightly to reveal the injury.

The sight of blood, mingled with dirt and water, made David’s stomach churn. Lara let out a soft hiss of pain as her movements aggravated the wound. She was tough—tougher than he remembered her from the game.

He gestured toward a nearby wooden chair, silently asking her to sit. Lara obeyed, sitting down as David disappeared into the house, returning with a basin of water. Without saying a word, he began to clean the wound. His fingers worked quickly, wiping away the grime, revealing pale skin beneath.

The soft wetness of her skin beneath his fingers stirred something primal within him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years. He cleared his throat, focusing on the task at hand. *Not the time,* he reminded himself, tossing the bloodstained cloth aside. With steady hands, he applied the medicinal powder and wrapped the bandage tightly around her waist.

When he finished, David stepped back, his face neutral as he gave her a quick nod. Lara stood, testing the bandages with a cautious touch. She looked at him with genuine gratitude.

“Thank you very much for your help,” she said, her voice softer now.

David blinked. “You’re welcome.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized it—*in English*. British English, to be exact, her native tongue. Both of them froze.

Lara’s eyes widened. “You—wait, you speak English?”

David swallowed, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Looks like I remember a few words after all.”