The darkness of sleep embraced Frank, but it was far from peaceful. His dreams were vivid, full of fragments from the life he had left behind. Cynthia’s face floated before him, her smile as bright as the last summer they’d spent together. He could almost feel her hand in his, the warmth of her touch a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into his bones in Skyrim. They were laughing, sitting under the shade of a tree at the park, talking about the future. It was so real, so painfully real.

But then, as dreams often do, the scene shifted. The sky darkened, and Cynthia’s hand slipped from his. He reached out, desperate to hold on to her, but she drifted further and further away, her image blurring until she vanished completely. Frank stood alone, in a vast, empty field, his heart aching with the weight of loss.

He jolted awake, his breath coming in short gasps. The dim light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the hut’s walls, casting long shadows across the floor. Frank sat up, rubbing his hands over his cold face, trying to shake the remnants of the dream. His chest felt tight, the memory of Cynthia's smile now a dull ache in his heart.

“I’ll never see her again,” he whispered, the words barely audible in the stillness of the hut. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. The life he had known—the people he loved, the world he had come from—it was all gone. And there was no way back.

The dog, curled up at his feet, lifted its head and gave a soft whine, as if sensing his distress. Frank looked down, the animal’s dark eyes meeting his own. It was a strange comfort, having the dog there. In this alien world, where everything was both familiar and yet terrifyingly distant, the dog was the only thing that made him feel less alone.

With a heavy sigh, Frank swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching out the stiffness in his back. The cold air bit at his skin, and he instinctively pulled the tunic tighter around himself. Outside, the wind howled softly, carrying with it the chill of the early morning.

Frank made his way over to the small hearth, where a pile of wood sat neatly stacked. He had gathered it the previous night, his mind too occupied to sleep. Now, as he crouched down to build a fire, his hands moved automatically, as if some primal instinct for survival had kicked in. He struck the flint he’d found in one of the baskets, and after a few attempts, a small flame flickered to life, casting a warm, orange glow across the room.

The dog padded over and sat beside him, its tail wagging slightly as it settled in front of the fire. Frank scratched behind its ears absentmindedly, lost in thought.

"I wonder what you’re thinking about," Frank said quietly, watching the flames dance. The dog let out a soft huff, resting its head on Frank’s knee. He chuckled, though the sound held no real humor. "I guess we’re in this together now, huh?"

He stood and began rummaging through the supplies in the hut, hoping to find something to eat. His stomach growled in response, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since he arrived in this strange, snow-covered land. After a bit of searching, he found a small gourd and a handful of potatoes tucked away in a corner cupboard. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

He peeled the potatoes with a knife he had found earlier, his hands moving slowly as he mulled over his situation. The knife felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. It was simple—just a hunter’s blade with a worn wooden handle and a slightly chipped edge—but it was the first real weapon he’d held since waking up in this strange, Skyrim-like world. He tightened his grip, testing the balance, before glancing down at the dog sitting faithfully by his side.

The dream still lingered in the back of his mind, but he forced himself to push it aside. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t help him here. Cynthia... Earth... they felt so distant now, like memories of a different lifetime. And maybe they were.

"Can’t change what’s happened," he muttered to himself. "I have to survive now. This is my reality."

The dog watched him intently, its eyes following every movement. Frank smiled down at it. "You hungry, boy?" he asked, tossing a small piece of potato to the dog. It sniffed the morsel and then devoured it quickly, tail wagging in approval. Frank couldn’t help but chuckle. "Good. At least one of us is enjoying this."

After a while, the small fire crackled warmly, and the scent of boiling potatoes filled the tiny hut. Frank poked at the food, swirling the contents of the soup, to make sure it cooked evenly. It was a simple meal—far from the hearty breakfasts he used to make back on Earth—but it was enough to keep him going.

As he waited for the food to finish cooking, Frank found his thoughts drifting again. The dog curled up by the fire, content to simply be near him, and Frank felt a strange sense of peace wash over him. He leaned back against the chair, watching the flames flicker and crackle, the warmth soothing his tired limbs. These simple tasks filled him with comfort.

“This place…” Frank said softly, almost to himself. “It’s like a dream. Like the game I used to play, but now... it’s all real.”

He glanced down at the dog, who looked up at him with curious eyes. “I used to play this game for hours, you know? Skyrim... It was my escape. But now I’m here. And I don’t think there’s a way back.”

The dog whined softly, as if responding to Frank’s confession. Frank reached down and patted its head, feeling the soft fur beneath his fingers. “It’s okay though. Maybe it’s for the best. I was just... Life is strange, you know.”

He sighed, pulling the gourd from the pot and setting it on the table. “Maybe this world is what I need. A new life.”

Frank’s gaze drifted to the window, where the sun was just starting to rise over the snowy mountains. The sight was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that made him pause for a moment, just to take it all in. The sky was painted in soft hues of pink and gold, the snow glittering like diamonds beneath the early morning light.

“Yeah,” Frank said quietly. “Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.”

He shared his breakfast with the dog, and for the first time since arriving in Skyrim, he felt a sense of camaraderie.

Frank finished his meager breakfast, wiping his hands on the rough cloth of his tunic. The dog watched him, tail thumping lazily against the floor. "Alright," Frank muttered, standing up and glancing at the hunter’s knife that had been resting by the hearth.

He turned to the dog, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Time to head out. We can’t just sit around here all day, right?” The dog stood up, ears perked, as if it understood. Frank strapped the knife to his belt and slung a small sack over his shoulder, filled with what little he had scavenged from the hut.

With the hunter’s knife strapped to his belt and a makeshift pack slung over his shoulder, Frank stepped out of the little hut and into the crisp, cold morning air. The sun had just crested the mountains, casting long shadows through the trees, and the chill was biting but bearable, especially compared to the night before. The dog trotted ahead, sniffing the ground, always vigilant.

Frank inhaled deeply, the icy air filling his lungs. There was something calming about the wilderness, despite the danger. Maybe it was the solitude, or the fact that, for the first time since waking in this world, he had a clear task in front of him: survive, explore, prepare.

He remembered the mechanics of the game, how he had spent hours looting, crafting, and leveling up. Back in the game, it was just a series of tasks—a way to fill time between quests. But now, everything felt different. Felt... real.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Let’s see,” Frank murmured, scanning his surroundings. He spotted a patch of snowberries clinging to a bush not far from the riverbank. “Snowberries... good for potions, and consumption.”

He crouched down and began carefully picking the berries, tossing them into his pack. The dog padded over, watching him with curious eyes. “No, these aren’t for you,” Frank chuckled, giving the dog a playful nudge. “But maybe we’ll find something better soon.”

As he wandered further, Frank found himself relying on his game knowledge more and more. He scanned the environment like a seasoned adventurer, looking for signs of resources—fallen branches for firewood, edible plants, anything that could help him survive. But as much as he knew from the game, there was still so much he didn’t know about living in this world. Would things work the same way? Would the dangers be as predictable?

He approached the riverbank again and spotted some fish lazily swimming near the shallows. In the game, catching fish was as simple as pressing a button. Here, though, Frank had to use his hands, and it wasn’t easy.

After several failed attempts, Frank grumbled, stepping back from the river, soaking wet from splashing around. The dog, watching with what Frank could only assume was amusement, tilted its head.

“Yeah, laugh it up, buddy,” Frank muttered, shaking his head and wringing out his sleeves. “Fishing in Skyrim is a lot harder when you don’t have a UI to help you.”

Just as he was about to try again, the sound of distant voices carried through the trees. Frank stiffened, holding up a hand to quiet the dog, who obediently fell silent. Skyrim's stealth mechanics surged forward, reminding him of how sneaking worked. The trick, he remembered, was patience and silence—qualities he would need now more than ever.

Two men walked along the dirt road just beyond the treeline, their heavy cloaks pulled tight against the cold. They spoke in hushed tones, though the forest carried their words to Frank’s ears.

“Winter’s coming in fast this year,” one of the men said, his voice rough. “Won’t be long before the river freezes over.”

“Aye,” the other man replied. “And with all the tension between the Nords and the Imperials, the roads are bound to be dangerous. Trade’s already suffering. I heard Ivarstead’s merchants are struggling to get supplies in.”

Frank listened intently. It was one thing to know Skyrim as a game, but hearing the people in this world talk about real problems—real politics—made everything feel more grounded. He’d spent so much time dungeon-delving and fighting dragons in the game that he had never paid much attention to the broader story.

“War always messes with the economy,” the first man continued. “But the Stormcloaks… they’re stirring things up.”

Stormcloaks. Imperials. These were terms Frank knew well from the game, but now they felt loaded with far more significance. Skyrim’s civil war had always been a backdrop to his adventures, but now it was part of his reality. He’d have to be more careful than ever when navigating this world.

As the men disappeared down the road, Frank stood up from his crouch and brushed the dirt off his pants. The dog looked up at him expectantly.

“I think we’ll avoid the road for now,” Frank muttered, glancing in the direction the men had gone. “No sense getting involved in politics just yet.”

He turned back toward the river, feeling a surge of determination. There was so much more to this world than he had ever given thought to in the game. He needed to learn more, to find books and scrolls—anything that could help him understand the history and current state of Skyrim.

“I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he said quietly, more to himself than the dog.

Frank knelt again by the river, more determined now, and this time, his movements were more precise. With a swift motion, he speared a fish with the hunter’s knife, lifting it triumphantly from the water.

"Look at that," he grinned, holding the fish up to show the dog. "We’re eating well tonight."

The dog barked in approval, wagging its tail.

Frank slung the fish into his pack, pausing for a moment as he adjusted the weight of it on his shoulders. As the dog wagged its tail and sniffed the air for more nearby discoveries, Frank’s mind wandered to something that had been nagging at him since he first woke up here.

The inventory system.

Back when this was all just a game, managing inventory was as simple as pressing a button. All of his items—from weapons to ingredients to random loot—would be organized neatly in menus. He could carry hundreds of pounds of gear without breaking a sweat, and all it took was a quick glance at a user interface. But here? Everything he owned was stuffed into this crude pack he’d cobbled together from the hut’s scraps.

"Could I… call it forth somehow?" Frank mused aloud, glancing at his hands as if expecting some magic UI to pop up in front of him. His fingers flexed, and for a split second, he half-expected to hear the familiar whoosh of an inventory menu sliding open, just like in Skyrim.

Nothing.

He sighed and let his hands drop, feeling a bit foolish. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. He’d been trying to push aside the fact that this wasn’t a game, that there wasn’t a quick shortcut to everything anymore. But what if, just what if, there was something more to this?

Frank knelt down by the riverbank, the dog sitting patiently beside him, as he rummaged through his pack. He pulled out the fish and a few snowberries, spreading them in front of him.

“Okay,” he muttered. “If this world plays by Skyrim’s rules, then maybe there’s a way to simplify things like… storage. There has to be a system, right? I’ve seen notifications.”

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He pictured how, in the game, he’d open his inventory—there would be tabs, a weight limit, all neatly organized. What if there was a mental way to access it here, some hidden trick that could make life a little easier? Maybe if he visualized it hard enough…

For a moment, nothing happened. But then, something shifted—a subtle, almost imperceptible tug at the edge of his awareness. His eyes shot open, and for just a second, he swore he saw a faint, translucent grid hanging in the air in front of him. His items—the fish, the berries, even the knife at his belt—flickered in and out of view like icons in a menu.

Frank’s heart skipped a beat. “No way…”

He blinked, and the grid vanished, leaving him staring at nothing but the cold ground again. But he’d seen it—he knew he had. His pulse quickened, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of what just happened.

“If I could just… control it,” Frank muttered, standing up and pacing a bit, the dog trailing him. “If there really is an inventory system, I could save so much time. Not having to lug around every piece of junk in my backpack like a medieval pack mule…”

He turned and looked at his gear again, half-expecting the grid to reappear. It didn’t, but the sensation—like a menu on the edge of his mind—still lingered faintly. Maybe it wasn’t as simple as it had been in the game. Maybe it required more than just a button press now. Focus, intent… something deeper.

Frank smirked, feeling a surge of excitement course through him. If there was an inventory system, there might be more mechanics from the game lurking beneath the surface of this world. He just needed to figure out how to access them.

“I can work with this,” Frank said aloud, crouching down and stuffing the fish and berries back into his physical pack. “I’ll figure it out.”

The dog barked, wagging its tail as if in agreement.

Frank chuckled, patting the dog’s head. “Looks like we’re learning how this world works together, huh?”

As they continued their exploration, Frank couldn’t help but glance at his hands every so often, the faint memory of the inventory grid hovering at the back of his mind. It was there, he knew it, waiting for him to unlock it fully. And if he could figure that out, who knew what other game-like mechanics he could harness to make this life a little easier?

“Well,” Frank said to the dog, a grin creeping onto his face, “if I can crack the inventory system, maybe next I’ll figure out how to cast magic.”