Chapter Four

Sunlight stabbed through the warped slats of the small window, hitting Siurad directly in the face.

Still here, he thought, shielding his eyes. Not a dream. Fantastic.

He sat up, and a shower of dry hay and dust cascaded from the mattress. His spine popped audibly as a dull, grinding ache settled deep in his lower back. No HUD, no logout button, just a stiff neck and the smell of old straw. The thought settled heavily in his mind. This is all real.

His eyes darted to the corner of the ceiling. The spider was still there, motionless in its perfect web.

"Morning, Obi," he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.

'...YOU HAVE EXCEEDED OPTIMAL STASIS PARAMETERS.'

The Entity’s voice didn't just sound; it vibrated against the inside of his skull like a subwoofer playing static.

"Can we not? Right now?" Siurad groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "It is way too early for this shit."

'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi pulsed, the mental tone dripping with judgment. '...BUT FITTING. CHAOS DOES NOT WAKE WITH THE SUN.'

Siurad shoved the irritation down. He didn't have the caffeine levels required to argue with a God of Order. He pulled on his clothes, wincing as he tugged the looted boots onto his feet. They were high-quality leather, but they pinched at the toes—a constant, physical reminder that he was walking in a dead man’s shoes.

By the time he reached the common room, his stomach felt like a hollow cavern.

"I need bacon," he muttered to himself, visualizing a diner menu. "Pancakes. French toast. Anything that hasn't been boiled."

He approached the bar. Irma was already there, leaning over the wood with a rag, looking like she’d been awake for hours and hated every minute of it.

"What'll it be, big man?" Irma didn't look up. She scrubbed a stubborn circle of dried ale into the wood grain as if trying to erase the memory of last night's patrons. "Kitchen's cold. I got oat porridge that's mostly solid, or I can heat up the leftovers from the stew."

"Stew," Siurad said immediately. Porridge sounded like giving up.

Irma grunted, finally looking at him. Her deadpan eyes narrowed, scanning his face, then dropping to his hands. She noted the ring. She noted the way he stood with his broad shoulders back and his weight balanced.

"You ain't a merchant," she stated flatly. It wasn't a question. "And you ain't a guard. Guards are too loud, and merchants are too soft."

"I'm a traveler looking for work," Siurad lied, leaning his elbows on the sticky wood.

"Travelers leave," Irma said. She turned to ladle a greyish slump of stew into a wooden bowl, slamming it onto the counter with a chewed-looking spoon. "Work is at the Krupp yard. East edge of town. If you got a strong back, they're hiring. If you got a mouth on you, don't bother. Lexaris likes his trees quiet."

Siurad stared at the stew. It was thick, brown, and smelled vaguely of wet dog and onions.

'...CALORIC DENSITY IS ACCEPTABLE,' Obi pulsed. '...TASTE IS IRRELEVANT. FUEL THE VESSEL.'

"Thanks," Siurad muttered.

He reached into the bandit's pouch and pulled out a handful of coins. Dingy, bent, low-grade copper. He counted them out. Seven coins.

Irma watched him count. She didn't sneer, but her expression hardened. "That'll cover the room for last night," she said, swiping five of the coins into her apron. "And the stew. You got one copper left, big man. Better hope Krupp is feeling generous."

Siurad looked at the single, lonely copper coin in his massive palm. In Cassalia, he had millions of gold. He owned a fortress. He had a vault filled with souls.

Here, he couldn't afford a second bowl of stew.

He shoveled the food into his mouth. It tasted like salted mud.

'...THE LOCAL ECONOMY IS PREDATORY,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating in Siurad’s chewing jaw. '...LABOR IS EXTRACTED. COMPENSATION IS MINIMAL. IT IS A CLOSED LOOP OF INEFFICIENCY.'

"It's called capitalism, Obi," Siurad whispered around a chunk of gristle.

'...IT IS CHAOS,' the Entity corrected. '...ORDER REQUIRES BALANCE. THIS SYSTEM IS TOP-HEAVY. IT WILL TOPPLE.'

Siurad swallowed the last of the stew with a grimace. "Yeah? Well, until it topples, I need to buy soap. Because I smell like a wet bear."

He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. His looted boots pinched his toes again. "Krupp yard," Siurad said to Irma. "East edge?"

"Follow the sound of misery," Irma said, returning to her scrubbing. "And don't let Limmel sell you his 'premium' axes. They snap if you look at 'em wrong."

Siurad stepped out of the dim tavern and into the blinding morning light of Pine Haven. The town was a collection of rough-hewn log cabins and mud streets, carved aggressively out of the dense treeline. The air smelled of pine resin, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies.

Irma was right. He didn't need directions. He could hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of axes echoing from the east, an industrial heartbeat that shook the ground.

'...QUEST ACCEPTED,' Obi droned, perfectly mocking Siurad's internal gamer logic. '...OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE THE GRIND.'

Siurad adjusted his collar and started walking. He had a warlord’s soul, a god in his pocket, and one copper to his name. Time to go to work.

Siurad pushed open the door to Limmel’s Exchange. A tinny bell jingled overhead, grating on his nerves.

The shop smelled of rust, wet fur, and the distinct, metallic tang of desperation. The shelves were cluttered with "adventuring gear" that looked suspiciously like repurposed farm tools.

"Welcome, traveler!" Limmel beamed from behind the counter. He was a wiry man with a smile that showed too many teeth and eyes that immediately calculated the weight of Siurad's coin purse. "I hear you're heading to the yards. You'll need steel. Good steel. Krupp’s loaners are garbage. Iron rot. Splinters."

He reached under the counter and pulled out a hand-axe, laying it on a velvet cloth like a holy relic.

"The Woodsman’s Friend," Limmel whispered reverently. "Tempered steel head. Hickory haft. Balanced by a master smith in the capital. For you? Five silver."

Siurad picked it up. To his gamer brain, it looked like standard vendor trash. Maybe a Common Item if the lighting was generous.

Suddenly, he felt a cold pressure against his mind. The Ring was looking.

'...LOOK AT THE GRAIN,' Obi’s voice rumbled, vibrating with deep, aesthetic offense. '...IT CROSSES THE STRESS POINT. IF YOU SWING THIS, THE HEAD WILL DEPART THE HANDLE.'

Siurad paused, turning the axe over. "It feels a little... light."

'...IT IS NOT LIGHT,' Obi corrected, his tone dripping with disdain. '...IT IS LAZY. TORIAN WOULD HAVE USED THIS FOR KINDLING. AND LYSANDER...'

The Ring pulsed with a sharp spike of irritation.

'...THE ANGLE OF THE EDGE IS OFF BY FOUR DEGREES. LYSANDER WOULD VOMIT. DO NOT PURCHASE THIS INSULT.'

Siurad set the axe back down. He looked at Limmel. "Four degrees off," Siurad said, letting his voice drop into his bouncer register. "And the grain is wrong. This isn't a 'Woodsman's Friend,' Limmel. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Limmel’s smile vanished. "Listen here, you drifter. I don't know who told you about grain, but—"

"Pass," Siurad interrupted. "I'll take my chances with the loaners. Better to use garbage I didn't pay for than garbage I did."

He turned and walked out, the little bell jingling mockingly behind him.

'...VENDOR TRASH,' Obi concluded with immense satisfaction.

Siurad stepped back onto the muddy street. "You mentioned someone," he muttered under his breath, dodging a cart filled with turnips. "Back in the shop. Torian."

He felt the Ring hum—a different sensation this time. Not the cold, sharp geometry of Lysander or the burning rage of Xara. This felt... softer. Like wool.

'...THE WEAVER,' Obi replied.

"Another General?" Siurad asked. "Did he break mountains too?"

'...NO,' Obi said. '...HE KNIT. AND HE KEPT THE OTHERS FROM BREAKING.'

Siurad waited for more, but the presence in his mind grew quiet, retreating into a memory that felt surprisingly heavy for a being made of void and math.

"A knitter," Siurad mused, stepping over a puddle. "Great. So I have a Warlord who wants to correct the universe, an Architect who vomits at bad geometry, and a knitter who hates bad axes. I'm really traveling with a dysfunctional crafting guild, aren't I?"

'...THEY WERE PERFECT,' Obi snapped, a flash of defensive heat warming Siurad’s finger. '...THEY WERE THE FOUNDATION.'

"Alright, alright," Siurad held up his hands in surrender. "Touchy subject. Noted."

The conversation died as the smell hit him. Raw sap, sawdust, and sweat. The rhythmic, thundering crack of axes biting into timber echoed through the trees. The mud on the road turned into a slurry of woodchips and dirt.

He had arrived.

The Krupp Logging Yard was less a place of business and more a physical scar on the face of the forest. Siurad walked up to the main gate—a gap in a fence made of jagged logs.

A massive man stood by a table, checking off names on a clipboard. He had arms the size of beer kegs and a beard that looked like it housed small wildlife. This was Lexaris, the Foreman.

"Name?" Lexaris grunted, not looking up.

"Siurad. I need work."

Lexaris finally looked up. He scanned Siurad’s strange clothes, the cargo pants, the boots that were clearly two sizes too small. He snorted.

"You look soft," Lexaris judged. "City hands. You ever fell a tree, boy?"

"I've cleared forests," Siurad said. Technically true. He had leveled the Whispering Woods zone in Cassalia with a single Death Cloud spell. But manual labor was a different beast.

"Sure you have," Lexaris scoffed. "Where's your axe?"

"Don't have one. Limmel tried to sell me painted tin."

Lexaris paused. He actually grinned, showing a flash of yellow teeth in the beard. "Smart lad. Limmel’s a crook. But smart don't chop wood." He gestured to a barrel behind him. "Loaner fee is two coppers a day, deducted from your pay. Break it, you bought it. And if you drop a tree on my crew, I'll bury you under it."

Siurad walked to the barrel and pulled out an axe. The handle was grey with age and rough as sandpaper. The head was pitted with rust, the edge dull and chipped.

'...THIS,' Obi noted flatly, '...IS A CRIME AGAINST METALLURGY.'

"It's a start," Siurad muttered. He could feel a blister forming just from gripping it.

"Hey!" Lexaris shouted, pointing toward a grove of massive, dark pines. "Sector Four. The knotty ones. Get moving. You don't get paid for standing around looking pretty."

Siurad shouldered the rusty axe. Alright, Obi, he thought, stepping into the mud. Tutorial's over. Let's see if 'Order' can chop wood.

'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi grumbled. '...BUT NECESSARY.'

"Zeus!" Lexaris bellowed over the roar of falling timber. "Fresh meat for the grinder!"

A man stepped out from behind a stack of stripped logs. If Lexaris was big, this man was dense. Built like a stone watchtower left out in the sun to cure, his deep bronze skin was shiny with sweat and sap. His arms were covered in scars that looked suspiciously like claw marks. He carried a double-bitted felling axe over one shoulder as easily as a fishing rod.

"Zeus," the man grunted, extending a hand the size of a shovel.

"Siurad," he replied, shaking it. It was like gripping a tree root.

"City hands," Zeus noted, echoing the Foreman but with less malice and more observation. He looked at the rusty tool. "And a trash axe. Lexaris likes to test the new guys. Wants to see if you quit or complain."

"I don't plan on doing either," Siurad said.

Zeus nodded. "Good answer. Follow me. We’re clearing the ridge."

They walked through the chaotic mud of the yard.

'...THE NAME IS INACCURATE,' Obi pulsed against Siurad’s knuckle. '...ZEUS WAS A DEITY OF LIGHTNING. THIS UNIT IS EARTH. HE MOVES TOO SLOW.'

He moves fine, Obi, Siurad thought back. Just observe.

They reached Sector Four—a dense patch of Iron-Bark Pines.

"Pick a tree," Zeus said, leaning on his own axe. "Show me what you got. Don't worry about speed. Just drop it."

Siurad walked up to a medium-sized pine. He rolled his shoulders. Strength wasn't the issue. But ever since he’d put on the Ring, he felt... amplified. A low-level static hummed in his blood, making his heavy frame feel lighter and his grip feel like iron. It wasn't just muscle; it was Authority.

He gripped the handle tight, planted his feet, and summoned that unnatural surge of power that had allowed him to crush a skull yesterday.

"Hah!"

He swung. It was a massive, terrifying blow.

THUNK.

The axe buried itself three inches into the wood... and stuck. The impact vibrated violently up the handle, rattling Siurad’s teeth. The tree didn't even shudder. It just ate the blade.

"Ow," Siurad hissed, trying to yank it free. It wouldn't budge. All that supernatural strength, and the tree was winning.

'...PATHETIC,' Obi droned instantly. '...THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE WAS FORTY-FIVE DEGREES. YOU NEED THIRTY. AND YOUR ELBOW WAS FLAPPING LIKE A DYING GOOSE.'

"Stop pulling," Zeus called out calmly. "You're fighting the wood. The wood always wins."

Zeus walked over. He didn't look impressed by the raw power Siurad had just displayed; he looked disappointed by the waste of it. "You're strong. Stronger than you look. But you swing like you hate the axe."

"It's a dull axe," Siurad defended, finally wrenching it free with a shower of bark.

"It's a wedge," Zeus corrected. "It works if you let it. Watch. It's not about hacking. It's about the arc."

Zeus raised his own axe. His grip was loose. He slid his top hand up the handle near the head. "Start high. Slide the hand down as you swing. Use the handle as a lever."

Zeus swung. It looked entirely fluid.

CRACK.

A massive wedge of wood flew out. The cut was clean, smooth as glass.

"See?" Zeus pointed. "Top cut. Bottom cut. Make a V. You're trying to cut straight through. That's friction. You want separation."

'...HE IS CORRECT,' Obi admitted, sounding begrudgingly impressed. '...THE VECTOR WAS OPTIMAL. LYSANDER ALWAYS SAID THE V-CUT IS THE ONLY LOGICAL APPROACH TO DESTRUCTION.'

"Try again," Zeus commanded. "Loose hands. Let the weight of the head do the work. You're just guiding it."

Siurad took a breath. Loose hands. Slide the grip. V-cut. He raised the rusty axe.

'...ADJUST YOUR FEET,' Obi interrupted. '...WIDEN THE BASE. YOU ARE TOP-HEAVY. IF THE AXE GLANCES, YOU WILL AMPUTATE YOUR OWN KNEE.'

Noted, Siurad thought dryly. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

'...IT WOULD BE HILARIOUS, BUT INEFFICIENT.'

Siurad widened his stance. He swung. He slid his hand down the shaft, feeling the weight of the iron head accelerate, assisted by that subtle, dark hum in his veins.

THWACK.

A sizable chunk of wood popped out. Not as big as Zeus’s, but clean. No vibration in his arms.

"Better," Zeus nodded, crossing his massive arms. "Again. Don't stop until you find the rhythm. Chopping isn't a fight, kid. It's a heartbeat. Thunk-crack. Thunk-crack."

Siurad swung again. And again.

'...THIRTY DEGREES,' Obi whispered, coaching him like a spectral geometry teacher. '...LOWER. GOOD. NOW THE UPPER CUT. PRECISE.'

For the next hour, the only sounds were the axe biting into the wood and the duet of instructors—one standing beside him with folded arms, and one living in his head, critiquing his geometry.

By the time the tree finally groaned and crashed to the forest floor, Siurad was sweating heavily, but his back didn't hurt nearly as much as it should have.

"Not bad," Zeus grunted, handing Siurad a canteen of water. "You learn fast. Most city boys take a week to figure out the slide."

"I had good teachers," Siurad said, taking a drink.

I did most of the work, Obi projected smugly.

You yelled numbers at me, Siurad thought back. I did the lifting.

Zeus clapped a heavy hand on Siurad’s shoulder. "Keep that up, and you might actually make enough coin to buy a real axe. Now, strip the branches. Sector Four ain't gonna clear itself."

The sun was bleeding out over the horizon by the time Lexaris blew the whistle.

Siurad stumbled out of the treeline, dragging the rusty axe like a fallen comrade. He was covered in sap, sawdust, and mud. His hands were raw blisters, ignoring the calluses he’d earned in his previous life. Gym muscle was nothing compared to ten hours of striking timber.

He queued up at the foreman’s table.

"Axe returned," Lexaris grunted, checking the tool. "Still in one piece. Miracle."

He reached into a heavy sack and tossed a handful of coins onto the table. They scattered in the dirt. Siurad picked them up and counted them.

Twelve copper pieces.

He stared at the coins. He did the math. A meal at the inn was five copper. A room was ten. If he ate and slept, he would be in debt by morning.

"Twelve?" Siurad rasped, his throat bone-dry. "I cleared Sector Four. Zeus said I did the work of two men."

"Newbie rate," Lexaris shrugged, not looking up. "Probationary period. You want silver? Stick around for a month. Prove you aren't going to quit when your blisters pop."

Siurad stared at the foreman. It’s a scam, he realized with a jolt of gamer indignation. It’s the newbie tax. They throttle the XP and gold gain to force retention.

'...ECONOMIC EXPLOITATION,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating with disdain. '...THE LABOR VALUE EXCEEDS THE COMPENSATION. WE SHOULD CORRECT HIM.'

"Not today, Obi," Siurad muttered, pocketing the insultingly light coins. "Today, we just survive."

The walk back to Pine Haven was a blur of pain. Every step sent a jolt of agony up Siurad’s legs. The looted boots were now actively trying to murder his toes.

The town was quieting down. Lanterns flickered to life in windows. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat wafted from the Boar’s Den, making Siurad’s stomach cramp violently.

He was just passing the alleyway behind Limmel’s shop when the Ring pulsed. It wasn't a gentle hum; it was a sharp, biting cold.

'...STOP.'

Siurad stopped, leaning heavily against a rain barrel. "What? Did I miss a loot chest?"

'...THE DAY IS NOT OVER,' Obi commanded. '...YOUR FORM WITH THE AXE WAS EMBARRASSING. YOUR BIOLOGICAL CONDUITS ARE SLUGGISH.'

The air in the alley dropped ten degrees. Shadows began to lengthen, curling unnaturally around Siurad’s boots.

'...WE WILL TRAIN. THERE IS A CLEARING BEHIND THE STABLES. WE WILL PRACTICE THE VOID STEP. TEN REPETITIONS.'

Siurad laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "Train?" he asked, holding up his shaking hands. "Obi, I can’t even feel my fingers. My stamina bar isn't just empty; it’s broken. It’s blinking red."

'...FATIGUE IS A VARIABLE,' Obi lectured. '...EVEN THE TRAITOR XARA TRAINED UNTIL SHE BLED. SHE TRAINED UNTIL HER BONES CRACKED. THAT IS HOW SHE BECAME STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK ME.'

"Xara was a monster," Siurad groaned, pushing himself off the barrel. "I'm a guy who just chopped wood for ten hours for the price of a sandwich. I'm not doing magic drills."

'...IF YOU DO NOT TRAIN, YOU WILL BE ERASED,' Obi warned, the pressure in Siurad’s skull increasing to a dull roar. '...THE WORLD IS FULL OF VARIABLES. NETHYUA IS A NUISANCE, BUT EVEN A NUISANCE CAN KILL A SLOTH.'

"Nethyua is a problem for another day, Obi," Siurad said, resuming his limp toward the inn. "Right now? I'm going to eat a bowl of stew that tastes like dishwater, and I'm going to pass out."

'...YOU LACK DISCIPLINE,' Obi seethed. '...LYSANDER WAS A FOOL, BUT HE NEVER COMPLAINED ABOUT HIS FEET. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET CHOOSING YOU.'

"Yeah, yeah," Siurad muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he pushed open the heavy wooden door to the inn. "Put it on my performance review. We train tomorrow."

'...I WILL WAKE YOU AT DAWN,' Obi promised. '...WITH ICE.'

"Goodnight, Obi."