They stood there like a bad reunion no one had asked for.

  Larry Goodman was front and center, planted like a sandbag in a flood. Five-foot-nine on a generous day, mid-forties, thick around the waist with a beer belly that suggested long-term dedication to hops and indifference. His tunic strained across his stomach like it had filed a formal complaint.

  Larry had always moved at the speed of Larry. Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable.

  One of the company’s longest-serving employees, he operated on a personal timeline that ignored memos, meetings, and mild panic. Tell him to hurry, and he’d nod thoughtfully—then continue exactly as before. Deadlines bent. Managers aged. Larry remained.

  He wasn’t malicious. Just selectively cooperative. A low-grade troublemaker. The kind who’d sidestep policy, shave effort off the edges, and somehow still get by untouched.

  Survivalist by temperament.

  Which made what he was carrying all the more absurd.

  Slung over his shoulder was something long—long enough to tower over him by a good two feet. For a split second, Silas thought it was a spear.

  That would’ve made sense.

  But no.

  There was a reel. A curved grip. A familiar taper.

  Is that a fishing rod?

  In a world of monsters and mana, Larry Goodman had the balls to choose fisherman as his class.

  To Larry’s right loomed Tim Culkin, six-foot-three and all elbows and angles. Lanky. Narrow-shouldered. A scruffy beard that looked less like rugged charm and more like unfinished business.

  Tim had always preferred shortcuts to solutions. Why climb the mountain when you could find a tunnel—or convince someone else to climb it for you? He cut corners so often it was a miracle any of his work still resembled a square.

  And when trouble came knocking?

  Tim didn’t answer. He redirected.

  Deflected.

  Blamed the weather.

  Silas’s eyes dropped to the dagger hanging at Tim’s belt. Slim. Functional. Easy to hide.

  Rogue, maybe.

  Or a Jack-of-all-trades—the kind that dipped into everything just enough to escape consequences.

  Fitting.

  And then there was Jennifer Seberg.

  Blonde hair. Blue eyes. The kind of bombshell figure that had unintentionally destabilized entire quarterly productivity reports. Her blouses always seemed one button short of structural integrity, cleavage on unapologetic display—not by strategy, but by complete obliviousness.

  Jen didn’t flirt.

  She simply existed.

  And somehow, that was worse.

  When men hovered too long near her desk, she smiled brightly, assuming kindness. When compliments came wrapped in innuendo, she thanked them sincerely. The idea that she was the office’s walking distraction had never once crossed her mind.

  Troublemaker? Absolutely.

  But not by intent.

  She’d spilled coffee on both the manager and the regional boss—on separate occasions. Shredded critical documents minutes before a presentation because she’d thought they were duplicates. Deleted shared drive files with the confidence of someone tidying up.

  Silas still didn’t understand how she hadn’t been fired.

  Maybe luck was her real superpower.

  Now a wand hung from her belt. Like his.

  That answered one question.

  She was a mage. But what mage was the question here.

  Silas surveyed the trio and felt the faint, familiar tightening in his chest.

  In a world reshaped by alien forces and RPG mechanics…

  He’d somehow been reunited with the troubling part of the office.

  Jen—short for Jennifer—came at him like a cavalry charge in soft leather boots.

  She’d traded office attire for something straight out of a medieval tapestry: a fitted bodice of deep blue linen, laced tight over a cream blouse with billowing sleeves. A leather belt cinched her waist, a small pouch and wand hanging at her hip. A travel skirt brushed her knees, practical and sturdy.

  And yet—

  Despite the modest cut, despite the layered fabric and period stitching, the laws of physics continued to favor her. The neckline dipped just enough to suggest that even in a world of swords and sorcery, gravity still had loyalties.

  “Si!” she called, rushing up to him. “Those two are ganging up on me.”

  She latched onto his arm without hesitation, hugging it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Which, unfortunately, it was.

  Not because they’d chosen closeness. Not because of some deep friendship forged in fire.

  But because Silas had been her assigned damage-control department for years.

  When Jen spilled coffee on management, Silas drafted the apology memo. When she shredded the wrong documents, Silas rebuilt the presentation. When files vanished from shared drives, Silas performed digital necromancy.

  Not out of kindness.

  Out of instruction.

  The manager had made it clear: help Jen, and there would be perks. Flexible hours. Better assignments. Quiet advantages.

  Silas wasn’t a pushover.

  He was compensated.

  That didn’t stop him from wondering—often—how she was still employed.

  Now here she was, in medieval attire, clinging to his arm like the apocalypse was just another quarterly disaster.

  Silas, Jen, and Arthur approached Larry and Tim.

  Larry looked relaxed, as usual. Shoulders easy. Mild smile in place.

  Tim looked like someone had just told him shortcuts were illegal.

  “Yo,” Silas said.

  “Good to see you, Silas,” Larry replied. Flashing that calm, unbothered grin.

  Tim didn’t speak. Arms crossed tight across his chest. Jaw set.

  Silas didn’t waste time decoding Tim’s mood. He went straight to the heart of it.

  “So,” he said. Glancing down at Jen, “what’s wrong? What did Jen do again?”

  Like clockwork.

  Jen looked up at him, frowning. “Hey.” She gave his shoulder a light slap.

  Tim finally spoke.

  “The cats won’t let us in,” he said flatly. “Not until Jen lets that thing go.”

  The word cats pulled Silas’s gaze past Larry and Tim.

  Two of them stood at the settlement entrance.

  Not house cats.

  Not strays.

  They were upright—balanced cleanly on their hind legs—each roughly the height of a six-year-old child. Boots strapped to their hind paws. Leather gloves fitted snugly over fur. Metal helmets resting between pointed ears. Belts cinched tight across tabards that bore an insignia Silas didn’t recognize.

  And in each paw—

  A halberd. Miniature, yes. Decorative, absolutely not.

  The blades gleamed.

  The eyes behind those visors were sharp. Measuring. Professional.

  These were not mascots.

  These were gatekeepers.

  “Did you try, like… just walking in?” Silas asked mildly.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions, Silas,” Tim shot back. “Two standing cats with halberds aren’t something I’m volunteering to test with my life.”

  Silas nodded once.

  Fair.

  Still, a small part of him was curious what would happen if someone pushed their luck.

  He turned to Jen.

  “So what is it?” he asked.

  “No,” Jen said instantly. She dropped his arm and spun away, folding her own across her chest in defiance.

  Silas sighed.

  “Jen.”

  “No.”

  “Jen.”

  “They said I have to let her go,” she snapped. “That’s mean.”

  Larry scratched his chin. Tim looked one minor inconvenience away from a migraine. Arthur stared between them like he’d wandered into a different genre entirely.

  Silas softened his tone.

  “Okay. Let’s back up. What exactly are we letting go?”

  “She doesn’t belong to them,” Jen said stubbornly. “She chose me.”

  “Jen.”

  “She’s not hurting anyone!”

  Tim muttered, “Debatable.”

  Silas stepped around so he could see her face.

  “Jen. We’re trying to get inside a fortified settlement guarded by armed feline soldiers. If they’re saying something’s a problem, maybe it’s a problem.”

  “She’s just scared,” Jen insisted.

  “Who’s scared?”

  There was a pause.

  Then something moved.

  Silas watched, equal parts dread and resignation, as a small purple head emerged from the valley of Jen’s breasts like it had booked a room there.

  A slender snake slid upward, scales shimmering violet in the sunlight. Its eyes were faceted like amethyst. At the end of its tail hung a tiny silver bell that gave a delicate chime as it flicked.

  The snake hissed.

  Silas blinked.

  Of course.

  Of course that’s where it was.

  He stared at the creature. Then at Jen. Then back at the creature.

  In a world of alien trials and mana systems, Jennifer Seberg had somehow decided the safest place to store a magical snake was—

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Jen,” he said carefully, “that is not a kitten.”

  “She’s not dangerous!” Jen protested. “Her name is Bellamy!”

  The snake’s tongue flicked. The bell chimed again.

  Arthur’s jaw dropped. Larry looked vaguely impressed. Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Silas shifted strategies.

  “Jen,” he said gently, “look at her.”

  “I am looking at her.”

  “No. Really look at her. She’s not meant to be cooped up. Snakes roam. They have… snake families. Snake friends. Snake—communities.”

  Tim blinked. “Snake communities?”

  Silas pressed on.

  “Imagine if someone took you away from us. Dropped you in the wild. You’d want to go home, right?”

  Jen hesitated.

  The snake coiled slightly, peering at Silas with jewel-bright eyes.

  “She probably has a nest,” Silas continued. “Other little purple snakes waiting for her. Wondering where she went.”

  “That’s not how—” Tim started.

  Larry elbowed him gently. “Let him cook.”

  Jen’s expression wavered.

  “She… might miss them,” she murmured.

  “And those cat guards?” Silas added. “They’re probably responsible for keeping magical creatures from sneaking inside. It’s their job. We don’t want Bellamy getting hurt.”

  That landed.

  Jen’s lower lip trembled.

  “You promise she’ll be okay?”

  Silas met the snake’s gaze. It hissed softly.

  “She survived being hidden in your cleavage,” he said dryly. “I think she’ll manage.”

  Jen sniffed.

  Slowly, carefully, she reached in and lifted the small purple snake free. Bellamy coiled around her wrist, bell chiming faintly.

  “I’ll miss you,” Jen whispered.

  The group stood in absolute silence.

  Arthur looked like he’d just discovered a new species of human.

  Jen knelt and set the snake gently in the grass outside the gate. Bellamy lingered a moment, then slithered away, purple scales flashing before disappearing into the brush.

  Jen waved.

  “Bye, Bellamy! Visit me!”

  Deadpan.

  All of them.

  Except Arthur.

  Arthur was still staring at Jen like she was the most fascinating boss fight he’d encountered so far.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The cat guards watched the snake go.

  Then, in perfect unison, they stepped aside.

  One of them gave a single nod.

  Silas looked at Jen.

  “Problem solved.”

  Jen’s farewell to Bellamy lasted long enough to qualify as a ceremonial send-off.

  There were promises. There were future reunion plans. There was a heartfelt speech about personal growth, destiny, and “finding your true slither.”

  Silas stood there and let it happen.

  When the tears finally came in earnest, he offered his shoulder with the weary professionalism of a man who had filled out too many incident reports. Jen cried into him, sniffled dramatically, then allowed herself to be guided toward the gate.

  The armored cats watched with disciplined indifference.

  As the group stepped forward, both feline gatekeepers gave a curt nod—professional soldiers acknowledging compliant travelers. The halberds remained upright. No theatrics. No smiles.

  Inside, the town revealed itself.

  A wooden palisade encircled it—rough-hewn logs bound tight, rising about eight feet into the air. Silas glanced at the height and nearly smirked.

  Low fence.

  Then he remembered the average height of the inhabitants here hovered around three feet six.

  Perspective adjusted.

  “Know what they are?” Silas asked quietly as they walked.

  “You ever play Monster Hunter?” Tim replied.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if you had, you’d know they’ve got these cat creatures called Felynes,” Tim said. “They run shops, cook food, man stalls. NPC support staff.”

  “So same thing?” Silas asked.

  Tim shot him a look. “The hell do I know? This isn’t a game. Real life means one life. I’m not about to offend a halberd-wielding cat because I recognized it from a console.”

  “Got it,” Silas said, flashing an easy okay sign.

  Tim being Tim. Some habits survived world-ending events.

  They moved down the main road.

  The town was small. Intimate. Functional.

  Eight buildings at most.

  The architecture leaned heavily medieval European—timber frames, whitewashed plaster walls, pitched roofs of wooden shingles—but unlike the drab browns and greys history books favored, this place embraced color. Deep reds. Forest greens. Cobalt blues. Window shutters painted bright gold. Flower boxes overflowed with improbable blossoms.

  It felt curated. Intentional.

  The main road was packed dirt, tamped flat by traffic. To either side, the buildings lined up neatly—no chaos, no sprawl. Everything positioned with quiet purpose.

  A modest smithy with a squat chimney puffing thin smoke.

  The tavern looked nearly empty from the outside, but the rich scent of roasted meat and fresh bread drifting through its doors made Silas’s mouth water instantly.

  A general goods shop with hand-painted signage swinging gently.

  A small apothecary with bundles of drying herbs hanging from the eaves.

  A workshop that smelled faintly of leather and oil.

  Two residential cottages tucked close together.

  A low-roofed structure that might’ve been storage—or something less obvious.

  And dominating the far end of the street—

  The inn.

  Four full stories, broad-shouldered and welcoming. The tallest building in this town. A carved wooden sign hung above the door, depicting a tankard and crossed utensils. Its roofline rose higher than the others, confident without being ostentatious.

  If this was a starter settlement, it was well designed.

  Compact. Efficient. Defensible.

  Silas scanned the space instinctively.

  Eight buildings. Two gates. And at first glance, it was quite safe.

  They weren’t the first.

  Roughly twenty others milled about the settlement—standing in loose clusters, pacing, whispering. Strangers thrown into the same storm, gravitating toward one another out of instinct. Some had already formed fragile alliances, heads close together, trading theories like lifelines.

  No one looked certain.

  Everyone looked displaced.

  “Everything is small,” Jen said, eyes shining as she turned in a slow circle. The colorful timber-framed houses, the bright shutters, the flower boxes—it was like stepping into one of her beloved Disney princess movies. “It’s adorable.”

  Silas didn’t use that word, but he understood the sentiment.

  “And those cats?” Larry added, nodding toward an open doorway where another upright feline sorted goods behind a counter. “They’re not just gate guards.”

  Sure enough, more of them were visible now—walking, working, carrying crates, tending stalls. Not mascots. Not decorations.

  Infrastructure.

  “So what now?” Tim asked.

  Not to the group.

  To Silas.

  Larry looked at him. Jen did too. Even Arthur—still processing snake farewells and armed cats—shifted his attention to Silas.

  Silas blinked and pointed at his own chest.

  “Me?”

  “Out of the four of us—and this random guy,” Tim said, giving Arthur a quick once-over, “you’re the best at making decisions.”

  Silas felt the first throb of an oncoming headache.

  He wasn’t a leader. He preferred being the second voice. The quiet executor. He’d led before—once—and the memory wasn’t something he liked revisiting.

  Responsibility had weight.

  And he was already carrying enough.

  His gaze drifted past them—past the wandering newcomers, past the brightly painted storefronts—

  And landed on a sign.

  A large wooden carving of a fork, plate, and spoon swinging gently above a doorway.

  Clear. Universal. Undeniable.

  Hunger cut clean through hesitation.

  “I’m hungry,” Silas said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  He started walking before objections could form.

  Momentum.

  Larry followed without comment. Jen perked up instantly. Arthur trailed after them with eager curiosity.

  Tim lingered half a second, clearly gearing up to argue.

  Then thought better of it.

  And followed.

  They had to duck to get inside.

  The doorway was built for someone shorter than human average. Silas dipped his head easily. Larry shuffled through with a grunt. Jen managed with a delicate bend at the waist.

  Tim had to fold himself nearly in half.

  “Charming,” he muttered as he cleared the frame.

  Inside, the tavern felt like a storybook that had decided to upgrade its color palette.

  Low wooden beams crossed the ceiling, dark-stained and sturdy. The walls were plastered white but painted with bright murals—schools of fish, curling waves, paw prints worked into decorative borders. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, their glass tinted amber and sea-green, casting warm light across polished wooden floors.

  Cat motifs were everywhere.

  Carved whiskered faces adorned the ends of tables. The backs of chairs were shaped subtly like arched feline tails. Even the bar counter had claw-mark designs etched into the wood—decorative, not violent. Intentional.

  Despite the compact structure, the tables and chairs were built to human scale. Comfortable. Solid. Not miniature.

  Practical.

  They slid into their seats.

  A soft thud of boots—no, paws in boots—approached.

  An orange-and-white cat stopped beside their table. It wore a small vest and a belt with a pouch tied neatly at its waist.

  “What do you want?” the cat asked.

  The voice was crisp. Clear.

  And at the end of the sentence came the faintest tonal curl—

  “…meow.”

  Every one of them froze.

  Silas blinked once.

  “You have a menu?” he asked carefully.

  “No,” the cat replied. “…meow.” Its tone carried a subtle lilt, English spoken fluently but edged with something distinctly feline. “We have cod and chips, baked salmon, and fish chowder. So what do you want… meow?”

  Silas nodded like this was perfectly normal.

  “Cod and chips, please.”

  He offered a polite smile, then glanced at the others.

  Arthur leaned in, whispering urgently, “We don’t have any money.”

  The cat’s ears twitched.

  “You got no coin?” it asked.

  Its pupils narrowed into slits.

  The shift was immediate.

  Tim’s chair scraped faintly as he repositioned himself toward the exit. His body angled instinctively, ready to sprint. Of course the tallest guy had chosen the seat closest to the door.

  Larry went very still.

  Jen clasped her hands together.

  Arthur looked like he regretted existing.

  Silas kept his voice steady.

  “Sir Cat,” he began respectfully, “since we don’t have coin, you wouldn’t happen to have an odd job we could do to pay for our meal… would you?”

  Silence.

  The orange cat stared at him.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  Then its pupils widened back to normal.

  “I don’t have odd job,” it said evenly. “…meow. But I do have a quest.”

  The word landed like a flare in the dark.

  Quest.

  Every one of them straightened.

  The cat repeated the food options. This time, they ordered properly—cod and chips for most, baked salmon for Larry, chowder for Jen.

  When asked about drinks, the choices were simple.

  “Water or milk… meow.”

  Water won unanimously.

  As the cat walked away, the entire table exhaled in unison.

  They were alive.

  “Come on, Silas,” Tim said, leaning forward, glaring. “You almost got us killed.”

  “What?” Silas shrugged lightly. “We got free food.”

  “And almost died,” Tim emphasized.

  “But we got a quest,” Silas countered, smiling faintly.

  “For the free food.”

  “Well,” Silas said, leaning back, “at least now we know the cats aren’t just NPCs tossing out one-liners.”

  Tim shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

  The tension eased as they began comparing notes.

  Silas explained the status window. The skill window. He credited Arthur for figuring it out first.

  Larry opened his interface, eyes widening.

  Jen gasped softly as translucent panels shimmered before her.

  Tim, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at his screen.

  He was staring at Arthur.

  “By the way,” Tim said slowly, pointing across the table, “who the hell is he?”

  “I—”

  Silas cut Arthur off clean and quick.

  “He’s in the same boat as the rest of us,” Silas said evenly.

  No hesitation. No explanation.

  Just a line drawn in the sand.

  Tim held his gaze. The kind of look men use when they’re measuring weight, distance, threat. It lasted three seconds.

  Then Tim leaned back.

  Accepted it.

  For now.

  “Fine,” Tim said. “But there’s more.”

  That caught Silas’ attention.

  “There’s a menu window.”

  From Tim’s instruction, Silas didn’t waste time. He focused, and the translucent interface snapped open in front of him like a heads-up display in a fighter jet.

  [Menu]

  [1 – Status]

  [2 – Skill]

  [3 – Quest]

  [4 – Inventory]

  [5 – Mission]

  Three new options.

  Inventory.

  Mission.

  Quest.

  Each one felt like a loaded chamber.

  Inventory pulled at him first. Practical. Immediate. If this world wanted to mimic games, then this one would be the most important piece of it.

  He selected it.

  The window shifted.

  Slots appeared—clean, grid-lined.

  And there they were.

  Items.

  Familiar ones. The things that had vanished during the transfer.

  The water bottles and the clothes he wore before he got transferred here.

  If he’d known, he would’ve layered up like a man preparing for Arctic deployment. As having a lot of modern clothes was a lot more comfortable than this medieval one he was wearing.

  A warning blinked across the interface.

  Inventory locked. Requirements not met.

  No explanation.

  No criteria.

  Just denial.

  Typical, Silas thought. Nothing free in this world just like the real one.

  He closed it and opened Mission.

  The new screen appeared.

  And this time, his pulse shifted.

  [Mission]

  Survive for 4 years to return to your own world.

  Or

  Evolve and return quicker than intended time.

  The tavern noise faded.

  Silas felt it in his chest—tight, heavy.

  Four years.

  Four years wasn’t a quest.

  It was a sentence.

  He looked up at Tim.

  “Do you know?” Silas asked quietly.

  Tim’s jaw flexed. “Does it matter?”

  It did.

  It absolutely did.

  “What are you two talking about?” Jen asked, eyes moving between them.

  Arthur shot to his feet so abruptly his chair scraped across the wooden floor.

  Larry and Jen flinched.

  Arthur didn’t seem to notice.

  “There’s a mission,” he said, breath quick, words tumbling out. “We have to survive here for four years. Or… evolve. And return sooner.”

  Silence.

  Four years settled over the table like storm clouds.

  Jen’s expression shifted first—wonder folding into worry.

  Larry’s brow furrowed before returning to normal.

  Tim’s face hardened.

  “Evolve?” Jen asked. “Like a pokemon?”

  “Four years. Hmm…” Larry said. He wad deep in thought.

  “Species tier?” Tim said, more analytical now. “That’s the only possible indication of evolve as from the look of it, us human are at the bottom of the ranking”

  They leaned in.

  Speculation sparked.

  It was exactly like a game.

  Grind and get stronger.

  Change class.

  Unlock hidden path.

  And perhaps found out the clue to evolving the species.

  Each theory sounded plausible.

  Each one sounded ridiculous when compared to their usual daily life.

  Hope rose—sharp, tempting.

  Return early.

  Beat the system.

  Outsmart the clock.

  But beneath it ran a colder current.

  Evolve into what?

  And what would it cost?

  The conversation spiraled. Ideas collided. Nothing concrete surfaced.

  Eventually the word evolve lost its shine and became what it truly was—

  A gamble.

  Silence crept back in.

  Right on cue, the orange-and-white cat returned, balancing plates with casual mastery.

  Cod and chips.

  Baked salmon.

  Fish chowder steaming in a thick ceramic bowl.

  “Your order… meow.”

  The scent hit them like a warm tide.

  Hunger overpowered philosophy.

  For the moment, survival meant something simple.

  Eat.

  Prepare.

  Because four years had just become real.

  As they ate, Silas opened up his skill window.

  [Skill]

  [Basic Wand Mastery][Locked]

  [Basic Staff Mastery][Locked]

  [Basic Mana Regen][Locked]

  [Identify][Locked]

  [Mana Armor][Locked]

  [Fireball][Locked]

  [Water Ball][Locked]

  [Earth Wall][Locked]

  [Wind Blade][Locked]

  [Vine Snare][Locked]

  [Electric Jolt][Locked]

  [Current point available: 1]

  Silas had expected options. What he hadn’t expected was how many of them would glare back at him with the word Locked stamped across their names like a challenge.

  The restriction irritated him.

  Of course it was locked.

  Nothing in this world came easy.

  He selected the Fireball spell, half hoping it would reveal something—anything—about how it worked. A description. Parameters. Numbers. Rules.

  Nothing.

  No explanation.

  No comforting wall of text.

  Instead, the interface shifted.

  A skill tree unfolded.

  Fireball sat at the top—an unlit node, waiting to be chosen. From it, darkened branches radiated outward like veins in a sleeping giant. Paths that might lead to stronger magic. Alternate spells. Specializations.

  All of them shadowed.

  All of them inaccessible.

  Potential without instruction.

  The kind of design that demanded experimentation.

  Gamble or stagnate.

  Choose wrong and pay the price.

  Choose right and move forward.

  He checked the other spells.

  Same result.

  Names only.

  No guidance.

  No safety net.

  If he wanted to grow stronger, he would have to take a leap.

  And hope the landing didn’t break him.

  Silas shifted his attention to the others.

  Arthur went first.

  Warrior class.

  Simple. Direct.

  The warrior class came loaded with passive proficiencies—basic mastery of swords, axes, spears, shields. The kind of foundational combat knowledge that turned a civilian into something dangerous.

  For active skills, Arthur had two options: Warrior Step and Clad.

  Warrior Step made sense in its name probably something in the line of improving footwork during combat.

  But Clad?

  No description.

  No hint.

  Armor enhancement? Temporary resistance? A defensive state?

  Silas filed it away as unknown.

  Larry surprised them all. Well not all, only Jen as most could see it right in front their eyes.

  “I’m a fisherman,” he said.

  Jen’s eyebrows shot up.

  Silas and the other two weren’t. The fishing rod had made that obvious from the start.

  Larry’s skill list was sparse.

  Four entries.

  Fishing Mastery.

  Basic Fishing Rod Mastery.

  Identify.

  Cast Line.

  Identify made sense—information gathering.

  As for Cast Line, Larry explained what it meant in practical terms—properly throwing the fishing line into a desired spot. Not the skill description of course, as this was solely from Larry’s knowledge from the real-world.

  But usefulness?

  That was the question.

  Silas couldn’t picture a fisherman charging into battle, rod in hand, fighting monsters with bait and patience.

  Unless survival here required thinking beyond traditional roles.

  Maybe fishing wasn’t about combat.

  Maybe it was about resources.

  Food.

  Trade.

  Knowledge.

  Advantages that didn’t rely on swords. Another path of surviving for those four years thus surviving in those four years didn’t seem far fetched.

  He kept the thought.

  Then came Tim.

  The rogue didn’t waste time.

  “I’m a rogue.”

  He didn’t bother explaining the locked skills as he only mention the one that he had already chosen.

  Dodge Step.

  He didn’t explain.

  He demonstrated.

  Handing his dagger to Silas, he spread his arms.

  “Try to hit me.”

  Jen immediately covered her eyes. “I don’t want to see blood.”

  Larry leaned forward. Arthur watched intently.

  Silas stood and didn’t hesitate. He thrust the dagger straight toward Tim’s torso.

  The blade met nothing.

  Tim vanished.

  Not stumbled back. Not sidestepped.

  Gone.

  A fraction of a second later, his voice came from the side.

  Silas turned.

  Tim was seated at the next table, relaxed, smirking.

  Jen peeked and then clapped in delighted disbelief.

  Larry let out a low whistle.

  Arthur shook his head. “I only saw a blur.”

  Silas studied Tim carefully.

  That wasn’t just speed.

  That was displacement.

  Position rewritten.

  In a real fight, that kind of ability wasn’t flashy.

  It was lethal.

  Silas sat back down slowly.

  A movement at the edge of his vision.

  Tim sat casually at the next table, smirking like he’d just stolen something.

  “Teleportation?” Silas asked.

  “Not quite,” Tim said. “Just a side-step. A dodge.”

  “That’s impossible, you literally was gone from my sight like you’d teleport,” Silas said.

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not, but what I did is simply taking a side-step. Nothing more than that,” Tim said.

  Tim didn’t rush his explanation.

  He leaned back, folded his arms, and replayed it in his head like a man dissecting a near-miss on a highway.

  “I don’t fully get it,” he admitted. “When I used Dodge Step, it wasn’t like I moved. It was like my body got… yanked.”

  Silas listened carefully.

  Tim continued. “There was this jolt. Like static running through my bones. Then I was somewhere else. Fast. Faster than I could track. But I didn’t feel my muscles doing it.”

  “You weren’t in control?” Arthur asked.

  Tim shook his head once. “Not the way you think. I can decide the direction—just a thought—and I’m there. But the movement itself? That’s the skill. Not me.”

  He flexed his fingers, as if confirming they still belonged to him.

  “It’s weird,” he added. “For a split second, I’m not driving. Something else is.”

  A silence settled over the table. That detail mattered.

  “And range?” Silas asked.

  “Limited,” Tim replied. “I tried pushing it. Farthest I could go was from here to that seat.” He nodded toward the table where he’d reappeared. “Six feet. Maybe a little less.”

  Short burst displacement.

  Controlled direction.

  Forced execution.

  Silas handed the dagger back. “Why pick that? Why not something offensive?”

  Tim didn’t hesitate.

  “Because surviving comes first.”

  There it was.

  No bravado. No hunger for damage numbers. Just priority.

  Silas nodded slowly. That answer carried weight.

  Then it was Jen’s turn.

  She shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware all eyes were on her.

  “My class is… um…”

  She swallowed.

  “Purple Mage.”

  Blank stares.

  Silence.

  Then Arthur’s eyes widened first. “You mean—”

  “Necromancer,” Silas finished quietly.

  The word hit the table like a dropped blade.

  Larry and Jen was oblivious about that class. As both had no gaming experience or anything media related link with necromancer.

  Jen looked confused.

  Silas narrowed his eyes. “Did you read the class description before choosing it?”

  “…There was a description?” Jen asked.

  The collective groan was immediate.

  “Why did you pick it?” Tim demanded.

  Jen shrank slightly under the pressure. “My favorite color is purple.”

  For three full seconds, nobody spoke.

  Then Silas dragged a hand down his face.

  Arthur stared at the ceiling like he was asking for patience from a higher power.

  Tim just muttered, “idiot.”

  Silas inhaled slowly. Emotional reaction could wait. Information couldn’t.

  “Open your skills,” he said gently.

  She did.

  Like Silas, she had the fundamentals—Basic Wand Mastery. Mana Armor. Standard magical framework.

  Then came her unique spells.

  Summon Skeleton.

  Shadow Bind.

  Pain Hex.

  Each one darker than the last.

  Jen read the names aloud, her voice getting smaller with every word.

  By the time she finished, her eyes were glassy.

  “I don’t want to summon dead things,” she whispered. “I don’t even like horror movies.”

  Silas winced internally.

  He remembered the office Halloween event last year. One coworker had shown up in a disturbingly realistic ghost-nun costume inspired by The Conjuring. Jen had lasted exactly twelve seconds before panicking. The incident had involved tears, screaming—and a humiliating accident she never lived down.

  And now she was a necromancer.

  She covered her face, shoulders trembling. “Why is it skeletons? Why can’t it be… purple sparkles or something?”

  Tim looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

  Arthur looked conflicted between sympathy and tactical evaluation.

  Larry still oblivious.

  Silas leaned forward, voice steady.

  “Hey. Listen to me.”

  She peeked through her fingers.

  “Class doesn’t decide who you are,” he said. “It’s a tool. That’s all. We figure out how to use it without letting it use you.”

  Her breathing slowed slightly.

  He didn’t add what he was thinking—that necromancy, in the right hands, wasn’t just scary.

  It was powerful.

  And power, in a realm demanding four years of survival wasn’t something to dismiss because of aesthetics.

  Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward.

  “Alright,” he said. “Your turn.”

  Silas looked up.

  “Wouldn’t be fair if everyone else shared and you didn’t.”

  It wasn’t an accusation. It was balance.

  Silas nodded once. Fair was fair.

  He laid it out—his class, the branching skill tree, the locked paths, the blind first choice he’d have to make.

  When he finished, the reactions came fast.

  Arthur gave a short nod. “As expected.”

  Reliable. Direct. Mage-type. It fit the pattern.

  Larry scratched his chin. “Sounds… tedious.”

  Grinding. Unlocking. Waiting. It wasn’t flashy.

  Tim smirked faintly. “You’ve got a lot of grinding to do.”

  Silas didn’t argue.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”

  They finished their meal in thoughtful silence, the weight of skills and survival settling in alongside the fish and bread.

  Then the orange-and-white cat returned.

  It didn’t bring plates.

  It brought business.

  “Since all of you got no coin,” the cat said evenly, tail swaying, “go do something for me… meow.”

  Silas placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity. “For such great food, Sir Cat, I’ll do anything.”

  Tim shot him a look.

  But the cat didn’t approach Silas.

  It padded past him.

  Stopped in front of Larry.

  And produced something from its vest pouch.

  It handed it over.

  Larry accepted it with his usual confused expression and unfolded the paper carefully.

  It was a map.

  Crude. Childlike. Lines uneven, proportions questionable—but the landmarks were distinct. A stream. A bend in the trees. A rocky outcrop shaped like a crooked tooth.

  Functional.

  “I like you the most,” the cat said, eyes glittering as it stared up at Larry. “So you go there and get me some fish… meow.”

  A blue notification window materialized before all five of them, crisp and undeniable.

  [Quest]

  Tiko pity you humans having no coins. It wasn’t like him to give free food as usually he would have just bare his claws at these beggars and making them bleed a bit and be done with it. But then he smell his favorite person. A fisherman. So he decide to give you all a quest.

  Guard the Fisherman as he catch ten fish for Tiko.

  Dateline: Tomorrow evening.

  Reward: Free Food & ???