I woke up to the smell of clean linen and something astringent, alcohol, maybe.
My head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, then decided that wasn't enough and gone for a second round.
When I tried to move, pain lanced through my ribs, and my leg throbbed in protest.
Fuck!
I blinked at the ceiling. Plain wood beams. Not expensive. Not the manor. Where the hell am I—
Then the memories slammed back.
Bandits. Nine of them. Garl's ugly face. The desperate edits. Horses stampeding. Neural Processing Speed cranked to 120% because I'm apparently suicidal. The spearman. The broken ribs.
The—
Arrows. Someone had shot the bandits.
And then nothing.
I pushed myself up with a groan and my head swam, vision blurring for a second before stabilizing.
Deep breath. Well, shallow breath. Deep hurts.
I glanced to down, and saw my torso was wrapped in clean bandages.
Then turning my head, I saw my tunic—or what was left of it—sat folded on a small wooden stool. Torn, bloodstained. I pulled it on over the bandages, wincing as the fabric scraped against bruised skin.
Okay. Let's try standing.
I gripped the edge of the bed and hauled myself upright. My leg screamed. I ignored it. Standing was non-negotiable. One step. Then another. I shuffled toward the door like an old man with arthritis, each movement a negotiation with my battered body.
The door opened with a soft creak.
And a hallway stretched out before me, with several identical doors lining both sides. Small rooms.
A clinic?
I limped forward, one hand bracing against the wall for support. The air here was cooler, carrying the faint scent of herbs and something else... cooking meat? Ale?
Wait.
I stopped, mind racing despite the pounding headache.
How long was I out? The exam... shit, the exam is today. Or was it today? Is it over? Did I miss it?
Panic tried to claw its way up my throat. But I shoved it down.
One problem at a time. First, where the hell am I? Second, get to the capital. Third, somehow pass an exam while feeling like I got hit by a truck.
Great plan, Jin. Very realistic.
I reached the end of the hallway and pushed through another door.
And saw the tables and chairs scattered across a wide common room.
Men and women in light armor sat clustered in groups, tankards in hand, voices loud and rough.
Leather jerkins, chainmail, weapons propped against table legs. A woman with a massive greatsword strapped to her back laughed at something her companion said, slamming her fist on the table hard enough to make the mugs jump.
To the left, a long wooden counter dominated one wall. Behind it, a tired-looking man with a scarred face wiped down a glass.
Shelves lined the wall behind him with bottles, mugs.
A bar.
No. Not a bar.
My gaze drifted to the emblem carved into the wood above the counter, a shield crossed with a sword and staff.
An adventurer's guild.
I'd read about these. Back in the manor, during the rare moments when Father wasn't breathing down my neck and Cedric wasn't throwing things at me. The books in the study had described guilds as hubs for adventurers, the people who lived by the blade and died young.
Romantic, in theory.
In practice? The guy nearest me had what looked like claw marks across his face, and the woman two tables over was missing three fingers on her left hand.
Yeah. Real romantic.
I stood there, taking it in. The noise. The smell of unwashed bodies and spilled ale. The casual violence implied by every scarred face and notched weapon.
This was real. Not a book. Not a game.
And I'm standing here in a torn, bloodstained tunic, barely able to walk.
I limped forward, aiming for the bar. Maybe someone could tell me where I was. How long I'd been out. How screwed I—
"Hey, kid."
I froze.
The voice came from my right, amused.
I turned my head, ribs protesting with the movement.
A group sat at one of the larger tables. Five of them.
The woman who'd spoken leaned back in her chair, boots propped up on the table, a shortbow resting against her knee.
Her hair was dark, tied back in a messy ponytail, and her sharp green eyes watched me with the kind of casual interest a cat might give a mouse.
Next to her, a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard nursed a mug, his armor dented and worn.
A younger guy in maybe early twenties, sat beside him, all lean muscle and nervous energy, fingers drumming on the table. Across from them, a woman in robes that looked too clean for this place sipped tea with an expression of profound boredom.
And at the end, half-hidden in shadow, someone in a dark cloak who hadn't looked up once.
The archer stood, movements fluid and easy. She walked toward me, and I fought the urge to step back.
Did they bring me here?
She stopped a few feet away, head tilted, studying me like I was a particularly interesting puzzle.
"You look like shit," she said cheerfully.
Wow. Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I get that a lot."
Her grin widened.