By the time the sky faded into a warm, amber haze, the suffocating wall of trees finally began to thin.
The narrow trail widened. The clawing undergrowth fell away. Faint glimmers of yellow light winked between the trunks like cautious fireflies.
Then, as they stepped past the final line of trees, Eric stopped dead in his tracks.
A village lay before him — wooden houses with steep timber frames and straw-thatch roofs darkened by years of rain, wind, and sun.
Tall stone chimneys exhaled gentle swirls of smoke into the cooling evening air. Cloth banners hung from wooden beams, stirring lazily in the breeze. At the center stood a wide, circular stone well, planted like the beating heart of the settlement.
People moved through the dirt streets — carrying baskets, trading jokes, calling neighbors, arguing about trivial things that mattered only to those who lived here. It was the kind of mundane, ordinary life he never expected to see in a place like this.
It looked like a medieval European village torn straight from the Earth and dropped here without losing a single detail.
Eric stared, wide-eyed. "So this is… your village?"
Garrick nodded, a quiet pride softening his usual stern expression. "Welcome to Oakshield."
Rowan, naturally, couldn't resist. "Try not to gawk. You already look suspicious."
Eric let the jab slide. Because despite Rowan's delightful personality, something warm settled in his chest — a small, unfamiliar feeling.
This… actually feels safe.
But the thought didn't last long. A village this close to the Dryad forest? That was strange. Risky. Almost reckless. Something about it didn't add up.
Still, he pushed the unease aside for later.
Lanterns were being lit one by one as the evening deepened, painting Oakshield in a warm golden glow that softened every edge. A few villagers glanced in his direction — some curious, others wary, none approaching.
Garrick motioned him forward. "Come. We'll take you to the chief. He's the one who decides where guests stay."
Rowan added under his breath, "If he decides to let you stay at all."
Eric breathed out slowly and followed.
They crossed the village square, passing the well and several homes, until they reached a long wooden building with a carved boar's head mounted above the door — its tusks polished to a dull shine. Before entering, Garrick nudged Eric lightly.
"The chief deals with outsiders," he murmured. "Don't worry. He's fair… mostly."
Rowan scoffed. "Fair if your coin jingles loud enough."
The two stepped aside as Garrick pushed the door open.
Inside, a broad-shouldered man sat behind a thick oaken table.
Middle-aged, hair tied back in a loose tail streaked with gray, a long diagonal scar pulling at one corner of his mouth. He looked like the kind of man who once robbed travelers for a living — and survived enough fights to retire comfortably.
The chief lifted his gaze, sharp and assessing.
"So," he rumbled, voice low and rough, "you're the wanderer they dragged in. Looking for shelter in my village?"
"Yes," Eric said, keeping his tone steady.
The chief leaned back, folding his arms. "We don't house strangers for free. Not in times like these. But if you've got coin, we can talk."
"That's fine by me," Eric replied. "How much?"
"Six copper," the chief said. "Covers a room at the inn and two meals a day. You cause trouble, you're out. Clear?"
"Clear." Eric pulled out his pouch and counted six coppers onto the table.
The chief swept the coins aside with a practiced hand and nodded.
"Good. The inn's across the square. Tell Mara I sent you. She'll sort you out."
Eric hesitated before turning away. "Do you happen to have any maps? Something showing the nearest big city?"
The chief's eyebrow lifted. "A map, is it? You know those don't come cheap."
"How much?"
"Five silver."
Eric's thoughts hiccuped.
Five silver? For a single map?
One silver was a hundred copper. Six copper bought him lodging and meals. Which meant five silver was… almost three months of living expenses. Gone just like that.
He missed his old world so badly it hurt — cheap maps, GPS, online navigation. Here? Medieval Google Maps cost a month's salary.
"I'll take one," Eric said anyway. Wandering blind wasn't an option.
The chief's eyes flicked to Eric's coin pouch. "Hmph. Seems your purse is heavier than you look. Keep your money for now. The map's at my place. Come back tomorrow morning, I'll hand it over."
"Understood."
Eric turned to leave, but the chief stopped him with a low warning.
"And boy… don't wander outside at night." His eyes narrowed. "Something strange is moving around the village lately."
Eric froze. "Strange? What kind of—"
"Didn't ask you to question it." The man's gaze hardened. "I said don't wander. That's enough."
"...Okay," Eric murmured.
***
At the inn, a tired-looking woman named Mara gave Eric a curt rundown of the rules, handed him a brass key, and gestured for him to follow.
She led him up a narrow wooden staircase that creaked with every step, then stopped before a small room at the end of the hall.
When Eric pushed the door open, he blinked.
The room was… bare. Not painfully so, but close.
A worn-out bed slumped beneath a small window. A single wooden chair waited in the corner. No shelves, no lantern, no rug, and certainly no bathing room — he checked twice just to be sure.
"Water's in the barrel downstairs," Mara said, already turning away. "If you need a bath, talk to old Tomas behind the inn. He heats water in the mornings."
Before Eric could thank her, she was already halfway down the stairs.
He stepped inside and closed the door with a soft thud. Silence settled instantly, thick and unmoving.
He shrugged off his cloak, set down the bag that had clung to his shoulder all day, and sank onto the sagging bed. It groaned under his weight like an elderly man complaining about his joints.
"Sigh… I really want to eat something," he muttered.
But he couldn't — not without taste buds, not without a working stomach.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the worn bestiary he'd taken earlier, its pages filled with rough sketches and crude descriptions of this world's creatures.
He flipped straight to the section he'd been studying the most.
Undead.
Turning a zombie back into a human was impossible, at least according to every line in this book. So he had started considering a different path — evolving into another kind of undead.
Undead to undead.
Odd idea, but surprisingly plausible.
He skimmed through the various entries
Revenant — a corpse dragged from the underworld by a thirst for vengeance.
Wraith — a hollow spirit twisted by lingering regrets.
Vampire — a sharp-minded predator with power eclipsing the living.
Banshee — a sorrow-echoing apparition tied to tragedy.
Ghoul — a ravenous corpse forever driven by hunger.
There were dozens more. More than he ever expected. But every one of them required strange, specific, and often horrific conditions to be reborn. Curses. Rage. Oaths. Rituals. None of them matched his situation.
Except one.
Vampire.
Specifically, Noble Vampires — the rare few capable of turning others into their own kind.
The book implied the transformation didn't depend on being human. As long as the target had a soul and functioning flesh, the method could work. Even for someone like him.
But there was a problem.
He didn't know a single vampire.
And finding a noble one who wouldn't immediately tear out his throat?
Very, very unlikely.
Noble Vampires were among the world's top predators. Even major kingdoms avoided provoking them. Entire regions paid quiet tribute just to keep their clans from wandering too close.
So tracking one down… was nearly impossible.
Eric exhaled a long, tired breath and shut the book down as he leaned back on the creaking bed.
He stared up at the ceiling — at the faded wooden planks, the cracks between them, the shadows shifting with the lantern light outside.
*****
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