The fifteen copper coins from the courier quest felt more valuable than the five gold pieces burning a hole in my infinite, metaphorical pocket. They represented something pure: a successfully executed plan of calculated mediocrity. I had been fast, but I had fabricated a perfectly believable, perfectly boring reason for my speed. I was learning. I was adapting. My dream of a quiet life was not dead; it was just entering its second phase: Acquisition.
A man cannot be a proper background character without a proper background to inhabit. The Snoring Slime was a decent temporary base of operations, but it was still a public space. There were still ears in the walls (or rather, there had been, before I'd ethically relocated them). There was still Borin's grumpy, if now slightly less scratch-haunted, presence. I needed a place of my own. A sanctuary. A fortress of solitude designed to look like a pile of forgotten firewood.
My requirements were specific:
1. Remote: Isolated from neighbors, busy roads, and, most importantly, the predictable paths of bandit attacks and bumbling Heroes.
2. Unremarkable: It should be a property that made surveyors sigh and real estate agents weep. The kind of place that said, "Nothing to see here, move along."
3. Structurally Sound (Beneath the Surface): I didn't mind a fixer-upper. With my skills, I could fix anything. But the foundation needed to be solid. I wasn't going to teleport into a pile of rubble one day.
Armed with my new wealth and an even newer determination to be the most uninteresting property owner in the kingdom, I set about my search. My first stop was, of course, the Maplewood town registry, a small, dusty office attached to the Mayor's residence, run by a man who looked like a dried-out quill pen with spectacles.
'Ultimate Appraisal.'
[Appraisal Target: Silas, Town Registrar]
Age:71
Thoughts:'I hope this one doesn't have messy handwriting. The last one had messy handwriting. Why does everyone have such messy handwriting? Also, my bunions are throbbing. It's going to rain.'
"Excuse me," I began, my voice a respectful library-whisper. "I'm looking for information on available properties on the outskirts of town. Something… modest."
Silas looked up, his eyes magnified to owl-like proportions by his glasses. "Modest, he says." He sniffed, as if 'modest' was a synonym for 'disappointing.' "We have a list. Five silver to view it."
Five silver? For a list? The bureaucratic greed of this world was somehow both shocking and comfortingly familiar. I paid the man, willing the coins from my inventory into my hand. He didn't question it, merely sliding a single, yellowed piece of parchment across the counter.
The list was… depressing. Even for me.
· Plot 7A: North Field. 2 Acres. Poor soil. Prone to flooding. 15 Gold.
· The Old Miller's House. West Stream. Partial roof collapse. Infested with Rock-Crabs. 25 Gold.
· Hillside Cottage (Formerly "Whispering Pines"). Eastern Bluff. Severe damp. Haunted (unconfirmed). 10 Gold.
My eyes lingered on the last one. Hillside Cottage. Severe damp. Haunted (unconfirmed). It was perfect. The 'haunted' part was a bonus—a natural deterrent. And ten gold was well within my budget, especially since I had no intention of paying the full price.
"Could I see the details for the Hillside Cottage?" I asked.
Silas gave me a look that suggested I'd just asked to purchase a diseased cow. "That old place? It's been on the list for years. You'd be better off with the Miller's House. At least the Rock-Crabs are edible."
"I… appreciate the advice. But I'd like to see the cottage."
He sighed, the sound like pages rustling in a tomb, and produced a thick ledger. "Suit yourself. Owner is an old widow, Elara. Lives above her bakery in town now. You can find her at 'The Crusty Loaf.' Don't say I didn't warn you."
Elara. The baker. The one whose sourdough was supposedly divine. A connection was forming in my mind. A quiet, isolated cottage owned by a kindly old baker whose business was in town… it was almost too good to be true. I could secure my sanctuary and have a direct line to the world's greatest bread. It was a win-win.
"Thank you, sir," I said, and made my exit before he could warn me about anything else.
---
The Crusty Loaf was exactly as advertised. It was a small, cozy shop tucked between a smithy and a tailor, with a front window that was slightly clouded with age and flour. A bell above the door chimed a soft, welcoming note as I entered.
The smell that hit me was… transcendent.
It was the warm, earthy, slightly sour aroma of baking bread, but amplified, perfected. It was the scent of comfort, of security, of a thousand peaceful mornings. It wrapped around me like a blanket, and for the first time since I'd arrived in this world, I felt a pang of something deeper than a desire for peace. I felt a flicker of want. I wanted to preserve this smell. I wanted it to be a part of my life.
Behind the counter, dusted in a fine layer of flour, was an elderly woman. She had a kind, wrinkled face, eyes that sparkled with warmth, and hair the color of fresh-baked whole wheat bread, tied back in a bun. She was humming a tuneless, happy melody as she arranged a fresh batch of rolls on a cooling rack.
'Ultimate Appraisal.' I couldn't help myself.
[Appraisal Target: Elara]
Age:68
Occupation:Master Baker, Owner of 'The Crusty Loaf,' Former Owner of 'Hillside Cottage'
Level:6
Skills:[Sourdough Mastery Lv. MAX], [Kneading Technique Lv. 7], [Customer Rapport Lv. 6], [Stubborn Optimism Lv. 5]
Current Thoughts:'The new batch of starter is especially lively today. Little Bready is happy. Oh, a customer! He looks a bit lost. Maybe he needs a good pastry.'
Life Story:Born in Maplewood, inherited the bakery from her parents, ran it with her late husband, Peter, for forty years. Bought the Hillside Cottage as a retirement project. Peter passed before they could renovate. The memories became too painful, so she moved back to town. The cottage is a reminder of a dream unfulfilled, but she can't bring herself to sell it to just anyone. She wants it to go to someone who will appreciate the quiet.
My heart did a strange little squeeze. This wasn't just a transaction anymore. This was… personal.
"Good morning, young man!" Elara said, her voice as warm as her ovens. "What can I get for you? The sourdough is just out of the oven, or I have some lovely apple pastries that are still warm."
"I… I'll take a loaf of the sourdough, please," I said, my voice slightly hushed. "And… I understand you own the Hillside Cottage?"
Her smile didn't vanish, but it became tinged with a gentle sadness. "Ah. So you're the one. Silas sent you, did he? Did he tell you about the damp? And the ghosts?" She said the last part with a playful twinkle in her eye.
"He mentioned it," I said, managing a small smile in return. "I'm… not afraid of damp. Or ghosts. I'm looking for a quiet place. Somewhere to… disappear for a while."
She looked at me, her [Customer Rapport] skill seemingly evolving into [Grandmotherly Intuition]. She didn't see an adventurer. She saw a young man who looked tired of the world. And she approved.
"It's certainly quiet," she said, wrapping the loaf of bread in a clean cloth. The aroma was maddeningly good. "And the view of the sunrise over the eastern mountains… well, Peter always said it was worth the leaky roof. Tell you what. Buy this loaf of bread. If you like it, come back tomorrow, and I'll give you the key. Go have a look. No obligation. If you can see the potential through the mold, we can talk price."
It was the fairest offer I had ever received. I paid for the bread—a single, ridiculously inexpensive copper coin—and left the shop, the warm loaf cradled in my hands like a holy relic.
Back in my room at the Snoring Slime, I broke off a piece of the crust. It was firm, crackling perfectly under my fingers. The inside was a masterpiece of airy, chewy, tangy perfection. It was, without a doubt, the best thing I had ever tasted in either of my lives.
The cottage was as good as mine.
---
The next day, key in hand, I stood before the Hillside Cottage. Silas and Elara had not been exaggerating.
It was a sad, dilapidated little structure. It leaned slightly to the left, as if tired of standing upright. The roof was a patchwork of mossy thatch and visible holes. The single chimney was choked with ivy. The windows were grimy, and one was cracked. The front garden was a wild, overgrown tangle of weeds and thorns. It was, in a word, perfect.
I unlocked the door—which was a feat in itself, as the warped wood stuck to the frame—and stepped inside. The interior was worse. It was dark, damp, and smelled strongly of rot and neglect. The floorboards were soft in places, and a steady drip… drip… drip… echoed from a corner of the main room. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and I could hear the skittering of tiny feet in the walls. Actual feet this time, not Whisper Rats. Probably normal, non-magical, but still annoying, mice.
'Ultimate Appraisal.'
A flood of structural data filled my mind. I saw the entire cottage as a three-dimensional blueprint, every flaw highlighted in pulsing red.
· Foundation: Solid stone, slightly settled but stable. (Good.)
· Support Beams: Central beam in roof compromised by water damage and wood-boring insects. (Bad.)
· Roof Thatch: 80% degradation. Inefficient at best, non-existent at worst. (Very Bad.)
· Plumbing: Non-existent. Well outside is dry. (Problematic.)
· Pest Infestation: Mice (family of 12), Dust Sprites (colony of 23, harmless but messy), one hibernating Snuggle-Badger in the crawlspace. (Annoying.)
It was a wreck. A complete and total wreck. Any normal person would have turned and run. A grin spread across my face.
This wasn't a problem. This was a project.
I started with the pests. A focused thought, and the entire mouse family, nest and all, was safely [Infinite Inventory]'d. I'd drop them in a nice field later. The Dust Sprites, being magical constructs of laziness and disuse, were a bit trickier, but a gentle application of [Mirage Crafting] convinced them this was no longer a suitable place of neglect, and they drifted out through the cracks in the walls. The Snuggle-Badger I left alone. He seemed peaceful, and his name sounded non-threatening.
Now, for the renovations. I couldn't do anything too flashy. The cottage needed to look unassuming from the outside. But on the inside… on the inside, I could create a paradise.
I started with the structure. I focused on the compromised central beam. Using [Mirage Crafting], I didn't just repair it; I re-created it on a molecular level. I visualized the wood as it had been a hundred years ago: strong, dry, and resilient. The skill responded. The rotten, insect-eaten beam shimmered and was replaced by a perfect, pristine, and incredibly strong duplicate. To any appraisal, even a magical one, it would simply appear to be a very, very well-preserved old beam. I repeated the process for every soft floorboard, every cracked wall stud. I was not repairing; I was reverting. Turning back time on the building's decay.
Next, the roof. I vanished the ruined thatch into my inventory. Then, I appraised a nearby stand of sturdy reeds from the riverbank. Using them as a template, I used [Mirage Crafting] to create a new, thick, perfectly waterproof layer of thatch, making sure to leave a few artful clumps of moss here and there for that 'humble' aesthetic.
The damp was caused by poor drainage around the foundation. A few minutes of using [Infinite Inventory] to dig and reshape the earth, creating a gentle slope away from the cottage, solved that. The drip… drip… drip… stopped.
Now, for the comforts. Plumbing was an issue. I couldn't very well install modern piping. But I could cheat. I appraised the dry well. It was dry because the water table had shifted. So, I shifted it back. Using a combination of [Ultimate Appraisal] to find an underground stream and a subtle, carefully calculated use of [Physical Apex] to punch a narrow, deep channel through the rock beneath the cottage, I redirected a steady flow of fresh, clean water into the well. Then, I created an illusion of a simple pump handle over the well that, when used, would teleport water directly from the well into a specially crafted stone basin inside the cottage. The wastewater? Another teleportation drain that deposited it safely into a seepage field I'd created a hundred yards away. It was a Rube Goldberg machine of cosmic power, and it looked like a hovel's plumbing.
For light, I crafted intricate [Mirage] orbs that mimicked the warm glow of oil lamps, but were powered by drawing on ambient mana—a limitless, undetectable power source.
I spent the entire day like this, a god playing carpenter. I crafted a comfortable bed from the memory of a high-end mattress showroom in my old world. I created a stove that looked like a pile of bricks but had perfect temperature control. I even fashioned a luxurious, deep bathtub from a single piece of illusion-crafted stone, plumbed with my teleporting water system.
By nightfall, the exterior of the Hillside Cottage was exactly the same: leaning, mossy, and forlorn. But the interior was a masterpiece of covert luxury. It was warm, dry, brightly lit, and smelled of fresh wood and—because I'd placed it there—the lingering scent of Elara's sourdough.
It was my home.
---
The following day, I returned to The Crusty Loaf. Elara was frosting a cake when I entered.
"Well? Did the ghosts chase you off?" she asked, a hopeful smile on her face.
"No ghosts," I said. "Just a lot of damp. And a Snuggle-Badger."
She chuckled. "So, you've seen the worst of it. Still interested?"
"I am," I said. "It's… got good bones. I can fix it up. Make it livable." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "You said ten gold. Would you accept eight?"
I had the ten. I could have given her twenty. But haggling was what a poor, humble adventurer would do. It was part of the act.
Elara looked at me, her kind eyes seeing right through my pathetic attempt at negotiation. She saw a young man who wanted a quiet place, who wasn't scared off by a little damp, and who appreciated her bread.
"Tell you what," she said, leaning on the counter. "You can have it for five."
I was stunned. "Five? But… it's worth more than that." The land alone is probably worth five, I thought.
"To someone who will just tear it down? Perhaps," she said. "But to someone who will give it a new life? Who will sit on that porch and watch the sun rise like Peter did? That's worth more than gold to me. Five gold, Bob. And a promise that you'll stop by for a loaf of bread now and then to tell an old woman how the repairs are going."
It was an offer I couldn't refuse. It was an offer that, strangely, made my chest feel tight. I was used to transactional relationships. This felt… different.
"I promise," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn't name.
The paperwork at Silas's office was a blur. He looked utterly baffled that the transaction was happening at all, let alone for five gold. But it was done. With a few strokes of a pen and the clink of coins, I, Bob, was a homeowner.
My first act as a property owner was to secure my perimeter. I walked the boundary of the small plot of land that came with the cottage. Using [Mirage Crafting], I erected a subtle, psychological barrier. I didn't create walls or fences. Instead, I woven illusions of "Beware of Dog" signs (there was no dog), faint sounds of aggressive barking from the bushes, and a general, subtle feeling of "this place is not worth your time" that would subconsciously steer casual visitors away. To anyone who looked, the cottage appeared even more dilapidated and uninviting than before, if that was possible. The thatch seemed to sag a little more. The paint seemed to peel a little further. It was the pinnacle of anti-curb appeal.
My second act was to plant a small, hidden garden in a sunny spot behind the cottage, protected from view by a clever illusion of a bramble patch. Using [Ultimate Appraisal] on the soil and [Mirage Crafting] to instantly create perfect, nutrient-rich loam, I planted seeds for herbs, vegetables, and even a few flowers. I used a carefully timed, teleported trickle of water from my well to irrigate it. In a week, I'd have a private, self-sustaining food source.
My third act was the most important. I stood on the rickety-looking porch (which was, beneath the illusion, a masterpiece of sturdy craftsmanship) and looked out at the view Elara had mentioned. The sun was setting behind the western woods, casting long shadows across the valley. In the distance, I could see the tiny, glowing lights of Maplewood. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was mine.
I went inside my perfectly crafted hovel, sat in my perfectly comfortable chair, and broke off a piece of my perpetual supply of sourdough bread from the inventory.
I had done it. I had a home. A secret base. A place where Bob the Background Character could truly disappear.
As I sat there in the silent, comfortable darkness, a thought occurred to me. This was only the beginning. A home needed supplies. It needed furniture. It needed, I decided, a proper library. And maybe a wine cellar.
A slow smile spread across my face. The hunt for mundane comforts with god-like powers was its own kind of adventure. And it was an adventure with no bandits, no prophecies, and no hopelessly incompetent Heroes.
Just peace, quiet, and the perfect sourdough.
It was, I decided, going to be a wonderful retirement.