Chapter 4 Grinding
After parting ways with Astrid, I headed north toward the bandit camp near Whiterun. The wind over the plains was colder without her beside me—sharper, emptier. The sky glowed orange as the sun dipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the tundra grass. In the distance, I could already see the camp: torches flickering, silhouettes patrolling atop wooden watchtowers, their voices echoing faintly through the night air.
If I cleared the place out, I'd probably earn an easier path into the city—plus, this was the perfect grinding spot to raise several skills. But seeing real people guarding it… hearing their laughter, the clinking of their gear, the casual way they talked about dinner… something twisted faintly in my chest.
Alex. its just NPCs. Just treat them like the game.
I clenched my jaw and kept moving.
The front courtyard was heavily guarded—too many eyes, too many weapons gleaming in the firelight. Definitely not ideal for a frontal assault.
So I waited.
Night slowly swallowed the plains. The temperature dropped until my breath fogged pale white. Crickets chirped, wolves howled somewhere far off, and the camp's torchlight grew softer, flickering like dying stars.
When darkness fully settled, I changed into quieter gear—leather boots hugging my ankles, a cloth under-layer to muffle sound, and a dagger that felt unsettlingly cold in my hand. Perfect for sneak-critical gameplay. Except… this time, the consequences were real.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears.
Alright, Alex. One at a time. No mistakes.
I slipped through the shadows like smoke. Every step measured. Every breath slow. A bandit near the gate yawned, completely unaware of me behind him. I hesitated for a split second—just long enough to catch the tiny details: the dirt under his nails, the burn scar on his neck, the faint smile he wore while daydreaming about something.
Then I struck.
Quick. Clean.
His body slumped silently into my arms. I lowered him gently to the ground.
Sneak skill increased.
But I didn't feel happy.
Not even a little.
I kept moving. Another target leaned against a crate, half-asleep. I circled behind him and pressed my dagger through the gap in his armor. His breath hitched, then faded. His fingers twitched once—twice—before falling still.
Every kill felt heavier than in the game… because these weren't ragdolls dropping with comedic physics. They were warm bodies cooling in my hands.
But I pushed the guilt aside. I had to. If I slipped, even once, I'd die.
Inside the camp, traps lined the narrow corridors—pressure plates, swinging logs, falling boulders. The typical bandit stupidity actually gave me ideas.
Deeper in, I found a lone bandit mining iron ore. His back trembled with each swing of the pickaxe, sweat glittering under the torchlight. He hummed a tune. Something simple. Human.
My stomach twisted.
Stop thinking. He'll kill you if you hesitate.
I opened my dimensional inventory and pulled out a bow. The string hummed softly as I drew it. One arrow. Inhale. Exhale.
Thunk.
The bandit dropped instantly, blood blooming like ink in water.
Sneak skill up.
Archery skill up.
I swallowed hard and moved on.
Past the mining room were two more enemies—one armored heavily with a battleaxe, the other wearing robes and chanting some spell under their breath. My eyes locked on the mage first. Always prioritize the mage.
But before I could make a move—
A massive shadow loomed over me.
The Bandit Chief.
Even bigger than I remembered from the game, muscles bulging, veins popping, his face twisted with instinctive fury.
"HEY! You intruder! You dare enter my domain!?" he roared, spit flying, eyes burning with murderous intent.
Instinct took over.
I pointed a finger at him.
"Hey, ogre-face! Catch me if you can!"
His eyebrows shot up. "Bastard!"
He charged like a raging bull. I sprinted backward, baiting him toward the trap room.
"DON'T YOU RUN FROM ME!"
His footsteps shook the ground. My lungs burned. Sweat stung my eyes.
Just a little closer…
Now!
I slammed my foot onto the pressure plate.
A thunderous rumble filled the chamber.
Boulders dropped from above like the fist of a god.
CRAAAAASH!!
Dust exploded everywhere. Wood shattered. Rock split. The chief's scream was swallowed by the avalanche. I barely dove out of the entrance before debris slammed shut behind me.
When the dust settled, I cautiously peeked back in.
The Bandit Chief lay half-crushed, coughing blood. His hand twitched—reaching for his axe, or maybe for help.
I froze.
For the first time, I saw him… not as a boss.
Not as XP.
Just… a man who lived hard, fought harder, and now died because I needed to "grind."
A tiny whisper slipped from my throat.
"…Sorry."
Then I tightened my grip on my dagger and stepped forward to finish the job.
A level-up notification rang in my head.
But it didn't feel like a victory.
I nocked an arrow and fired one clean shot to his head.
"Fiuuuh… that was exhausting."
My voice came out shaky, partly from adrenaline, partly from the cold night air that clung damp and heavy around the camp. The torches flickered weakly in the wind, their flames bending sideways and casting long, distorted shadows across the bloodstained dirt.
I rolled my shoulders, wincing as the tension slowly drained from my muscles. My gloves were sticky—dried blood clinging between the seams. I tried not to think about whose it belonged to.
One by one, I dragged the bodies outside.
The corpses were heavier than I expected. Limbs dangled limply, armor clattered, and every time a head rolled to the side, their empty eyes seemed to stare at me.
A faint tightness squeezed my chest.
A whisper of guilt.
But I shook it off and kept going.
"I… I have to survive," I muttered under my breath. "This is the only way."
The night breeze rustled the grass, carrying the smell of iron, smoke, and earth. A cold loneliness settled over the abandoned camp—no more voices, no more footsteps, just the crackle of fire and the quiet groans of creaking wood.
At the mage's body, I knelt and began looting. My fingers paused when I found a spellbook tucked beneath his robe.
Soul Trap.
My eyes widened. "Heh… lucky. Very lucky."
This spell was essential—one of the fastest ways to boost Conjuration.
I stood, dusting dirt from my knees, and continued deeper into the camp. Flames cast rippling reflections on the wooden walls, making the place feel less like a hideout and more like a haunted ruin.
After rummaging through overturned crates, scattered bedding, and a small chest near the mining corner—there it was.
Transmute.
The golden glow of the spellbook's cover shone faintly under moonlight filtering through a hole in the roof. I reached for it with both hands—like holding a treasure I'd been searching for years.
"This is it… the leveling ticket."
When everything was done—looting, searching, clearing traps—I finally let my body collapse onto a makeshift bedroll. Exhaustion washed over me like a wave. My eyes closed, and for a moment, the silence of the camp felt almost peaceful.
Almost.
The memories of the bandits' faces flickered at the edge of my thoughts.
Human expressions.
Human fear.
I forced myself to sleep anyway.
Morning sunlight spilled into the camp, warm but harsh. I checked my skills:
Sneak: 26
• Archery: 18
• One-Handed: 16
Three level-ups in total.
"All into Magicka," I said out loud, rolling my stiff neck. "I need it for Soul Trap."
The air was still chilly as I equipped the mage's robe that boosted Magicka by 30 and swapped the bandit garment that added another 50. A strange feeling washed over me—wearing clothes from people I had… killed.
Don't think about it. Not now.
My Magicka now reached 210—enough for two Soul Trap casts.
I stared down at one of the corpses. My hand hovered uncertainly over it.
"…Sorry," I whispered, then began casting.
Purple light swirled around the body.
Once.
Twice.
My Conjuration jumped four levels in an instant.
"What the hell…? This is broken."
A grin tugged at my lips.
"…And I love it."
For five days, I repeated the cycle. Cast on corpses. Sleep. Level up.
The guilt still returned occasionally—a dull ache at the back of my mind—but survival demanded progress. And progress demanded efficiency.
By the end of it, Conjuration hit 100.
My main level climbed to 17.
I allocated points to Health, Stamina, Magicka. My body felt lighter, stronger, sharper.
Thankfully, I didn't starve—the bandits had taken down a mammoth earlier. Its meat was stacked near the entrance, still fresh thanks to the inventory system's weird, magical preservation.
Honestly, I had no idea what a normal person would do to get this strong. How long it would take. How many sleepless nights they'd endure.
But me?
With the system backing me?
I wasn't playing on the same difficulty curve as them anymore.
Next, I grabbed a pickaxe and returned to the iron veins. The rhythmic clang of metal hitting stone echoed through the empty camp, bouncing off the wooden walls.
I mined everything.
Transmuted the ore into silver.
Then into gold.
Watching the shimmering metal glow in my palms felt unreal—like bending the rules of physics with nothing but willpower.
Crafting gold rings leveled Smithing.
Casting Transmute leveled Alteration.
It only took a day.
A day I spent mostly alone, with only the sound of my breath, the crackle of fire, and the fading scent of death as company.
By the end, my level reached 18.
I added more points to Health and checked my stats:
Magicka: 200
• HP: 150
• Stamina: 120
"…Not bad," I murmured. "Not bad at all."
The wind swept through the empty camp, carrying dust and silence. The place felt both like a graveyard… and a sanctuary I had carved out with blood.
I tightened my grip on my dagger, exhaled softly, and looked toward the distant walls of Whiterun glowing under the sun.
"Alright," I said, straightening up.
"Time to head to Whiterun."
Even if guilt tugged faintly in my chest… survival came first.
Always.
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