My first days in this world were… hectic.
Thankfully, I adapted quickly.
Not through talent, of course. I had been given three abilities—each absurdly convenient for someone in my position.
The first allowed me to create living player characters and summon them, as though I'd been granted additional bodies.
They required no training. I could design them at their peak—within limits. Humanoid races, backgrounds, talents… everything had to exist within the same world they were created in.
No frog magicians in a world without sentient, humanoid frogs—or magic. No mastery of breakdancing unless someone, somewhere, had once perfected it.
Even with those constraints, it granted me access to countless lives—each equipped with skills most would spend decades chasing.
Adapting became almost… too easy.
The first real limitation I encountered was coordination.
Controlling even one additional body demanded constant focus. Adding more stretched me thin. At best, I could reduce them to simple labor—chopping wood, hauling stone, gathering firewood.
Useful, but inefficient.
Eventually, I found a workaround.
By cutting back on feedback—filtering what they saw, heard, and felt, stripping away everything unnecessary—and letting ingrained muscle memory take over, I could sustain far more bodies with far less strain.
Most became little more than extra hands. Enabled. Disabled. As needed.
That suited me just fine.
---
My second ability complemented the first.
I could generate equipment—weapons, armor, and tools—under the same constraints, even altering or imbuing them with unique properties to suit my needs.
I couldn't create something like a swordstaff if it didn't exist in this world. But I could design a sword to resemble one.
The further a creation strayed from its original template, however, the more fragile—and weaker—it became.
Still, it was enough.
By introducing new concepts—putting such weapons into circulation—I could spread the idea and eventually gain a proper template once a native accepted it as real.
The same principle applied to the creation of player characters, though in their case, it manifested drawbacks as an exchange.
Creation wasn't effortless, either.
Designing took time.
And bringing those designs into existence required energy.
Mass production—the kind people might imagine from an ability like this—was impossible.
Not because I lacked capability…
But because everything demanded something in return.
---
My final ability granted me access to information.
Something akin to an in-game interface.
I could read my status, check the weather, view descriptions—small conveniences.
Strangely enough, it still maintained a connection to my previous world.
I could chat, watch videos, read novels, or even play games.
It was all still there.
Apparently, I had even been listed as a missing person.
Not that it mattered.
If anything, it simply satisfied one of many lingering curiosities.
---
With no real goal to pursue, I built a hidden home deep within the forest where I had first arrived and lived like a hermit, rarely interacting with the natives.
Whenever they encountered a human, they were either hostile… or afraid.
Approaching them rarely seemed worth the effort.
From what I could gather, it was a light-fantasy world—mythical creatures living alongside people.
Their culture resembled something from the Middle Ages, though with obvious deviations.
Most of them were furred.
And very much not human.
It was best to be careful.
Only after observing a sufficient number of viable racial templates did I abandon human forms and begin visiting the nearest town.
I could have gambled—assumed a race existed and built from that assumption. I had some success, after all. Moth-like variants.
Arachnid forms.
But it wasn't practical.
Creating from scratch was… inefficient. Not to mention difficult.
For a time, I thought I might waste away like this.
But life, it seemed, had other plans.
---
It happened during one of my occasional trips to the town of Narvel.
I had sent one of my player characters to purchase ingredients. I could grow them myself, but then what was the point of my spoils?
That was when I found her.
One of the natives.
In terrible shape.
White fur clumped together with blood. One leg mangled. Deep lacerations tore across her neck and back.
The signs were obvious—she had fought desperately, tooth and claw, against something far stronger.
Naturally, the culprit was still nearby.
When I caught sight of the beast, I prepared to engage. Life in this forest had given me ample experience with creatures like it.
Besides, hunting was… enjoyable.
A chance to experiment. Refine my loadout. Adjust my builds.
I drew a rapier tailored for this body and advanced with measured intent.
One step.
Two—the beast closed the distance.
On the third, I struck.
I extended my arm, leaned forward, and pushed off my back leg, slipping past my opponent. The blade slid cleanly through its hide, grazing along its neck as I passed.
It retaliated instantly—two savage swipes.
I evaded the first. Ducking under the second.
The near misses opened a perfect window.
I seized it.
Shifting my grip, I transitioned to a greatsword in one fluid motion and swung it toward its neck.
The blade bit deep.
Blood spilled across the forest floor.
The beast grew desperate, its movements turning wild, frantic—an attempt to end the fight quickly.
Too late.
A few more exchanges, and I delivered the finishing blow.
The creature collapsed with a final, beastly roar.
Silence followed.
And then… only the native remained.
I hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then I exhaled.
With a flicker of intent, I summoned a few helpers.
Together, we carried her back to my home—along with the carcass, hastily field-dressed where it fell.
---
I wasn't a certified medical practitioner.
But I had spent enough time pretending to pass for one.
More importantly, the real-time data displayed on her medical tab made things considerably simpler.
Using a priest character as my figurehead—a raccoon-like body—I conjured a holy-imbued dagger and dressed everyone in plague-doctor attire.
I dipped the blade into prepared buckets of water.
They turned instantly into holy water.
A powerful disinfectant.
I scattered it liberally across the room—and everyone in it—in a crude attempt at sterilization.
For good measure, I created a holy book.
Completely blank.
Placed beside the operating table, it emitted a soft golden glow, bathing the room in quiet purification.
Not perfect.
But sufficient.
I wouldn't have gone this far if not for the fracture.
Soft tissue damage and blood loss could be handled with holy power alone.
A mangled limb, however, demanded more.
After securing the leg, I cut it open and exposed the bone.
Holy power carried the convenient property of dulling sensation—useful for patients and just as effective for the undead.
I directed the others to hold the limb steady while I examined the damage.
The anatomy differed slightly from that of a human's.
But bone was bone.
A comminuted fracture.
Shattered into multiple fragments.
Fortunately, reconstruction seemed possible.
Using the claws of this developed body, I aligned the larger pieces, fitting them together with deliberate precision.
Once satisfied, I traced the fracture lines with the dagger, guiding holy energy through the breaks.
Slowly, the bone began to mend.
When I judged it stable, I washed away the remaining fragments and invoked holy power once more.
The flesh sealed.
Tissue knits itself together.
When I stepped back, the leg appeared whole.
---
Not bad for my first real surgery.
Even though holy magic handled most of the work, it was still my own effort.
It wasn't as though I were unprepared.
I had spent plenty of time fighting in this beast-infested forest. Injuries among my player characters were common; some disorders could even be corrected with enough tinkering.
I still wouldn't call myself a reliable surgeon even then.
But under the circumstances—
I was sufficient.
---
By then, my main body had begun to tire.
Repeated use of my abilities had drained more mental energy than I'd anticipated.
And it was already night.
So I chose to rest.
Before doing so, I stationed my priest beside the bed to watch over the patient.
From what I had learned, my main body didn't actually need to remain awake.
The only drawback was that my abilities became more limited during sleep.
A fair trade.
Besides…
My main body had too much to hide.
Not ideal for a first meeting.
Better to let the priest handle introductions.
White-and-gold vestments were far less alarming, and the faint holy aura they exuded might prove helpful.
---
Not long after my main body drifted to sleep, the rabbit stirred.
Her ears twitched.
Then her eyes opened.
She saw me standing beside the bed.
"I saved your life," I said.
A pause.
"You're welcome."
She blinked.
"…Um. Thanks?"
Her gaze drifted around the room—the wooden walls, the dim lantern light, the table and chair—before settling back on me.
"You said… You saved me?"
"Correct."
She hesitated.
"I… thank you."
Her voice was quiet, uncertain.
From her perspective, she had been mauled by a monster, carried somewhere unknown, and awakened in a stranger's home with a masked figure claiming to have saved her.
A little panic would have been expected. Questions, demands—perhaps even an attempt to leave.
Instead, she only looked… confused.
Her ears drooped slightly as she waited for me to continue.
I removed my mask.
"Do you remember anything?"
I made sure to smile.
She frowned, searching for something that wasn't there.
Her ears lowered further.
"I… don't think so."
Her status hadn't been wrong.
She shook her head again.
"No… I can't remember anything."
Amnesia would have been the obvious conclusion.
But this wasn't that.
Her condition was oblivion, an affliction that came from consuming a certain potion.