The stable air clung to Elara, damp and heavy with the scent of hay, horses, and cold earth. Her space, a meager corner tucked behind a constantly snorting horse, felt less like a haven and more like a temporary holding pen. The thin bedroll offered little comfort against the biting chill that seeped through the old wooden walls, and every groan of the building, every rhythmic stomp of a hoof, became a grating soundtrack to her nights.
Her crafting tools lay beside her, silent accusations of promises unkept. She often picked up the hammer, its familiar weight a fleeting comfort in her palm. She had learned to coax small, unremarkable things from scavenged scrap: sturdy nails, a few hooks, even a decidedly lumpy spoon. But anything larger, anything truly valuable, felt impossibly out of reach. The scrap wasn't enough. It was never enough.
She needed proper metal, hearty wood, cured leather, even the strange, shimmering crystals to be essential for magic items. But these resources lived in the worldâs dangerous places: mines crawling with unseen horrors, forests where the growls of fierce beasts echoed through the trees, ruins guarded by dark, unknown creatures. Elara couldnât go to those places. She simply couldnât. The thought alone tightened her chest, a cold knot of dread. Fighting wasn't an option. She couldnât even poke a tiny slime without Kael, with his booming presence and practiced ease, stepping in to sweep her from danger. The memory of endless, brutal deaths still ghosted at the edges of her vision, a stark reminder of her inadequacy.
And money. The small pouch Kael had given her long ago was a distant memory. Selling her lumpy spoons and crooked nails barely covered a weekâs rent in the stable. It was a slow, grinding crawl, a constant battle against futility. She felt truly stuck, wedged between the desperate desire to create and the gnawing weakness that kept her from acquiring what she needed. The frustration was a dull, persistent ache beneath her ribs, mirroring the pervasive chill of the stable.
One gloomy afternoon, a thin drizzle of rain slicked the blacksmith's smithy, and a cold wind snaked its way in. The blacksmith had left her after finishing his work. After witnessing her pitiful work, he refused payment until she was more skilled.
Elara hammered, trying to coax a small, unforgiving piece of iron into something resembling a buckle. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy. The metal resisted, stubbornly refusing to yield. She slammed the hammer down, a frustrated thud echoing in the confined space. A sigh, long and shaky, escaped her. Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unwelcome. It felt utterly hopeless. Trapped. Trapped in a world that defied logic, wearing a false skin, with no real path forward.
A shadow fell across her work. Not Kaelâs usual hulking, familiar shape. This one was quieter, softer. Elara looked up, blinking away the sheen of tears.
She resumed hammering, watching the newcomer.
He wasnât built like Kael, all broad shoulders and battle-hardened muscle, nor did he possess the coiled, watchful energy of a rogue. He was of medium height, dressed in simple travelerâs clothes that were clearly well-used but impeccably clean. His hair was the color of sand, a muted brown. But his eyes⦠his eyes pulled her in. A pale, clear blue, yet they held a strange, distant quality, as if his gaze extended beyond the rough walls of the smithy, seeing something only he could perceive. A quiet sadness, too, seemed to reside in their depths.
He didn't offer the easy, eager smile of other adventurers, keen to swap tall tales. No jokes. He simply stood, watching her. His gaze wasnât the blunt curiosity sheâd grown accustomed to, nor was it mocking. It was⦠understanding. As if he truly saw her, Elara, the frightened woman clinging to a pretense, not the fabricated "hero" others whispered about.
A jolt ran through her. This was different. Who was he?
He took a slow step closer, then leaned against the rough stone wall, his movements unhurried, almost deliberate. His voice, when it came, was soft, gentle, barely above a whisper, yet it sliced through the low crackling of the fire with an unexpected sharpness.
"I hear rumors that you came from another world?"
Her soft hammering ceased. Her hand, clutching the tongs, lowered slowly, gently, until her tools rested on the anvil.
"My name is Liam," the man said, his voice still that soft, compelling whisper. "And I, too, am from another world."
Elara gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound. Her mouth fell open. Another world? Like her? A tumultuous wave of emotions crashed over her. Shock, then an overwhelming rush of relief, a dizzying, fragile hope. She wasn't alone. She wasn't mad. Someone else understood the impossible strangeness of it all.
A shiver, not of cold, but of raw emotion, shot up her spine. "Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Wow!" A genuine light ignited in his pale blue eyes, chasing away the sadness. "You are the first other person!" The excitement in his voice was palpable, a mirror to the sudden, exhilarating burst of joy in her own chest.
They spoke for what felt like hours, eagerly trading truncated histories of their previous lives, of how their deaths had flung them into this bizarre reality. It was a release, a balm to a wound she hadnât realized was festering so deeply. To share the incomprehensible, to be truly heard, was a relief so profound it bordered on pain. She carefully omitted the goblin, and the endless, agonizing cycle of dying. That part, the true terror, remained hers alone.
"The menu button?" he began, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more conspiratorial. "It's not about seeing it with your eyes."
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against her fear. Her eyes widened, fixed on his face.
Liam nodded, a slow, knowing gesture, as if he could pluck the thoughts directly from her mind. "And it feels like thereâs a wall. An invisible wall, stopping you from touching it." He looked at her with such clear understanding, such deep empathy, that a strange warmth bloomed in her chest, spreading outwards, chasing away some of the pervasive cold. No one, not even Kael, had understood that struggle, the utter futility of trying to grasp what wasn't there.
Liam offered a small, tired smile, a gentle curve of his lips. "Yes. It's a lot to take in when you first arrive. It's not about seeing it like you see this smithy, Elara." He gestured around the dusty, iron-scented space. "It's about believing it. About feeling it. Itâs like an extra limb you didnât know you had. Like reaching out and clicking with a third hand that isn't there, but you know it's there."
He paused, letting his words settle in the quiet smithy. "Think of it like this," he went on, his voice patient, unwavering. "When you reach for a cup, you don't see your hand move before it does, right? You just will it. You feel the intention, and your hand follows. The menu is like that. You have to will it into being. You have to feel it as a part of you. Like an arm that you can move without seeing it move."
Elara listened, truly listened, perhaps for the first time since sheâd arrived in this impossible world. An extra limb. A third hand. It wasn't about her eyes. It was about her mind, about the strange, shifting landscape of her own perception. It was about feeling. A tiny spark of understanding, fragile as a distant star, flickered in the vast darkness of her confusion.
Liam began to guide her. He told her to close her eyes. "Now, don't look. Don't strain. Just... feel. Feel for a connection. Imagine there's a soft, warm light just in front of you. A light only you can feel. Not see. Feel."
Elara closed her eyes. She felt foolish, absurd, but the trust in his voice was compelling. She tried to feel. She imagined the soft light, the elusive warmth. Nothing. Just the biting wind snaking through the smithyâs cracks.
"It's like trying to move a finger you don't know you have," Liam murmured, his voice soft and understanding. "It's frustrating. But you have to believe it's there. You have to try to move it."
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He straightened, a hint of urgency entering his tone. "I need to go. The caravan I'm with will leave in a few hours. I had to seek you out." He took her hand, his fingers firm and warm around hers, and squeezed gently. "Iâm glad I met someone like me."
He gave her exercises, simple ones she could repeat endlessly. "Try to push something away, but with that third hand. Feel the push. Feel the connection."
A surge of emotion, a wave of profound gratitude, welled up inside her. Before she could think, she launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, thankful hug.
He staggered a step, caught off guard, then his arms came around her, returning the reassuring embrace. "Practice the exercises. It took me a while, but this might help you."
She pulled back, her eyes searching his.
He smiled, a lingering sadness in his gaze. "I donât know where the caravan will take me. Trade is slowing at the moment, and we might head to the capital⦠but when I can, I'll return. Then we can talk more."
His expression turned serious. "Elara, keep your past a secret. People from the larger towns and cities don't take kindly to people claiming to be from other worlds."
She watched him go, his figure disappearing into the drizzle. The strange warmth heâd brought to the smithy seemed to vanish with him. The wind had died, and the fire in the forge cast its heat around her, but she felt a profound chill, an emptiness where hope had momentarily bloomed. Slowly, she forced herself to pick up the hammer, resuming her work.
Half her mind was on the stubborn metal, the other half on Liamâs exercises. She swung the hammer, distracted, and heard a sharp cry escape her lips as the heavy head slammed down onto her thumb. "Stupid," she mumbled, sucking on the throbbing digit. It would bruise, she knew, for the next few days. It wasn't the first time.
Elara spent hours, then days, immersed in these mental exercises. She would sit in her cold stable corner straining to "feel" for the invisible menu. Sometimes, the frustration would build into a searing pressure behind her eyes, making her want to scream. It felt like chasing smoke, like trying to grasp water. Just when she thought she had it, it would slip away. The mental block, the barrier Liam had described, was a formidable, unseen wall.
One late afternoon, the persistent rain outside mirrored the dull ache in her soul. She closed her eyes. She imagined her "third hand," reaching out. She envisioned pushing an invisible button, willing it into existence. Frustration simmered, a slow boil ready to erupt. She was tired. So tired of trying, of failing.
Then, just as she was about to surrender, a tiny flicker. Like a distant star winking on for a split second, then vanishing. It wasn't a picture, not a clear image. It was a feeling. A brief, subtle sense of a presence, a faint pressure, right where her mind had been reaching. It was like touching something soft and warm, but for just a fraction of a second, before it dissolved back into nothingness.
Elara gasped, her eyes popped wide with disbelief and a sudden, breathtaking wonder. "I felt something!" she cried, the words tumbling out, her face alight. "Just for a moment! A flicker!"
Over the next few days, the flickers lengthened. The elusive feeling became clearer, more distinct. Soon, when she focused, a glowing screen, a translucent plaque, materialized before her. She could see it. It was there.
With Liamâs improbable help, Elara had finally unlocked it.
She spent every waking hour devouring the documentation. It wasn't like reading a mundane book. She could "click" on different sections, simply by willing it, her mind navigating the vast sea of information. It felt like having a super-fast internet connection, projected directly into her vision.
First, she dove into the crafting sections. She consumed every word. How to smelt raw ore into usable metal. The precise techniques for shaping steel with a hammer and tongs. The correct heat, the optimal angles, the rhythmic beat. How to stitch leather, carve wood, combine strange herbs for potent potions. She absorbed it all like a parched sponge. The details were crystal clear, precise, a stark contrast to the vague, stumbling instructions sheâd gleaned before. This was true knowledge, tangible and actionable.
She practiced diligently in the smithy. The documentation detailed the exact quantities of items needed to advance her skills.
Using small, rough iron sheets sheâd scrounged, she heated them, hammered them, and shaped them with fierce concentration. She made better nails. Stronger hooks. She even managed a few simple, plain metal plates that, while unadorned, could serve as the most basic armor. Her first true metalwork. It wasn't beautiful, not yet, but it was functional.
A thrill coursed through her when the notification appeared: Crafting Level 1!
She also dug deep into the combat documentation. It was horrifying. The cold, hard facts about monsters, their weak points, their predictable attack patterns. The goblin she had faced, the panicked, desperate tactics she had unknowingly tried, the innumerable ways she had died â it was all laid out, explained with stark clarity. She read about fighting stances, dodging, parrying. It was like reading a detailed manual for a video game she had been suddenly thrust into, where every mistake meant another terrible, brutal death. A chill ran down her spine, recalling past horrors, but a growing sense of understanding, of power, began to solidify within her. If she had only known this thenâ¦
But for now, crafting remained her sanctuary, her focus. She found a small, hidden market stall where she could buy cheap, raw materials â rough chunks of iron ore, bundles of raw hide, rough-cut wood. They were cheap because they were difficult to work, but Elara, armed with the precise knowledge from the documentation, was learning to overcome their imperfections.
She worked day and night, the rhythmic clang of her hammer against metal becoming a familiar, comforting sound. It was the steady beat of creation. She made simple daggers, sharper and more balanced than her own worn blade. She crafted small, crude shields. She fashioned simple leather bracers, reinforced with thin metal strips. They weren't masterpieces, but they were infinitely better than anything a beginner could usually produce.
She took her finished items to a less frequented market vendor, selling them for a few coppers. Slowly, painfully slowly, her pile of coins began to grow. It was a meager living, just enough to buy more materials, more food, to escape the stableâs damp embrace and return to one of the inn's rooms. But it was her living. Earned by her own skill, her own hands, guided by the knowledge Liam had helped her unlock. It was a new kind of freedom, fragile but real.
And now, after all those weeks of relentless practice, she could finally afford to pay for the use of the smithy. It felt like a monumental achievement. The blacksmith, accustomed to her quiet presence, had even tried to negotiate a lower price. He liked having her around, a steady, unassuming worker. She didn't mind him, but she insisted on paying the full amount. This was her victory, hard-won and hers alone.
Through it all, Kael would sometimes appear. He was often away on his own adventures, a whirlwind of muscle and purpose, but when he returned, he would seek her out. He never asked about the menu again, respecting her unspoken silence. He would simply watch her work, sometimes offering a low grunt of approval, sometimes dropping a small, unusual piece of raw ore onto her workstation. "Saw this and thought of you, crafter," heâd say, the strange, glittering rock a quiet gift. He didnât know how much these small gestures helped her, how much they truly meant. His continued, quiet support was a warm current in the cold, uncertain stream of her new life.
Weeks blurred into months. Elaraâs skills deepened. The lumpy spoons became smoother, almost elegant. The crude buckles transformed into neat, strong fastenings. She was leveling up, the silent notifications a private triumph. She began to craft small, usable swords, sharp and balanced, though still simple in design. Her coins, slowly, steadily, accumulated. She was no longer just surviving day-to-day. She was saving. A small, thrilling thought began to take root in her mind: What if she could have her own space? Not just a room in an inn, but a real home. A proper place to work, to create.
She worked even harder, pushing past exhaustion. Every spare copper went into her small, secret hoard. She ate less, worked more, slept little. The dream of a house, a small piece of this bewildering world that was truly hers, propelled her forward.
Then, one sunny morning, it happened. She had enough. With Kael as a silent, reassuring presence by her side, helping her navigate the confusing legal jargon and the town's baffling rules, Elara bought it.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't fancy. It was a small, single-bedroom house nestled in a quiet, unassuming part of town. Its walls were made of sturdy, grey stone, and its roof was tiled in a cheerful reddish-brown, a splash of warmth against the subdued palette of the street. Only one window graced the room, letting in a single shaft of light. But it was hers.
And the best part, the miracle she hadn't dared to fully hope for, was attached to the side, almost an afterthought. A tiny smithy. Just a rough shed with a packed earth floor with a small, working forge, an anvil, and a few hooks for tools. It was dusty and definitely needed a good cleaning, but it was a smithy. Her own workspace, separate from the endless noise of the inn. A real, proper forge.
Elara stood in front of the little house, the deed clutched in her hand. The coarse paper was surprisingly soft against her palm. A wide, genuine smile stretched across her face, pulling at muscles long unused to such open joy. It was modest. It was small. But compared to the stable, it was a castle. It was warmth. It was safety. It was a place to finally call her own in a world that had once tried to kill her, over and over again.
She walked inside. The single room echoed with her footsteps, empty save for the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the solitary window. But to Elara, it was beautiful. It was a foundation. A new beginning. From a shy animator whoâd stumbled down a flight of stairs into oblivion, to a woman who had died countless times, to a struggling crafter, she was now⦠a homeowner. A crafter with her own smithy. It felt like a true miracle, a sign that she was finally, irrevocably, starting to build a life in this impossible world. A life of her own design.