Fin's POV
I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a cart.
Twice.
My whole body throbbed—deep, bruised aches that sat in my muscles like someone had folded rocks into them while I slept. Every breath stretched something sore. My joints crackled when I moved, and I was pretty sure the inside of my skull had been replaced with sawdust and bad decisions.
The bed beneath me wasn't even that soft. But after what I'd gone through, it felt like heaven.
I groaned and sat up slowly, the blanket falling off me in a crumpled mess. My arms looked like shit—bandaged in places I didn't even remember getting cut. Dirt still clung to my skin, and dried blood caked under my fingernails.
And yet, I was alive.
Barely.
[System Notification – PP Gained from Completed Quests + Combat Logs Now Available]
[Total PP: 3,042 → 3,187]
[You have points available to spend. Would you like to browse options now?]
I blinked.
Oh right. That.
A small, sharp laugh escaped me. "Hey, at least someone's keeping track."
Then, right beneath the glowing notification about my points, another line flickered into existence. It pulsed faintly, like it wasn't sure it belonged there.
[System Update Available – Click to View Details]
I froze.
That was new.
Totally new.
I'd never seen anything like that before — not since the beginning. The System had always been this quiet, unchanging part of my existence. Cold. Precise. It handed out points, granted rewards, listed achievements like some emotionless RPG stat page stapled to my soul.
But this?
An update?
I tapped the message carefully, half-expecting it to glitch or vanish.
It didn't.
Instead, more text bloomed out across my vision in a clean, orderly font.
[System Core Enhancement Detected: Version 2.0 Available]
[Warning: Applying update will cause 24 hours of temporary system downtime.]
[During this period, all point accumulation, achievement tracking, active skill support, and stat feedback will be unavailable.]
[Would you like to proceed with the update?]
I stared at it, frowning.
What the hell?
The System was… adapting?
Upgrading?
It was weird. Kind of exciting.
I sat back slowly.
Was this something the System did on its own? Was it learning from me? Reacting to what I was doing? It had always felt like a fixed thing, like some alien AI plugged into my soul. But now…
It felt alive.
Like it was growing with me.
"Fuck," I muttered, running a hand through my tangled mess of hair. "Guess I'm not the only one levelling up."
I hesitated for a moment.
24 hours without any of it — no skills, no points, no alerts. I'd basically be back to being a regular kid, minus the emotional trauma and litany of injuries.
But I hit [Confirm Update] anyway.
I couldn't stay stagnant. Not after everything.
The screen pulsed once more.
[Update Commencing…]
[System Now Offline. Estimated Time Remaining: 23:59:58]
And then, for the first time since arriving in this world, the System went completely, utterly silent.
No numbers.
No ping.
Just me.
Alone.
...Again.
The silence hit harder than I expected.
No stats ticking in the corner of my vision. No little pings when I stubbed my toe on the chair. No low hum of passive system awareness running in the background like my own personal background music.
Just silence.
I blinked and let out a slow breath.
Alright. Fine. No System. That just meant I'd have to act like a normal person for once.
Horrifying.
I pushed myself out of bed with a groan. My limbs still ached, like my bones had been forged out of regret and bad decisions. Everything from my shoulder to my left ankle protested as I staggered upright. I looked like one of those old guys in fantasy movies who gives the hero advice and dies in the third act.
The room looked the same as always — plain stone walls, dusty light filtering in from a crooked window, and my bracer lying quietly on the side table, its black metal dulled in the morning sun. I picked it up, twisted it back onto my arm, and felt… nothing.
No hum. No warmth.
Weird.
I rubbed the back of my neck and shuffled toward the washbasin in the corner. The water was cold — of course it was — but I splashed it over my face anyway. The sting helped wake me up. Blood and grime stained my shirt, and my hair was a half-dried mop of dirt and sweat.
"Gods," I muttered at my reflection. "You look like the final boss of a fever dream."
I peeled off my tattered shirt, cleaned myself the best I could, and pulled on one of the spares Helga always made sure I packed — a simple, dark tunic. Still too big on me. Still smelled faintly like home.
With that out of the way, I limped out of the bedroom into the tiny kitchen space. My stomach growled so loudly it could've summoned another fucking wolf.
"Alright, alright," I muttered. "Food first. Existential crisis second."
The pantry hadn't magically restocked itself overnight, but there was enough for a basic meal. I scraped together some bread, dry cheese, and a suspiciously squishy apple, tossing them on the table. I grabbed the small kettle off the shelf, filled it with water, and lit the hearth using flint and steel like some caveman.
No Igni.
No flashy magic.
Just sparks and smoke, and patience.
The System being offline made everything feel slower. Heavier.
More… real.
I hated it.
Eventually, the water boiled and I steeped some tea — Helga's favorite blend. I didn't even like it that much. Too bitter. But it tasted like home, so I sipped it anyway between bites of dry bread and silent chewing.
And that's when I noticed it.
The silence wasn't just in my head.
The house was too quiet.
I turned slightly, frowning toward the front door. Usually by now, Helga would be stomping around, muttering about how I never wash properly or how I eat like a goblin.
But there was nothing.
No sound.
No creaking floorboards.
No smell of her spiced stew wafting from the pot.
I finished chewing and stood slowly.
"Helga?"
No answer.
I walked to her room and knocked on the door.
Nothing.
When I pushed it open, the bed was made. The window slightly cracked. Her sword was gone.
I glanced around the room. No note. No hastily scribbled "be back later." Nothing.
"Okay," I muttered, stepping back into the hall. "That's… not normal."
I stood there for a moment, feeling something settle heavy in my chest.
Not panic.
Not yet.
But close.
She'd just… vanished?
Or maybe she'd gone out early for errands?
Or maybe—
Nope. Stop it. No spiralling.
I took a breath.
If I'd learned anything in this world, it was that waiting around doing nothing was the worst thing I could do. And if she was out doing something important, I was at least gonna figure out where.
Even if it meant facing the city again.
Even if it meant doing it without the System.
Great.
I glanced at the empty teacup on the table.
"Guess we're doing this the hard way today."
...
Okay. So either I was hallucinating… or I just saw Agatha.
Agatha.
The woman my mother decapitated.
In front of me.
Whose head I watched hit the snow like a damn bowling ball.
And there she was. Walking across Yartar's marketplace like it was just another sunny fucking day.
I froze mid-step. Blinked hard. Still there.
Same lazy walk. Same coat. Same short, spiky hair and the way she flicked her scarf over her shoulder like she was too cool for the rest of the world. I even caught a glimpse of those stupid half-gloves she always wore. Who wears half-gloves?
Apparently, women who come back from the dead.
Was it her?
Couldn't be.
Right?
…Fuck it.
I followed her.
It started casually. You know. Non-creepy. Just a little… light stalking. I stayed about fifteen steps behind her. Not that hard in a city like Yartar — crowds, noise, people yelling about fresh apples and mystery meats. She moved like she knew the place well, weaving between carts, knocking fruit off one of them with a flick of her hip.
I caught the stall owner's angry grunt and managed to swipe the apple midair before it hit the ground.
You're welcome, gravity.
I took a bite.
Still warm. Not bad.
Focus.
Was it her? It looked like her. The height, the walk, the aura of 'I could kill you with a fork if you annoyed me enough.' The last time I saw that look was seconds before my mother made her a head shorter.
But this woman… she was smiling.
Chatting with a merchant. Pointing at a rack of fabric. Bargaining over scarves like a normal person, not a cultist sent to kill children.
What the hell was going on?
My System was still offline — which, thanks, great timing — so I had no backup here. No danger pings. No stat checks. Just my eyes, my brain, and the creeping suspicion that the universe hated me.
I ducked behind a barrel when she turned.
Smooth.
Totally not suspicious.
This was dumb.
I should walk away.
I should go find Helga. Or, I don't know, curl up under a tree and scream.
Instead, I peered over the top of the barrel like the world's worst rogue.
She was gone.
Wait. No. There — down the next street.
I power-walked after her.
Okay, I jogged.
Was I out of breath? A little. Shut up.
She turned into an alley. Narrow. Quiet. I followed, cautious now, slowing down. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Moment of truth. Either she's back from the dead… or I'm finally losing it."
I reached the alley.
Empty.
Gone.
Just shadows, stone walls, and the distant clatter of city life.
No sign of her.
No footsteps.
No magical swirl of 'Surprise, bitch, resurrection!'
Just…
Nothing.
I stepped into the alley, slowly turning in place. My breath misted in the air.
Something about this felt… off.
Not dangerous. Just strange. Like I'd missed something important.
Maybe it wasn't Agatha. Maybe it was someone else — a lookalike. A coincidence.
Maybe I was just going crazy.
Or maybe the dead don't stay that way anymore.
Either way, I was going to find out.
Because when it came to weird cults, shadowy resurrections, and freaky deja vu?
I was starting to become a goddamn expert.
I turned around, ready to leave the alley.
Then I bumped into someone.
Hard.
"Shit—!"
I stumbled back a step, rubbing my nose. Whoever I walked into didn't move an inch. Just stood there like a wall made of stubbornness.
And I mean literally stood. Because the woman in front of me didn't flinch.
She looked down at me.
She had short black hair. Pale skin. Thin-framed glasses sitting low on her nose. Her cloak was plain, gray, clean — not flashy, not suspicious. Just… unremarkable.
But there was something in her eyes.
Not just intelligence — awareness.
"You're Fin," she said. Not a question.
I blinked. "Uh. Yeah?"
She nodded, satisfied. "Good. That saves time."
Okay. Alright. We're doing this.
"Look," I said, stepping back instinctively, "if this is some kind of weird sales pitch, I'm not buying anything—"
"I'm here to warn you," she interrupted smoothly.
I froze.
That wasn't what I expected.
Not a threat. Not an attack.
A… warning?
"About what?" I asked slowly.
She reached into her cloak.
I tensed.
She pulled out a folded letter. Plain, wax-sealed, no markings. She held it out like it was the most casual thing in the world.
"Deliver this to your mother. Alone. No copies. No sharing. No questions."
I stared at the envelope like it might explode.
"Who the hell are you?"
She gave the smallest smile.
"Someone who wants the same thing as her. For now."
She stepped back.
I blinked—
And she was gone.
Not vanished in a puff of smoke, no flashy magic. Just… disappeared into the crowd at the mouth of the alley like she'd never existed.
I looked down at the letter in my hands.
No weight to it. No smell. Just… paper.
Normal.
Too normal.
My fingers twitched.
Part of me wanted to open it right there. Just a peek.
But something about her voice still echoed in my head.
No copies. No sharing. No questions.
What the hell was going on?
I tucked the letter away, suddenly hyper-aware of everyone around me.
The System was still down.
And now this?
Yeah. No big deal.
I didn't rush.
I should've.
You know, a mysterious woman appears out of nowhere, says cryptic things, hands me a letter that could either be cursed or contain ancient forbidden chicken recipes, then peaces out without so much as a dramatic exit.
That should have been my cue to bolt home, go full paranoid hermit, maybe hide the letter under a floorboard and pretend none of this ever happened.
Instead?
I strolled.
Slowly.
Through Yartar's crowded streets, blending in with the noise of shouting vendors and clanging smiths. The city was alive in a way that felt too normal today. Like the universe was giving me a break on ambience after the last few weeks of chaos. I passed a cart selling fried buns — my stomach growled. I passed a bard trying to romance a brick wall (poor girl looked flatter than his lyrics). I passed a group of kids wrestling over a stick they'd named "Excalibur."
And still, the letter felt heavy in my pocket.
I didn't take it out. Didn't even touch it.
I could feel it, though — burning against my side like it had a pulse.
The temptation was real.
The System being down meant I had no magic crutch. No "Scan Object" ability. No precog warning. No helpful [Achievement Unlocked: You're Being Played Like a Lute]. I was flying solo on gut instinct and dumb luck, and the former was currently debating whether to open the letter, and the latter had historically been questionable.
I reached the edge of town, cutting through an alley that smelled faintly of piss and roasted peanuts (don't ask). The house wasn't far now — just another five minutes, assuming no one tried to stab me, hand me more cursed letters, or invite me to a surprise cult meeting.
I got lucky.
Nothing happened.
I turned the corner onto our rented street, boots scraping against cobblestone, the bracer on my arm still cracked but holding together.
And then I saw it.
Our motel room door — still locked. Quiet. No lights.
She wasn't back yet.
I exhaled, tension bleeding out of my shoulders as I stepped inside.
It felt strange walking into the house alone.
I dropped the cloak over the nearest chair, kicked off my boots, and headed straight for the kitchen. Not because I was hungry—okay, I was a little hungry—but mostly because it was the furthest room from the window.
And I needed space.
I stood there, staring at the table.
Then slowly, I pulled the letter out.
Plain parchment. Wax seal.
Still unmarked.
I didn't open it.
I tossed it onto the table and just stared at it like it might grow legs and walk off.
"I swear," I muttered, "if this thing starts glowing or singing or some shit, I'm burning the whole house down."
It didn't.
Which was worse, honestly.
I sat down. Let my hands rest on my lap. The weight of everything.
Some stranger knew my name.
Knew Helga's.
Knew enough to call her my mother.
That wasn't nothing.
Who the hell was that woman? How did she know? Is she a cultist?
I leaned back, tipping the chair slightly, and stared at the ceiling like it might have answers hidden between the wood panels.
I reached for the letter.
Then stopped.
Not yet.
Helga deserved to see it first.
Whatever this was, it was aimed at her just as much as me.
So I left it there.
Untouched.
Unopened.
And tried to convince myself that waiting wasn't going to cost me more than reading ever could.
The door creaked open like it had been forced to carry its weight one too many times. I didn't even flinch — I was still sitting at the table, hunched over a lukewarm mug of whatever sad tea I'd thrown together.
My eyes flicked up, it was Helga.
She stepped in like she'd been through ten miles of war and three rounds of disappointment. Her cloak was half-hanging off one shoulder, her braid looked like it had been caught in a windstorm, and her boots dragged along the floor instead of stepping. I swear I could hear the exhaustion in her bones.
She looked like death warmed over.
No — death steamed over.
The kind of tired that seeps into your soul and doesn't ask for permission.
I didn't say anything. Just watched as she shut the door behind her, locked it with muscle memory alone, and stared at the floor like it had insulted her mother.
Then, with a heavy grunt, she stumbled to the chair across from me and practically collapsed into it. The sound her body made hitting the cushionless wood was offensive. Her sword clinked faintly as she shifted. Her shoulders dropped.
She didn't even look at me at first.
Just stared blankly at the table.
Her eyes eventually flicked up.
Tired.
Glassy.
And then she said, with the gravitas of a woman who'd wrestled nobles, cultists, and ten years of emotional repression:
"…We're getting a couch."
I blinked.
Then snorted.
"Sure. Want me to rob a noble for the funding?"
She grunted. That was probably a laugh.
I let the silence stretch between us. Not heavy. Just… shared. The kind of quiet only two people who've seen too much and talked too little can manage.
She rubbed her face with both hands, muttering something that sounded vaguely like a prayer and a curse at the same time. When she pulled her fingers down, I finally got a good look at her.
Bags under her eyes. Eyes red around the edges. Not like she'd been crying — just used. Like she hadn't blinked in hours. She reeked of old sweat, smoke, and a very particular brand of city dust that only came from places not found on maps.
"You alright?" I asked, voice quieter than I meant.
Helga didn't respond right away.
Then, with a long sigh, she leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling like maybe if she stared hard enough, the gods would beam her up.
"No," she said flatly. "I'm forty-eight. My old house was full of teenagers who couldn't clean after themselves. I just threatened a kid with a magical nose ring. And I think someone offered me a cursed fruit punch."
I blinked again. "…The fuck kind of party did you crash?"
She just waved her hand at me tiredly, as if to say not now, demon child.
That made me smirk.
But it didn't last.
Because the thing still sitting between us was burning a hole in the room.
The letter.
She finally noticed it, her eyes narrowing slightly. I saw the sharpness return — that flicker of the Helga I knew. Not the exhausted mother. The other one. The scary one.
"What's that?" she asked, nodding toward it.
I leaned back, letting the chair creak under me.
"Some woman handed it to me in the street. Disappeared before I could follow her. Knew your name. Called you my mother."
Helga's expression darkened.
The bags under her eyes didn't vanish — but they sharpened into something colder. Focused.
"Describe her."
I did.
She didn't move for a full ten seconds. Then, slowly, she sat up straighter and reached for the letter.
"Wait," I said.
She froze.
"I haven't opened it. I figured you should."
Her hand paused over it.
Then she nodded once.
"Good."
And carefully, like it might bite, she peeled the wax seal back.
It didn't sing.
Didn't explode.
But the look on her face when she read the first line?
That said enough.
Even before she whispered: "Shit."
Helga finished reading the letter, her eyes scanning the page once, then again — slower, more deliberate. Whatever was on it, it wasn't good. Her jaw had gone tight, and she was doing that thing where she pressed her thumb to the bridge of her nose like she was fighting off a migraine.
She didn't say anything for a moment. Just… folded the letter, carefully, like it was some ancient document instead of a piece of shitty city parchment. She tucked it into her cloak with the same precision she used to sheath a blade. Then she stood up, all traces of exhaustion buried beneath something sharper.
She didn't look at me right away, which was how I knew it was serious.
She always looked at me, even when she was pissed. Especially when she was pissed.
Not now.
Now she just moved to the coat hook, adjusted her gear like she was prepping for a raid, and said, voice low but clear:
"Pack your clothes."
I blinked, halfway through sipping from my mug. "…Huh?"
"We're leaving this place. First light. We're going to the manor."
Her manor. The one I'd never seen. The one she reclaimed from a bunch of noble brats a few days ago.
"Wait—" I started.
She finally looked at me.
Not angry. Not tired.
Just firm.
"You'll have your room," she added, softer. "Proper bed. Hot water. A lock on the door."
That was a good sell, I had to admit.
I tilted my head. "What's in the letter?"
She paused.
Only for half a beat.
Then, without missing another step: "Nothing you need to worry about."
Ah. So that's how it's gonna be.
I could've pushed. Could've thrown a snarky line about being the reason everything seems to be going sideways lately. But something in her tone—or maybe the way her hand lingered near the hilt of her sword—told me now wasn't the time.
So I nodded.
"Alright," I said. "Want me to bring the pans?"
She huffed — might've been a laugh — and turned toward the stairs.
"Just your clothes. Leave the rest. We'll come back for it if we need to."
She paused at the base of the staircase. Looked back once.
"Get some sleep, Fin."
I raised an eyebrow. "You?"
She smiled. Thin. Not warm.
"Soon."
And just like that, she was gone.
Up the stairs. Out of sight. No answers given. No explanations offered.
I sat there a moment longer, staring at the spot she'd been in, the faint creak of her footsteps overhead fading into silence.
The letter still burned in my mind.
But I let it go.
At least for tonight.
I had clothes to pack.
....
The morning air was crisp — not cold, exactly, but that kind of cool that bit at your cheeks and made your nose tingle a little. The sky was a faded blue, smeared with soft clouds that drifted like they had nowhere to be.
I stood in front of the house.
Her house.
Our house now, I guess.
It was way bigger than the rental — a two-story stone-and-timber place with a wide porch, tall windows, and ivy crawling up one side like nature hadn't quite decided whether to reclaim it or not. The outer walls were cracked in places, paint chipped, and there were still scuff marks on the door from whatever drunk noble brat had last tried to break in.
But it was ours.
I stared up at it, my bag slung over one shoulder. It wasn't a heavy bag — most of my stuff was either wearable or lootable — but it felt heavier this morning. Or maybe I just hadn't recovered enough from… y'know, almost dying.
Helga stood a few steps ahead, arms crossed, her long coat fluttering slightly in the wind. She looked like she hadn't slept more than two hours. Still had the same sword strapped across her back. Same boots. Same don't-mess-with-me energy.
She didn't say anything as I caught up to her. Just gave the house a once-over like she was evaluating it for structural weaknesses.
I looked down at my bracer. The metal was cool to the touch now, not pulsing or glowing or whispering anything creepy. Just… dormant.
Above it, in my vision, the System flashed faintly:
System Update: 2 Hours Remaining.
Almost time.
I sighed and stuffed my free hand into my coat pocket.
Two hours.
Two hours before the System rebooted, I could start farming again. Grinding points. Hunting achievements. Trying to scrape together enough power to not get flattened by the next abomination the world threw at me.
But for now, there was just the house.
And the woman beside me, who may or may not have once burned down half a kingdom.
Helga turned slightly and gave me a nod.
"Ready?"
I shrugged. "Sure. As long as there's food inside."
She didn't smile.
But she didn't not smile either.
We walked through the front door, the hinges groaned as Helga pushed the front door open, dust trailing in the sunlight like faint ghosts. The smell hit me first — not bad, but old. Wood, ash, maybe a hint of damp stone and stale perfume. Memories clung to the place, the kind of smell that felt like walking into a sealed memory box.
We stepped inside.
The foyer was wide, with a grand staircase curling up along the left side, the banister worn smooth by time. The floors were dark wood, scuffed but sturdy. A cracked chandelier hung above us like it was still pretending to be elegant, swaying slightly in the morning breeze that followed us in.
I looked around.
Furniture was all pushed into corners or stacked haphazardly with sheets over them — some stained, some clean. The whole house looked like someone had tried to throw a noble ball in the middle of a civil war. Smashed portraits leaned against the walls. Burn marks near the fireplace. One wall had what looked suspiciously like sword slashes carved deep into the plaster.
"Cozy," I muttered.
Helga snorted and dropped her bag by the stairs.
"It'll do," she said, her voice low. "Better than the rental."
I wandered into what must've been the main lounge. There was a big, half-collapsed sofa, a fireplace stuffed with ash and burnt logs, and some decorative masks on the wall that I was pretty sure were cursed.
I flopped onto the couch. It didn't give an inch. Felt like sitting on a stone bench covered with disappointment.
Helga followed behind me, pulling one of the sheets off an armchair and tossing it into a corner.
"I'll get the back windows unsealed," she said. "Air this place out."
"Yup," I grunted, already half-sprawled, legs hanging off one side, arm draped over my eyes like some kind of tragic noble boy. "You do that."
"Lazy brat," she said, but there was no bite in it.
A few minutes passed with the sounds of windows creaking, shutters being shoved open, and Helga muttering to herself about "kids these days" and "damn nobles ruining the woodwork."
I peeked at the timer again.
System Update: 1 hour, 43 minutes remaining.
I sighed and sat up.
No point waiting around doing nothing. I got up, wandered into what used to be the kitchen — still had a few shelves standing, a massive old oven, and a busted kettle hanging from a hook. The counter was lined with dusty jars and a mouse skull for some reason. I didn't ask.
There was a window over the sink. I wiped the grime from it and peeked out.
The back garden was overgrown, wild with tall grass and crooked trees that probably hadn't been trimmed in years. A half-toppled gazebo leaned to one side, and beyond that, the faint outline of the old Yartar aqueducts.
The city was still waking up.
Chimneys puffed smoke. Merchants shouted their opening calls. Somewhere, a bell tolled faintly.
This house was away from the noise — tucked in the shadow of the outer wall, up on a small slope. You could see most of the west quarter from here.
Safe. Quiet.
I hated it.
I headed back toward the main hall and caught Helga by the stairs, pulling off another sheet from what looked like a weapon rack.
"Think there's a training dummy in here?" I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Use a tree like a normal person."
I grinned. "You say that like I'm normal."
She gave me a look. "You're something, alright."
I paused, watching her fuss over a wooden chest that looked like it hadn't been opened since the last king of Neverwinter was alive.
She looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that comes from no sleep, but the kind that settles in your bones. Deep. Worn. Still standing tall, but you could see the weight she was carrying in her shoulders.
I wanted to ask her about the letter. About what it said that made her quiet last night. About where she'd gone all week while I was nearly bleeding out in a forest clearing.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, I said the one thing that felt right.
"I'm glad we're here."
She paused. Then nodded once, without turning.
"Me too, Fin."
The light filtered in from the now-clean windows, painting long shadows across the floorboards.
I checked my timer again.
1 hour, 36 minutes.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Whatever was coming next — whether it was the cult, the system update, or just the next person stupid enough to underestimate a seven-year-old with trust issues and a murder mom — I'd be ready.
Eventually.
For now?
I needed a bath, a nap, and maybe a sandwich.
Not in that order.
End of Chapter!