The morning sun pierced through the cracks of the wooden shutters, bathing the room in golden light. For a fleeting moment, Oliver forgot where he was. The soft creak of a chair brought him back to reality.
"You're awake," said a gruff voice.
Oliver's eyes flicked toward the source. Sitting across the small room was a man in his mid-thirties, muscular and scarred, with an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, scrutinizing Oliver with sharp eyes.
"Who are you?" Oliver asked, his voice hoarse. His body ached from last night's fight.
"The name's Garrett," the man replied. "I'm the reason you're not a corpse right now. Found you passed out near the steel mill. Lucky for you, the gang didn't come back."
Oliver winced as he sat up, his ribs protesting. Memories of the battle flashed through his mind. "The captives? Are they safe?"
Garrett nodded. "The boy you told them to find brought them here. They're shaken, but alive."
Relief washed over Oliver. At least he hadn't failed them. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Garrett said, his tone curt. "You've stirred up a hornet's nest. That gang isn't going to let this slide. They'll be back, and they'll come harder."
"Then I'll deal with them," Oliver said, determination hardening his voice.
Garrett's eyebrows shot up. "You're either incredibly brave or stupid. Maybe both. But you're not going to survive long out there on guts alone."
Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight. "I don't have much of a choice. This world—it's…complicated. I have to figure out what's happening, and why I'm here."
Garrett studied him for a long moment before standing. "You'll need better gear and training if you want to last. There's someone who can help. A blacksmith named Rowan. She's not far from here. Tell her I sent you."
Oliver nodded, gratitude flickering in his tired eyes. "Thank you, Garrett."
"Don't thank me," Garrett said gruffly. "Just try not to die."
The trek to Rowan's forge was both daunting and surreal. Oliver couldn't shake the sensation of being caught between two worlds—one he'd known through a screen, and the harsh, unforgiving reality he now faced. Every step through the rugged terrain served as a reminder: this wasn't a game anymore.
The forge was nestled at the base of a rocky hill, its chimney belching thick plumes of smoke. The sound of hammer striking metal rang out in rhythmic beats, drawing Oliver closer. He hesitated at the entrance, taking in the scene. A woman in her early forties, tall and broad-shouldered, worked the anvil with practiced precision. Her auburn hair was tied back, and her face was streaked with soot.
"Rowan?" Oliver called out, his voice cutting through the clanging.
The blacksmith paused, looking up with sharp green eyes. "Depends. Who's asking?"
"Garrett sent me," Oliver said, stepping forward. "He said you might be able to help."
Rowan set down her hammer and wiped her hands on her apron. "So, you're the fool who took on the Steel Marauders single-handedly."
Oliver winced. "News travels fast."
"In a place like this, it always does," Rowan replied, crossing her arms. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts won't keep you alive."
"That's why I'm here," Oliver said. "I need better equipment. And if you've got advice, I'll take it."
Rowan studied him for a moment before nodding. "Come inside. Let's see what we're working with."
The interior of the forge was warm and cluttered, with weapons and armor in various stages of completion hanging from racks. Rowan motioned for Oliver to sit as she began examining his sword.
"Decent craftsmanship," she muttered, turning the blade over in her hands. "But it's seen better days. You'll need something sturdier."
"Can you make it?" Oliver asked.
Rowan smirked. "Can I make it? Kid, I can make a blade that'll sing in the wind and cut through steel like butter. But it'll cost you."
Oliver's stomach sank. "I don't have much money."
"Figures," Rowan said with a sigh. "Well, I'm not a charity, but I do need something. There's a rare ore I've been trying to get my hands on. It's in the old mines east of here, but they're crawling with creatures."
Oliver nodded. "I'll get it."
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Those mines aren't for the faint of heart."
"I don't have a choice," Oliver said simply.
Rowan studied him for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Bring me that ore, and I'll forge you a blade worthy of your insanity."
The entrance to the mines was foreboding, the gaping maw of darkness seeming to swallow all light. Oliver tightened his grip on his sword and stepped inside. The air grew cold and damp, the faint sound of dripping water echoing off the stone walls. Every step felt heavier, his senses heightened as he ventured deeper.
The first attack came without warning. A grotesque creature—all sinew and claws—lunged from the shadows. Oliver's blade flashed, deflecting the strike, but the force sent him staggering back. He recovered quickly, driving his sword through the creature's chest. It let out a guttural screech before collapsing.
Breathing hard, Oliver pressed on. The deeper he went, the more creatures he encountered. Each fight tested his resolve, his body screaming for rest. But he couldn't stop. Not now.
Finally, he reached a cavern bathed in an eerie, blue light. At its center was a cluster of shimmering ore, embedded in the rock. Oliver approached cautiously, his gaze darting around the room. It was too quiet.
As he began chipping away at the ore, the ground trembled. A low growl reverberated through the chamber. Oliver turned, his heart pounding as a massive creature emerged from the shadows. Its eyes glowed with malevolent intelligence, and its jagged teeth glinted in the pale light.
"Of course," Oliver muttered. "Why do you do this every time, universe?"
The creature lunged, and Oliver braced himself. This was going to be one hell of a fight.