IV
I extended my hand toward the older gentleman, offering him a firm handshake. "You make a fine suit," I said sincerely.
The man's weathered hand met mine, his grip firm but not overpowering. He smiled, but something about his expression struck me as familiar. I studied him for a moment, a flicker of recognition tugging at the back of my mind. Had I seen him before? If I did, he would most likely been a named NPC if I could vaguely remember him.
I glanced at his level display: [Level 16].
Pretty low for a named NPC, I thought, but then immediately chastised myself. NPC? The idea of referring to this person—this living, breathing individual—as a game construct felt wrong. The fact that I'd transmigrated into what seemed to be Questworks was still hard to reconcile, but I prided myself on being adaptable.
"If you don't mind me asking," I began, choosing my words carefully, "does the fine tailor have a name? It would be my pleasure to know the name of the person who created this suit."
The older man raised a brow, as if slightly amused by my formality. "The name is Wilkins. Timothy Wilkins. And you?"
Wilkins.
My heart skipped a beat at the name, but I kept my expression neutral, schooling my face into a practiced poker mask. "Nicholas Lorekleim. But please, call me Nick."
The name was one I'd chosen after some thought. "Nicholas" was common enough in Amsten to avoid raising eyebrows, and the surname "Lorekleim" was simply a matter of personal style.
But Wilkins... That name rang loud bells in my mind. As the self-proclaimed loremaster of Questworks, I knew who he was. Timothy Wilkins had only appeared in the beta edition of the game. According to the lore, he was the inspiration behind the Resistance. His small storyline revolved around a quest called Resistance of Wilkins, where his daughter sought vengeance for her father's death.
I studied him again, noting the white sideburns and the dark hair that I suspected was dyed.
"You don't happen to have a daughter, do you?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
Timothy's expression shifted immediately. His eyes narrowed, and the wary look he gave me was unmistakable. "Why do you ask? What do you want with my daughter?"
I mentally scrambled, trying to recall what I knew about her. If I remembered correctly, she would be in her early 30s by now. In the current timeline, she would be one of the founding members of the Resistance. Of course, at this point, the group was still considered a ragtag band of outlaws, far from the powerful faction they would become later.
Realizing I'd touched a nerve, I backpedaled quickly. "It's just that… I felt like I've met you before but couldn't place where."
Timothy studied me for a moment, his wary gaze softening slightly. "I see… That could happen. You're right. I do have a daughter, but she ran away from home a long time ago."
I nodded, keeping my expression sympathetic. "Apologies for intruding into your personal life."
He waved a hand dismissively. "No harm done."
I offered a small bow, adjusting my suit as I prepared to leave. "Thank you again for your work, Mr. Wilkins. The suit is exceptional."
He smiled faintly, though his earlier wariness hadn't entirely left his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Nick."
With that, I stepped out of the shop, the door closing behind me.
I walked a bit.
And then I found a rather familiar bridge.
I sat on a bench overlooking the river jnear around the bridge. The gentle sound of the water flowing past had a calming effect, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind. Staring at the river or anything made it easier to think—or, in my case, brood.
There was a lot to consider. Having no direction aside, there was plenty of work to be done if I wanted to make my life here easier. The idea of returning to my old world was tempting, but it sounded flawed in theory. Was it even possible? And if it was, how would I go about finding a solution?
For now, I needed a plan. A proper job would be a good start—something that could provide a steady income without raising suspicion. But that led to another question: in game terms, what kind of "background" did I want to play as?
Housing was another issue. Lodging at the inn was fine for now, but the idea of owning my own house had its appeal. Even in Questworks, I had eventually bought a house—mostly to store my loot, but it had become a base of operations. A proper residence would make a big difference, especially if I ever wanted to establish a faction.
A faction. What was I thinking? Even to me, the idea sounded overly ambitious, though I couldn't deny the excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
"Oi, you new around here?"
The voice jolted me from my thoughts. I turned my head to see a group of rough-looking individuals approaching. Their postures were casual, but there was a predatory glint in their eyes.
"Saw you spendin' lots of worths," one of them said, grinning in a way that didn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Why don't you relieve yourself of some?"
"Lookin' fancy in that suit of yours, eh?"
I glanced at the group, letting my eyes quickly scan their level displays.
[Level 12] [Level 13] [Level 10] [Level 10] [Level 12] [Level 11] [Level 15] [Level 17].
None of them were particularly impressive on their own, but together they were a problem. The owner of the Silvermire Inn was a higher level than any of them, but these guys had numbers on their side. They meant business, and their makeshift weapons—chair legs, a broken bottle, a candelabra, a steel pipe—made their intentions clear.
I leaned back slightly, keeping my expression neutral. "Gentlemen," I said, my tone calm but firm. "Is there something I can help you with?"
The leader of the group, the one at [Level 17], stepped forward. He was holding the steel pipe, tapping it lightly against his palm. "Yeah," he said with a smirk. "You can help by handin' over whatever you've got. That suit alone looks like it's worth a small fortune."
I glanced at the river, then back at them, weighing my options. This wasn't a fight I could—or should—avoid.
"Well," I said, standing slowly and adjusting my cuffs. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to teach you lot some manners."
Their laughter echoed across the riverbank. It seemed they didn't take me seriously.
A mistake they wouldn't live to forget.
Time stopped.
I had never used the skill to harm another person before, and the possibilities intrigued me. What could it do? Would a blow delivered in frozen time even work? The thought of unintentionally killing someone crossed my mind, but it didn't move me one bit.
It wasn't that I was a psychopath. At least, I didn't think so. But there was something about Time Stop—a forced apathy that dulled my emotions, made me colder, detached. Maybe it was a side effect of the skill, or maybe I was just adapting to the situation too quickly.
I stood from the bench, taking in the eight thugs surrounding me. Their faces were frozen mid-smirk or sneer, their makeshift weapons gripped tightly in still hands.
I walked over to one of them, a stocky man holding a beer bottle, and positioned myself in front of him. Angling my fist at his jaw, I cocked my arm back and punched with all my might.
The impact sent his face snapping almost ninety degrees, but there was no concious reaction—no pain, no resistance. He remained frozen in time. I stared at him for a moment, wondering if the blow would actually register when time resumed.
Let's find out.
I let time flow again.
To the thugs, I must have appeared out of nowhere, instantaneously closing the distance to one of their own.
The man I punched crumpled to his knees and collapsed, unconscious.
"What the hell!?"
"What happened?"
"He moved too fast!"
"Is this guy a knight?"
"What should we do, boss?"
The remaining seven stumbled back in shock, forming a loose circle around me. Their leader, the one holding the steel pipe, looked particularly rattled.
I crouched next to the downed thug and placed my index finger under his nose. "Oh, he's still breathing," I said casually.
Before they could react, I stopped time again.
The world fell silent and still. I moved from thug to thug, delivering the same punch with all my strength to six of them, leaving only the leader untouched. Their heads snapped sharply to the side with each blow, and by the end, my arms ached from the repeated impact.
Satisfied, I returned to the bench and sat down, adjusting my suit. I let time flow once more.
The six thugs collapsed almost simultaneously, their bodies crumpling like puppets with cut strings. None of them hit their heads on the ground, thankfully.
The last thug—the leader—stood frozen in place, trembling as the realization of what had just happened slowly dawned on him. His wide eyes darted between me and his fallen comrades.
I leaned back on the bench, letting the silence stretch. Then, in a calm, commanding voice, I said, "Kneel."
The man hesitated, his grip on the steel pipe tightening as if it might somehow protect him.
I didn't repeat myself. I simply stared, letting the weight of what he'd just witnessed settle into his bones.
And then, with a sharp clatter, the pipe fell from his hands. He dropped to his knees, head bowed, shaking like a leaf in the wind.