The night spent in Artea left a strange aftertaste. Sleeping inside a virtual world is... unusual. But waking up in a body that wasn't technically mine was even stranger. I was up before dawn.

  Without overthinking it, I logged out. Shower, breakfast, standard body maintenance. The whole routine took thirty minutes, tops. My physical body felt rested, as if I’d actually slept. But when I jacked back into Artea...

  I was met by the first rays of a virtual sunrise. Soft light filtered through the inn window. Everything would have been fine, except... I suddenly had a very distinct urge to eat. And use the bathroom. And drink water.

  "Seriously?" I muttered.

  There was a separate room in the suite I’d missed yesterday. Inside, I found a bona fide bathroom with a working sink and toilet. Not a hole in the floor, but functional plumbing: simple, a bit "old school," but working. I turned a valve, and water flowed. It was so realistic it felt less like VR and more like a high-budget movie set with practical effects.

  I have a vague idea of how plumbing works—pumping stations, filtration, infrastructure. None of that should exist here. There were horses crapping in the streets outside; what kind of technology was powering this toilet? I found myself genuinely curious. Magic? Where did the sewage go?

  Finishing my avatar’s morning business, I went down to the lobby. Instead of the bearded dwarf woman, a lean, middle-aged human with a weary face stood behind the counter.

  "Um... morning, chief," I blurted out. Chief? Really?

  "Good morning, Sir Hero. They are awaiting you outside," he replied without a shadow of a smile, bowing his head slightly.

  Nodding awkwardly, I stepped out.

  The whole familiar crew of Kalindra's retainers was waiting on the porch. And among them—her.

  Lara stood straight, but her hands were clasped low in front of her, forming a "V"—a gesture that screamed both shyness and duty. She seemed to be trying to shrink, to become quieter, invisible, as if apologizing for her existence. This wasn't the posture of a warrior or a proud Elf. There was something else... something human. Fragile. Real.

  For a second, I had a sudden, irrational urge to hug her.

  When her eyes met mine—blue as a pristine sea—I forgot where I was. The world seemed to buffer. I caught myself thinking: NPCs shouldn't have eyes like that.

  "Good morning, Sir Alistair. I hope you slept well?" Lara's voice was soft, a balm to the ears.

  "Ah... yes... morning, Lara!" I answered, a bit flustered. Get a grip, Rudin. I needed to change the subject. "Any idea where a guy can get some grub around here?"

  "Of course, Sir Alistair. There is a diner nearby that serves a good breakfast," she answered, though a hint of confusion colored her tone. "However, if you prefer more exquisite cuisine, we will have to walk a bit further."

  "No, no! I'm a simple man. Feed me and I'm happy," I smiled, trying to sound casual.

  "Then follow me." With a light, almost imperceptible bow, Lara turned and led me down the street.

  She moved with fluid confidence, every step measured. It was an unusual combination: outward modesty and shyness masking an inner core of steel.

  "Lara, sorry if this sounds rude... I don't know your customs," I started, "but can you stop calling me 'Sir'? And the formal address?"

  "Forgive me if I have offended you," she replied, her voice dull, tinged with sadness.

  I glanced at her face. It was closed off. She looked like she was bracing for a reprimand.

  "Don't apologize. Just be casual with me. I get that this is a job for you, but... can't we just be friends? Nothing says we can't mix friendship and work. I'd like to get to know you better," I said, then immediately mentally facepalmed. Seriously? Trying to friend-zone an NPC? What is wrong with me?

  "Friends..." Lara seemed to struggle with the concept. "That would not be beneficial to your reputation."

  Rejected by an NPC. New achievement unlocked.

  We walked in silence. A block later, we arrived at an establishment resembling a café with a terrace. Tables were tucked into shady corners under a light awning. The smell of fresh bread and roasted spices wafted from the door.

  "Si—Alistair," Lara corrected herself. The informality clearly pained her. "What do you prefer?"

  "I trust your choice completely. Truth be told, I have no idea how to pay for anything," I admitted.

  "Do not worry. For the initial period, all expenses for the Heroes are covered by the city treasury. In the future, you will be able to pay with... your skills."

  "Payment in kind..." I muttered under my breath.

  "In kind?" Lara repeated, tilting her head in surprise. Long strands of scarlet hair shifted, exposing the tip of a pointed ear. It was devastatingly cute.

  "Just a joke. Ignore me. Although, I gotta say, you have excellent hearing."

  "You might not have noticed, but these ears are not merely for decoration," she replied with a ghost of a smile.

  I chuckled. So, she did have a sense of humor. Maybe she just needed time to adjust to my chaotic energy. Again, I found myself looking at her not as a construct of zeros and ones, but as a person.

  Breakfast was simple but surprisingly tasty. Scrambled eggs—or the local equivalent. I wasn't sure if chickens existed here. Everything looked familiar, but slightly distorted. Like someone had tried to recreate an Earth recipe from memory and got the details wrong.

  The vegetable salad included something resembling tomatoes, but black-skinned and dense. And a root vegetable like a radish, but with a menthol kick. The flavors were familiar yet alien. I couldn't describe them if I tried; language failed to capture the nuance.

  Lara ate the same thing. Calmly, without hesitation. So much for the stories about Elves living on dew and starlight. Apparently, my companion didn't care about vegan ethics. Or maybe the writers of this universe just couldn't be bothered with dietary restrictions.

  "Lara, are you okay eating eggs?" curiosity got the better of me.

  "Is something wrong with them?" she asked, tilting her head again. Stop doing that, it's too cute.

  "Well... where I come from, fantasy stories... I mean, stories about Elves say they don't eat meat or animal products," I tried to explain.

  "I have never heard of such a thing," Lara stated thoughtfully.

  We finished with a herbal brew—bitter and tart, like diluted matcha with an astringent aftertaste. I nearly grimaced. Lara drank it with stoic indifference.

  She paid with a nod to the proprietress, and we moved on.

  "You need to decide on a specialization. Heroes can become anything, you are not limited by birth, but if you attempt everything at once, you will achieve nothing," Lara’s voice grew firm. She had switched into Mentor Mode.

  "Okay, where do we start?" I asked, expecting a standard class selection menu. I’d already thought about it. Mage? Too much studying, felt like going back to college. Warrior? A bit boring. Crafter? Sitting in town making shoes while dragons burned the world? Screw that.

  "First, we will visit the warrior training arena. You can test various weapons on the dummies."

  "Oof. Hope I don't have to hit a dummy for a month to unlock a skill," I joked, thinking of a certain grind-heavy Korean MMO.

  "Why?" Lara stopped and stared at me, eyes wide. I think I broke her script. "Forgive me, that was a strange question. No, you simply try weapons and perhaps discover a predisposition."

  "Good. Though I'm not sure warriors are that strong," I muttered.

  She stopped again. Teacher Mode intensified.

  "Do not misunderstand. Mages are powerful, yes. But what can a warrior oppose them with? Can they cut a spell with a sword?"

  "You do not know much, so your skepticism is understandable," Lara sighed. It was a sigh containing patience, fatigue, and almost maternal condescension. "We all use mana. Not just mages—warriors, even beasts. A good warrior reinforces their body and defenses with mana. They just do it differently. We gather ambient mana, mix it with our own, and shape it into spells. Warriors use internal mana. They cannot control the external. They train to direct their reserves to strengthen flesh and bone. That is why a warrior needs a good weapon, preferably enchanted, to withstand the force of their own strikes."

  "Why not learn both? Be a Battle-Mage?"

  "As I said: chase two rabbits, catch none. Besides, predisposition dictates everything. Even for gifted individuals, mastering one path can take decades. What hope is there for worthless creatures who try to overcome destiny with mere labor?" Lara’s voice dropped. She sounded bitter. Personal experience?

  A shadow crossed her face. An AI shouldn't be able to simulate that kind of pain. She had been through something. Bullying? Racism? Who would mock someone this beautiful?

  "But you need not worry. Heroes are flexible; you possess almost all predispositions. You can choose your path. But I beg you, do not try to do everything. Life is too short."

  "Understood," I nodded.

  We heard the arena long before we saw it. The air vibrated with a heavy hum—metal on metal, grunts, shouts, the thud of boots on sand. It was a cacophony that sounded like a living battle.

  Inside, it was chaotic. A massive hall filled with training zones. Sparring partners exchanged blows that rang off shields. Others hacked at dummies with a fury that suggested personal vendettas. Some just stood around, drinking water, adjusting gear.

  The races were diverse. Humans, Dwarves, Borids, and even a male Elf. I’d started to think Lara was the only one in the city.

  And the smell. Oof. Sweat, leather, oil, metal. The scent of hard work and violence. Unpleasant, but authentic.

  The chaos was ruled by a single Dwarf. Squat, stern, carved from granite. If a nightstand could kill you, it would look like him. A scar ran from eyebrow to chin, adding charisma rather than disfigurement. This guy didn't do small talk.

  When he saw us, his face twisted in contempt. Like he’d found a cockroach in his soup. Or a rat. Was it me? Did he hate noobs?

  "Greetings, respected Master Glori," Lara began calmly. The contempt didn't seem to faze her.

  "What do you want?" he grunted. No hello. Rude.

  "This is Hero Alistair. He needs to make a choice. We decided to start with your craft," she replied, cool as ice.

  "Sir Hero, a pleasure," Glori’s face instantly warmed. The scowl vanished like magic. "Come in. To the weapon racks. Choose... not with your mind, but with your heart. Let your soul decide."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  We walked to the racks. I almost whistled.

  The selection was... overwhelming. Swords of every shape—straight, curved, broad, needle-thin. Daggers. Spears. Glaives. Shields ranging from bucklers to door-sized slabs. It was a candy store for violence.

  Then I saw a bow.

  "Uh... isn't this for fighters? Why the bows?" They looked out of place.

  "Basics are taught here," the Dwarf explained patiently. "Later, depending on your spec, you go to specialist masters. Bows go to the Rangers. Daggers to the Assassins."

  Right. Two main trunks: Warrior and Mage. Warrior is physical, internal mana, gear. Mage is external mana, range, spells. Subclasses branch off later. Logical.

  I didn't think long.

  My hand reached for a short sword. Simple, unadorned steel. But when I gripped the hilt, it hummed. It fit my palm like it had been made for me.

  "Not a bad choice, Sir Hero. I recommend a dagger or shield to go with it," Glori nodded approval.

  I looked at the daggers. Ambidexterity? Not me. I barely trusted my left hand with a fork. A second blade would just be a way to stab myself.

  Shield it is. Heavy, reliable, good for bashing heads. I picked a medium round shield. Worn, but solid.

  "Excellent! Now, a spar!" Glori announced enthusiastically.

  "Spar?! I've never held a sword in my life!" I nearly dropped the weapon. Was this a prank?

  "Skill is learned in practice, not books," the Dwarf grunted, contempt leaking back into his voice.

  "Do not worry, Alistair. Trust your soul," Lara smiled softly.

  Trust my soul. Right. Hopefully, the virtual assist code was part of my soul. No skill bar, no UI. Just intuition?

  "Caleb! Run a drill with the Hero," Glori barked at the male Elf.

  Caleb approached, drawing a longsword with fluid grace. Hand-and-a-half sword, maybe? Looked impressive. Caleb was taller than me, muscular but wiry. He moved with a predator's elegance.

  We stepped into the arena ring. The hall went silent.

  The clamor died. Fighters stopped to watch. Was I the main event? Or the comic relief?

  I gripped the hilt. Training blade, sure, but a metal bar hitting you at speed still breaks bones.

  "Positions," Glori ordered.

  Caleb raised his sword into a high guard. Textbook stance.

  I tried to channel every movie I’d ever seen. Shield up, left foot forward. Cover the vitals.

  "Three, two, one... Begin!"

  Caleb blurred.

  He moved like a viper strike. Smooth, unstoppable. No hesitation. Just speed and power.

  I barely got the shield up before his sword hammered down. The impact was heavy—real. My arm went numb. The shield shuddered like it had been hit by a truck.

  Before I could blink, he changed angles. A low sweep at my legs. Too fast.

  Reflex took over. I slammed the shield down. Metal screeched against metal.

  CRACK.

  I froze.

  The tip of Caleb’s sword spun away through the air. Broken.

  Did I do that?

  Caleb didn't pause. He shifted grip and swung the broken blade at my shoulder.

  I couldn't parry. Shield was too low.

  I did the only thing I could: I stepped into the blow, slipping the guard and thrusting my own sword forward.

  Caleb’s blade bit into my shoulder. Pain flared, hot and sharp.

  My sword buried itself in his gut. To the hilt.

  He froze. His eyes went wide—not with pain, but with pure, unadulterated shock. Like a man hit by a bus on an empty street.

  He exhaled... and dropped to his knees.

  The world stopped.

  Training blades. They were dull! How did I...?

  I killed him.

  No. He was breathing. ragged, wet gasps.

  Glori was there in a second, shoving me aside, ripping the sword out. Blood gushed.

  He shouted for a medic. Lara was already there, hands glowing orange.

  I stood there. Staring.

  Blood on my hands. His blood. Not pixels. Warm, sticky, metallic-smelling blood.

  Something heavy and bitter rose in my throat.

  I turned, stumbled away, and fell to my knees.

  And puked.

  Breakfast, adrenaline, reality—it all came up. I heaved until my ribs ached.

  "...stair... okay..." A soft voice drifted through the ringing in my ears.

  "Alistair, please. Are you alright?" Lara’s face swam into view. She looked terrified.

  "Yeah..." I rasped. "I just... I killed a man..."

  "Killed? Hah! He's fine, Hero," Glori’s voice boomed as he slapped my back, nearly sending me face-first into my own vomit.

  "Seriously? A gut wound like that..."

  "The lass is a Mage," Glori nodded at Lara. "And a damn good one. Plus, we have medics. This is routine. You're not the first to put steel through someone."

  I looked. Lara’s hands were glowing. The wound on my shoulder knit together and vanished.

  My shoulder. I’d forgotten I was hit. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

  "How did I pierce him? It was dull," I asked, wiping my mouth.

  "That, my friend, is talent," Glori whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "Internal mana. You used it intuitively. You reinforced the strike so hard that blunt iron went through muscle like butter. And you reinforced your body, too—that slash should have taken your arm off."

  He grinned. "Don't you dare study magic. You'd waste a gift like that."

  Glori walked off to check on Caleb.

  "The Dwarf is right," Lara said, watching him. "You have a gift. But I still suggest the Magic Academy. Even basic Evocation—lighting a fire in the rain—can save your life."

  "Sorry, Lara..." I felt shame burn my cheeks. "For the show. Not exactly heroic."

  "It was... human," she said softly.

  I looked at Caleb. He was pale, but standing.

  "Sorry, friend. Didn't calculate the force," I muttered.

  Caleb gave a weak, crooked smile. "Had worse. Thanks for the heal, Nivarn."

  Nivarn? Was he talking to Lara? The word sounded... sharp. Like a curse.

  We left the arena. Lara suggested food to help me recover.

  "Lara, what was that word Caleb used?" I asked as we walked. "Nivarn."

  "Nothing important, Sir Alistair. It is what they call my kind," she replied, bitterness coating the words.

  "Your kind? Mages?"

  "No..." Her face darkened. She looked away, eyes distant.

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry," I added quickly.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  We sat in a small diner. I picked at my food, mind racing.

  It wasn't just the fight. It was the attitude. Glori’s contempt. The waiter’s sneer. Caleb’s backhanded gratitude.

  Why was Lara the only Elf in the group? Why was a Third Circle Mage stuck babysitting me? It felt less like an honor and more like... exile. Punishment.

  She looked so fragile. Not physically, but spiritually. That sadness in her eyes haunted me.

  And again, I was thinking of her as a person.

  She’s an NPC. A script. Zeros and ones. But how do you treat code like code when it breathes, smiles, and hurts right in front of you?

  Lara. She wasn't just "hot." She was magnetic. Real.

  I wanted to hug her. To protect her from whatever this world was throwing at her.

  A terrifying thought hit me.

  Oh no.

  I'm a cyberphile.

  Thank you for reading Chapter 4 and joining Alistair on the beginning of his journey!

  I’ve completed the drafts for Volume 1 faster than anticipated. To ensure the highest quality, I am currently taking my time with the final editing, proofreading, and localization.

  Release Schedule: You can expect updates 2 to 3 times a week as I polish the remaining chapters of Volume 1. Once Volume 1 is fully released, we will move straight into Volume 2 with a steady schedule of 1 chapter per week.

  If you're enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving a rating, a review, or adding "The Artea Project" to your Follows/Read Later list. It’s the best way to support the fiction and help it grow!