[Find the Protagonist "Silas Kane"]
The notification flashed in front of Vael's eyes the instant they stepped into the county office of Dusthaven - a town that locals affectionately (and somewhat morbidly) called Ghost Town.
The building didn't look like any government office Vael had ever imagined. It looked like someone had taken a rundown saloon, an adventurers' guild, and a jail cell, smashed them together in a drunken haze, and then given up halfway through cleaning. Wanted posters with faded faces stared down from the walls, half-empty whiskey bottles lined the counter like decorations, and a bored deputy sat in the corner playing solitaire with a deck of cards that had seen better days.
Gruk stopped dead in the doorway, his massive frame nearly blocking the entrance. He scanned the chaotic room with open disgust.
"Boss…" he muttered, voice low and heavy with disbelief, "this is not an office. This is what happens when a drunk man has a fever dream and decides to build it."
Behind the counter, an old clerk with a bushy gray mustache and a vest stained with years of questionable decisions looked up lazily. He chewed on a toothpick, eyes half-lidded.
"Well, howdy there, tenderfoots," he drawled, the words stretching like warm taffy. "Y'all here to register? Sign yer names - or just make a big ol' 'X' if ya can't spell. We ain't picky round these parts."
Vael stepped forward and placed his hand on the counter.
"We need work."
The clerk snorted. "Work? Round here that usually means gettin' shot at for pocket change." He slid two ancient-looking revolvers across the counter. "Here. Low-level guns. Standard issue for new meat. Try not to shoot yer own toes off."
Gruk picked up one of the revolvers, turning it over in his massive hand like it was some kind of cursed artifact. He stared at it with pure confusion and growing insult.
"…Boss," he muttered, voice thick with disbelief, "what in the actual hell is this? It looks like a metal stick with a tiny hole at the end. Did they give us children's toys?"
He poked the trigger with one thick finger, then shook the gun lightly as if expecting something useful to fall out.
"I died with weapons that could split mountains in half… and they hand me this? This thing looks like it was made by a drunk goblin who lost a bet."
Vael didn't reply. He simply accepted the other revolver, watching as the system helpfully displayed its pitiful stats above it.
The clerk behind the counter chuckled. "Careful there, big fella. That's a Low-Level Revolver. It shoots little metal pebbles. Try not to blow yer own foot off on the first day."
Gruk looked at Vael with genuine betrayal in his eyes.
"Boss… they want us to fight with this? I feel personally insulted."
Vael accepted the second revolver without comment. Through his system, he could instantly see its pitiful stats floating in neat blue text above the weapon. At the same moment, a dusty cowboy hat materialized on his head with a soft poof, completing the ridiculous outfit.
The sheriff strolled in from the back room, adjusting his belt with one hand while scratching his stubble with the other.
"Now listen up, fellas," he said in that slow, serious drawl that made every word feel like it took twice as long to leave his mouth. "Y'all go on down to the board and pick yerself some low-level quests. Nothin' too fancy - just rats, goblins, or the occasional drunk miner who forgot how to behave himself. My deputy'll explain the rest. And remember this real good: if ya die on yer first mission, don't come cryin' to me. We got a carpenter on standby for a reason."
Right on cue, a skinny man with a measuring tape draped around his neck and a wooden ruler in hand walked in, grinning like a fool who'd just won the lottery.
"Alrighty, boys!" the carpenter called cheerfully. "Stand up straight so I can get yer heights real quick. Just in case ya get turned into buzzard food on yer first job. Makes the coffin orderin' go a whole lot faster."
Gruk's eye twitched violently.
"Boss…" he growled under his breath, "this man wants to measure me for a coffin before I've even taken a single quest. Is this town trying to kill us, or is this their version of a warm welcome?"
Vael remained silent, simply staring at the absurd scene unfolding around him. The new cowboy hat sat awkwardly on his head while the system cheerfully displayed:
[Low-Level Revolver - Damage: Laughable]
[Cowboy Hat +1 to looking like you belong here]
The carpenter hummed a happy little tune as he measured Gruk's enormous frame from head to toe.
"Yep… that's a big boy right there. Gonna need extra wood for this one. Might even have to reinforce the sides."
Gruk looked two seconds away from smashing the entire office into splinters.
The deputy - a lanky fellow with a massive wad of tobacco bulging in his cheek - finally wandered over and lazily guided them outside, moving with the exhausted energy of a man who had given this exact speech every single day for the last ten years.
"Alrighty, listen up, fellas," he drawled, spitting a thick brown stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt road without even breaking stride. "Don't go wanderin' beyond that broken fence line over yonder. Ninety percent of Dusthaven is haunted as hell, and only about ten percent of the folks here are still breathin' regular. Population's sittin' at three hundred and twenty-seven… and it's droppin' every week like flies in summer."
He scratched his belly and kept talking in the same half-asleep monotone.
"Even if ya do go pokin' around, whatever ya do, do not enter the old clock tower in the center of town. I mean it. Last fella who went in there came out speakin' backwards and cryin' about his dead grandma for three straight days."
The deputy pulled out a crumpled, filthy piece of paper that could barely be called a map. It was torn at the edges, covered in old bloodstains, and smelled strongly of whiskey and broken dreams.
"Here ya go," he said, shoving it into Vael's hands. "Fresh map. Mostly accurate."
Vael glanced at the disgusting thing. Through his system he could see a perfectly clean digital version, but the physical map looked like it had survived three wars and one very angry bar fight.
The deputy continued without pause.
"Down the road there's the main boarding house. Most adventurers, bounty hunters, and idiots who think they're tough stay there 'cause it's close to where the ghosts like to roam at night. But listen good, there are other hotels and boarding houses scattered around town. Whatever ya do, don't pick the wrong one. Some of 'em are haunted worse than a graveyard on a full moon."
He let out a loud, raspy laugh, flashing a mouth full of yellow teeth.
"And here's a quick tip from yer friendly neighborhood deputy: Trust no one in this town. Especially a fella named Silas Kane. If ya see him, just turn around and walk the other way. That man's smile ain't right."
Gruk stared at the deputy like the man had grown a second head.
"Boss…" he muttered, voice thick with disbelief, "this guy just gave us a map that smells like a dead man's whiskey and told us ninety percent of the town wants to eat us. Are we sure we didn't die again and wake up in actual hell?"
The deputy grinned wider, completely unbothered by anything in the world.
"Welcome to Dusthaven, boys. Try not to die on your first night. Or do. Saves me a whole lotta paperwork."
He spat another stream of tobacco juice, gave a lazy wave, and wandered back into the office like he had zero cares left in this life.
Vael looked down at the revolting map in his hands, then at Gruk.
Gruk was still staring at the deputy's back with deep, profound betrayal written all over his face.
"Boss… I miss the Ironclad Kingdom," he grumbled. "At least the humans there spoke like normal people."
Vael didn't reply. He simply adjusted the ridiculous cowboy hat on his head and started walking toward the boarding house the deputy had pointed out. Gruk followed with heavy, reluctant steps, still muttering under his breath about "metal sticks".
The main street of Dusthaven was dusty and uneven, lined with weathered wooden buildings that looked like they might collapse if someone sneezed too hard. A few locals glanced at the two outsiders with open suspicion, some even crossed the street to avoid them.
As they approached the boarding house, a faded sign creaked above the door:
THE LAST CHANCE INN & BOARDING HOUSE
Clean beds. Cheap meals. No refunds after death.
To be Continued.