By the time Inigo returned to the village square, the sun was starting to dip past the rooftops, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The air smelled of hearth smoke and boiled cabbage. Villagers passed him warily, still unsure of what to make of the odd newcomer with city clothes and a confident swagger.
He pulled open his HUD.
Between the goblin rewards and salvages, it wasn't much—but it was something. He could buy more food, maybe a piece of better armor, or... he tapped the [Weapons] tab again.
The SCAR-H tempted him like a forbidden snack, but at 220 tokens, it was well beyond his current budget. Even the AK-47 was still out of reach at 130 tokens.
He sighed, scrolling further.
Remington 870 – 90 tokens
Mossberg 500 – 85 tokens
Saiga-12 (Semi-Auto) – 140 tokens
"Hmm... tempting," he muttered. "But not yet. Not until I know what I'm facing next."
He backed out and tapped into the [Ammo Packs] tab.
9mm Ammo (x120 rounds) – 30 tokens
5.56 NATO (x120 rounds) – 35 tokens
7.62x39mm (x100 rounds) – 35 tokens
.50 AE (x50 rounds) – 40 tokens
With a sigh, he bought a 9mm pack and immediately reloaded his spare magazine. No sense in running dry when goblins were just the tutorial.
With his wallet looking sad again, he figured it was time to look for the inn. Garrick had mentioned it briefly—"near the well, right side of the square, with the squeaky sign."
Sure enough, he found it a few minutes later.
A rickety two-story building with a swinging sign that read "The Hollow Mug." It squeaked like a rusty hinge in a horror game with every breeze. Light poured through the shutters, and the faint sound of mugs clinking and muted laughter spilled into the street.
Inigo pushed the door open, instantly greeted by warmth, firelight, and the scent of stew. A dozen or so patrons occupied the tables—mostly farmers and traveling merchants. A few glanced his way, then returned to their drinks.
A woman behind the counter looked up from cleaning a mug. She was middle-aged, with kind eyes and sleeves rolled to her elbows. "You look new."
"Just got in today," he said. "Name's Inigo. Got any rooms?"
"Only one left. Hay bedding, nothing fancy. Eight copper for the night. Includes stew and water."
Inigo immediately pulled the drawstring pouch from his pocket and counted out the coins. "Sold."
She handed him a wooden token with the number 7 carved into it. "Upstairs, last door on the right. Food's by the hearth."
He nodded gratefully and sat near the fire. A moment later, a steaming bowl of stew was placed before him—rich with potatoes, bits of meat, and carrots. Basic. But hearty.
As he ate, he opened the system HUD again. Still 17 tokens left. Still under-leveled. Still undergunned.
He knew what he needed: power.
And to get power, he needed tokens.
And to get tokens... he needed a job.
"I am going to deal with this tomorrow. I have to rest."
After finishing the last bite of stew and downing the accompanying mug of lukewarm water, Inigo stood from the hearth with a groan. His legs felt heavier now that the adrenaline had worn off. The faint ache in his shoulders reminded him of the earlier fight, the goblin ambush, and the long walk back into town.
Still, he felt... okay. Not happy, exactly, but no longer like he was about to collapse in the woods. That was something.
He climbed the narrow wooden stairs of The Hollow Mug with slow steps, floorboards creaking under his boots. The inn smelled like old wood, dust, and faint mildew—not ideal, but at least it wasn't blood and mud.
At the top of the stairs, he found Room 7, shoved the wooden token into the slot beside the door, and heard a soft click. He pushed it open.
It was... a room. Technically.
A small square space barely wider than a broom closet, with a single hay-stuffed mattress on a low wooden frame. A candleholder on the wall provided the only light. A chipped ceramic bowl sat in the corner, which he really hoped wasn't meant for drinking water.
Inigo dropped his bag and stared around.
"Where's the bathroom?"
No response, of course.
He checked under the bed, behind the door, even behind the thin, moth-eaten curtain that barely qualified as a window cover.
"You're telling me this entire room is bed, bowl, candle—and that's it?"
He turned back to the hallway and stuck his head out. "Uh, excuse me?" he called toward the stairs.
A gruff voice replied from below. "Outhouse is around the back of the inn. Don't piss in the bowl."
Inigo stared back into the room. "Too late to clarify that now," he muttered under his breath.
With a sigh, he shut the door and dropped onto the bed. The hay mattress let out a squeaky puff of dust, making him cough.
"This sucks," he said aloud.
And then, as he stared at the ceiling, reality settled in.
This world may have magic. It may have quests. It may even have his ridiculous Shop of Freedom system.
But it didn't have indoor plumbing.
No LED desk lamp. No Wi-Fi. No electric fan humming at night. No soft, microfiber blanket from Shopee. No toasted egg sandwich from the 7-Eleven down the street. No heated toilet seat.
Just a room with itchy hay and an outdoor toilet that probably reeked of a thousand sins.
He groaned and rubbed his face. "I miss home."
He didn't expect to feel that so soon. In all the anime he watched, the isekai protagonists rarely mourned the little things. Sure, they missed their families sometimes, or their old lives in broad strokes—but no one ever whined about the lack of bidets or McDonald's hash browns at 6 AM.
Even the annoying loading screens and smurf-ridden FPS lobbies.
"I had Discord. I had a headset that lit up. I had an RGB mouse, dammit."
Now he had a rusty dagger in his inventory and a room that could give tetanus just by sitting in it too long.
He rolled onto his side, tucked his arms under the scratchy pillow, and muttered bitterly, "Fantasy world my ass."
The candle flickered slightly from a draft. From somewhere outside, a distant howl echoed through the night. Probably a wolf—or something worse. He shivered and reached over to pull his Glock close, placing it beside the pillow like a security blanket.
"Better than a magic wand, I guess," he whispered.
He closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion win.
But sleep didn't come easy.
The bed was too firm, the room too quiet, the pillow too thin. His muscles ached in unfamiliar ways, and his thoughts wouldn't shut up.
Even though he'd survived his first day, all he could think about were the days to come.
More goblins. More danger. Bigger quests. Stronger monsters. Bandits. Ogres.
Eventually, despite everything, his breathing slowed.
But the last thing he muttered before drifting off?
"Tomorrow... I'm buying a damn rifle."