"I'm really not dreaming..."
Dexter stared at the setting sun, sighing with every wave that crashed against the shore.
His HP bar was already at maximum, yet he hadn't removed the bandages and random leaves still covering his body.
'What should I do now?'
'Should I stay on this island and wait for the tutorial to finish?'
'But after the tutorial, what comes next? Probably something even worse...'
Dexter yanked his hair so hard his health bar dropped slightly.
'Oh, fuck this game. Why did I pick one with no personal skills? I should've gone for Diabolica—at least if I'd chosen Necromancer, the bones would've done the work for me.'
'I don't even have stat points to increase my Con or Str. How am I supposed to survive?'
'Crafting is manual too, and I don't even know how to fight! I should've picked an R18 game like Winter Time Sage—at least then I could've freely fu—wait, no, now I'm the one getting fucked!'
'Damn it... My priority now is survival. Fuck this ten-year tutorial—my sister will be married by then! I hope she forgives me for disappearing... and for the stink I left at home.'
Dexter only vaguely remembered the message before descending. He'd thought it was a dream, so the details hadn't sunk in. Now, he regretted it.
"Help!"
"System!"
"Status!"
He shouted like a child, thrashing against the wooden mat, but nothing happened.
"What the fuck are you screaming for? Come and eat."
The blacksmith slid a bowl of porridge onto the table.
"Leave when you're done."
Then he walked back to his workshop.
Dexter ate slowly, tears welling as he longed for his sister's home-cooked meals.
'Oh, Alicia... Big brother really misses your cooking.'
'Now I have to survive this hellish ten years... Fuck, my plan to get a Mammoth Calf early needs revising.'
'But food comes first.'
Between slow bites, he plotted how to endure Eldrion Online's Hell Mode.
'Since this game is item-dependent, I need to learn proper crafting... Maybe the blacksmith can help? After that, I've gotta figure out how the system works.'
As he ate, he muttered commands under his breath, testing each one.
After minutes of trial and error—success.
"/help"
[Hi, FlyHighLikeAButterfly! What do you want to know?]
'It worked! Good thing I didn't try /suici—better not finish that thought. Might die accidentally.'
"/give me command list available."
[Command List: /Status, /Help, /Vanity, /Character, /Suicide, /World Map, /Local Map, /Guild, /Friendlist, /GuildMember, /World, /Local, /KDlog, /Achievements, /Destiny, ...]
'What a long list.'
He tested each one carefully—except /suicide, which would kill him instantly.
'/Destiny.'
A board appeared, displaying masteries attainable through his actions. Yet even after killing two mobs, his sword mastery EXP bar barely budged.
'Now what? I don't know how to fight with swords. I'm decent at melee in-game, but realistically? I'm clueless.'
'Bah! Fuck this shit... Why overthink it? I've got ten years to train. Better to die trying than stressing.'
"What the fuck... You're still here, thief? Get out!"
The blacksmith shouted, jabbing a finger toward the door.
Dexter studied him, then stepped closer, rubbing his chin.
'NPCs here have insane AI.'
"Hey, NPC! Teach me blacksmithing!"
The blacksmith glared in disgust.
"You keep calling me 'NPC.' I don't even know what that means. And teach you my skills? Are you insane? Get out!"
He shoved Dexter outside.
"Hey! Don't treat me like this—it's dark! I can't sleep outside! Don't you have a heart?"
"Why should I care?"
The door slammed shut with a bang, the gust nearly knocking Dexter over.
Trudging back to the shore, he recalled survival games he'd played in his free time.
Gathering leaves and branches, he attempted a makeshift tent and campfire—much harder in reality than in RTS games.
'Thinking about it, how did my in-game character craft stuff so easily? Since there are no monsters here, I'll stay on this island for a year or two before heading to the Warring Kingdom. Those NPCs are battle-crazed—I'd die instantly in my current state.'
'Tomorrow, I'll head to the village and start questing. It's the only way to upgrade from this crude sword.'
He decided to sleep and resume survival efforts tomorrow. Right now, he needed basics: shelter, food, and a plan.
…
After a night of surprisingly good sleep, Dexter woke up refreshed. He immediately sprinted outside the gate—only to freeze.
Two bandits loomed ahead, identical to the ones he'd killed the day before.
'They really respawn! These fucking mobs will be my practice dummies. Until I can kill both at once, I'm not leaving this area.'
Repeating his first day's routine, he gathered stones and branches to craft swords and shields. The blacksmith watched from a distance, offering no help. This time, Dexter didn't ask. Now that he fully grasped he was trapped inside the game—utterly alone—survival depended solely on himself.
After stockpiling crude weapons, he didn't charge at the bandits. Instead, he spent the morning drilling sword swings, his arms burning with effort.
Grrrowl—
His stomach roared.
'Yeah… definitely not a game anymore.'
He glanced at the hut. Smoke curled from the chimney. Swallowing hard, Dexter marched toward it.
'Pride won't fill my stomach.'
The scent of food hit him as he pushed the door open without hesitation. The blacksmith spun around, eyes widening at the sight of Dexter—saliva practically dripping from his mouth.
"Wh—what?!" the blacksmith sputtered.
"Senior! Please share!" Dexter begged, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.