Chapter Four:

  “Dressed to Begin”

  John guided Realmweaver down the narrowing mountain road, the tires whispering over cracked stone as mist coiled through the cedars like breath. The air was colder here, thinner too, each breath wrapped in pine, smoke, and something older John couldn’t name.

  He eased along the winding path, tires rolling in near silence. The dashboard cast faint orange light across his fingers. Up ahead, a cluster of distant torches flickered through the trees—steady flames in the twilight haze.

  Realmweaver broke the quiet. "The Players' camp lies just beyond that ridge. I’d recommend parking before we draw unnecessary attention."

  John glanced toward the firelight, then back at the narrowing road. "Think they’ll be friendly?"

  Realmweaver paused. "In a realm shaped by swords and spirit magic, a machine tends to leave... an impression. Let’s not test their hospitality just yet."

  She projected a small icon on the windshield—an amber pin on a translucent map overlay.

  "There," she said. "A cave tucked behind that outcropping. Out of sight, close enough to reach if needed. Focus on the map, and it’ll stay available in your vision."

  John felt it before he saw it—a hum through the wheel, a brief shimmer at the edges of his vision. The path bent sharply, revealing a narrow break in the cliff wall. Moss clung to the entrance like it had been waiting there forever.

  He steered inside slowly. Realmweaver’s frame brushed close to the stone, but didn’t scrape. The car’s glow dimmed on instinct, casting only soft halos across the cave’s interior.

  The engine cut itself.

  The silence crept back in—not empty, but watching. Outside, the wind whispered through stone. Inside, the weight of the moment pressed into the cabin like a held breath.

  "You sure you’ll be safe here?"

  Realmweaver’s voice turned sly. "If they’re smart enough to find me in this terrain, I’d rather like to meet them. But yes, I’ll remain dormant and sealed. The camp isn’t far. It’s time for you to see what kind of world you’ve jumped into."

  John reached for the door. The air outside bit sharper now, and the last light of day threw long shadows across the stone. He turned back to glance at Realmweaver one last time—quiet, waiting, half-submerged in the dark.

  The cave air bit sharper than the wind outside, like it didn’t trust visitors. John’s boots scraped over stone worn smooth by time, and the dim light filtering in from the entrance barely touched the far wall. Realmweaver remained still behind him, her glow subdued.

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  "Check the trunk," she said.

  John raised a brow. "You're giving me gear now?"

  "Clothes," Realmweaver corrected. "No weapons. No items. Just something that won’t make you look like you wandered in from another timeline."

  He popped the trunk. A soft blue light spilled out—no steam, no fanfare. Just a neat bundle of folded fabric in deep indigo and soft gray, layered with subtle patterns that caught the light. He ran his fingers over the tunic—smooth, not synthetic. Like it belonged here.

  Folded beside it was a narrow satchel. It was light, worn in all the right places. Like it already knew how to be useful.

  He glanced down at his current clothes. Still carrying the grime of Astralis, caked in memory. He peeled off the jacket and folded it tight. Then the rest. Each layer folded down tighter, like the version of him that wore it was getting packed away too.

  He placed it all in the trunk.

  He dressed quickly. The new clothes moved easily—stitched for walking, climbing, surviving. There were laces instead of clasps. Pockets in all the right places. And they smelled faintly of cedar.

  "You look... less doomed," Realmweaver said. "A definite improvement."

  John smirked. "High praise."

  "One more thing," she added. "Most Players come into Eldoria as if it was a game, complete with preset classes—skills, stats, all sorted. You? Not so much."

  John adjusted the collar of the tunic. "So what, I’m like a blank slate?"

  "Exactly. Everyone else is coloring inside the lines. You’ve got a blank canvas and no guidebook."

  He paused. "That supposed to be reassuring?"

  "It’s supposed to be honest."

  John looked toward the cave entrance. The light had changed—redder now, deeper. He could hear steel ringing faintly from the camp ahead. Training. Movement. Purpose.

  Realmweaver's voice lowered. "Freedom’s rare in the Dive. But it means you have to decide what you are. No system’s going to pick for you."

  He slung the satchel over one shoulder and gave the cave one last look.

  Then he stepped into the red light, dressed for a story that hadn’t been written yet.

  John stepped out of the cave and paused. Behind him, Realmweaver stirred—not with sound, but with intention. A soft hiss, then a release of pale blue vapor from the trunk. Smoke coiled upward, luminous and slow, and from it emerged something entirely new.

  The fox was no bigger than a housecat. Her fur shimmered like moonlight on still water—silken—and her eyes carried that same knowing light John had come to recognize in Realmweaver’s voice. She looked less like a machine and more like a spirit shaped from mist and magic.

  "An embodied avatar," Realmweaver said through the fox's mouth, tone light. "Did you really think I was going to let you go alone?"

  John blinked. "You’re... a fox?"

  "Among other things," RW replied, tail flicking with a whisper of blue flame. "People like familiar shapes. And charm. This form seemed optimal."

  He raised a brow. "You picked a fox because it’s cute."

  "And culturally relevant."

  She padded forward. The lanterns on the path ahead brightened slightly, as if responding to her presence.

  John adjusted the satchel on his shoulder and started down the narrow path, RW at his heels.

  He couldn’t see the camp yet, but he could feel it. Like something waiting to judge.

  "Stay close," Realmweaver had said. "Let them see what they want to see. But don't give away more than you have to."

  He thought about that as he walked. About how silence could be armor. About how walking into the unknown with nothing to prove might be the only power he had left.

  A red banner snapped in the wind ahead. The camp's outer torches glimmered beyond it, and the silhouettes of guards moved like shadows on a painted wall.

  John kept walking.

  The stone gave way to dirt. The mist pulled back. And the world changed again.

  He didn’t flinch.

  He didn’t run.

  He just kept going.