Inigo walked beside Garrick in silence. Villagers paused as he passed, their tired, soot-smeared faces lit by flickering torchlight. The suspicion from earlier had faded—replaced by a cautious reverence.
He didn't smile. Not because he didn't want to—but because something about the weight of those eyes, those nods, those hushed whispers… it felt heavier than he expected. People had died. Families were shattered. And he had been the one to put a stop to it. Not a knight. Not a mage. A gamer with a Glock.
They arrived at the hall again—the same place where, just that morning, he was treated like a wandering nuisance.
Now? The two guards at the door straightened as he approached. One even stepped aside without needing a word from Garrick.
Inside, the elder stood near the hearth, speaking with two villagers. She looked up the moment they entered. Her eyes flicked to Garrick's injured leg—then to Inigo, whose hoodie was torn, blood-stained, and scorched at the edges. The Glock still hung from his hip.
"You," she said quietly. "You fought."
Inigo gave a small nod. "I did what I had to."
Garrick stepped forward with a stiff salute. "Ma'am, I can vouch. He saved over a dozen villagers, including myself. Killed more than half of the enemy force singlehandedly. If he wasn't here, Valebrook would've fallen."
The elder studied Inigo for a long moment. Then, without a word, she walked to a locked drawer in her desk. She opened it with a brass key and withdrew a small, polished wooden box.
She placed it on the table between them, opened the lid, and revealed a silver emblem on a chain—a small iron-forged key shaped with ornate engravings. It shimmered faintly in the firelight.
"This," she said, lifting the key from its velvet lining, "is the Key to the City."
Inigo blinked. "Wait, like… literally?"
"It is a symbol," she said. "A gesture rarely given. It means you are no longer just a guest in Valebrook. You are one of us. A defender of this land. If you ever return here, you will find shelter, food, and aid."
She stepped closer and draped the chain around his neck. The key settled against his chest, still warm from the hearth's glow.
"Thank you," Inigo said, voice lower now, more serious. "I didn't expect anything like this."
"Most heroes never do," she replied. "But you've earned it."
A few more villagers had gathered near the doorway, watching. Someone began clapping softly. Then someone else joined. Within moments, the small room echoed with scattered applause—not loud, not raucous, but genuine.
Inigo stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight.
"...This is weird," he whispered to Garrick.
"Get used to it," the older man muttered back with a smirk. "You just made a name for yourself."
The elder cleared her throat. "One more thing."
Inigo turned.
"You've shown skill, courage, and decisive action. If you ever require anything—supplies, assistance, even information—you need only ask. The council will approve it."
His brows rose. "Wait, really?"
She nodded. "You saved Valebrook. That is not easily forgotten."
He couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips. "Okay, that's actually awesome."
"And one more thing," she added, stepping toward the desk. She handed him a folded parchment. "This is a letter of recommendation. If you choose to travel, present it to any regional lord or town council. It marks you as a Hero of Valebrook."
[New Item Acquired: Letter of Recommendation (Hero of Valebrook)]
[Passive Perk Unlocked: Local Discount – 10% off general goods in towns allied with Eldrath]
His HUD lit up with those sweet, satisfying pings.
The elder gave him a faint, knowing smile. "Now go. Rest. Heal. Tomorrow, the rebuilding begins. But tonight, you sleep not as an outsider—but as our hero."
Inigo bowed his head slightly and turned to leave.
As he stepped outside into the chilly night, the villagers who remained gave him nods and quiet waves. It wasn't loud. It wasn't over-the-top. It wasn't anime-level fireworks and confetti.
But it was real.
And for Inigo—for the gamer who died in a cramped internet café with a plastic mouse in hand—it was the most alive he'd ever felt.
He touched the key on his chest and muttered under his breath, "Let's bring some more freedom to this world."
And somewhere in the sky above Valebrook, a single star shot across the heavens.
A good omen.
***
The warm crackle of a hearth still echoed faintly in his mind as Inigo stirred under the inn's quilted blanket. A faint draft crept through the cracks in the wooden walls, brushing against his nose and pulling him from the depths of sleep. His body ached in places he hadn't noticed last night. Bruises, sore muscles, maybe even a cracked rib or two—but nothing life-threatening.
He blinked slowly, the morning light seeping through the slats of the wooden shutters. For a long moment, he just lay there, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, letting everything settle.
The fight. The blood. The villagers. The key.
He turned slightly and saw the silver emblem resting on the small nightstand beside his Glock. For a split second, it all felt like a game notification that would disappear once he logged off. But no—this wasn't a game. He was still here. Still breathing. Still in whatever insane fantasy world he'd been thrown into.
And the people outside were already awake.
Then, there was a notification chime from the system.
[Earned 50 tokens from daily.]
He heard it—the murmurs. The footsteps. A soft, respectful hush in the air. Voices exchanging whispers. A knock came at the door.
"Inigo?" It was Garrick's voice.
Inigo groaned, throwing off the blanket. "Yeah, yeah, I'm up."
He holstered his Glock—half out of habit, half because he felt naked without it—and opened the door.
Garrick stood there in a fresh tunic, his leg bandaged but stable. He offered a small smile. "Figured you'd want to come out the quiet way. But, well…"
Inigo stepped out behind him—and stopped.
A small crowd had gathered in the hallway.
Villagers. Dozens of them.
Old men with canes. Children clinging to their mothers. Farmers in dirt-stained overalls. Blacksmiths with soot on their arms. Even the innkeeper and her grumpy husband stood near the front, both looking unusually serious.
They didn't cheer.
They didn't clap.
Instead, as he stepped down the wooden stairs, they parted slowly, creating a path for him.
A little girl—no more than five—stepped forward with a small bouquet of wildflowers. Yellow and white, tied with a ribbon that had clearly seen better days. She held it out to him, eyes wide.
Inigo hesitated, then knelt to her level and took the flowers gently.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You saved Mama," she whispered, barely audible. "She's still here because of you."
Inigo gave her the softest smile he could muster. "Then it was worth it."
Behind him, Garrick cleared his throat. "They all wanted to thank you, in their own way. So we told them you'd be waking up around now."
"How long was I out?" Inigo asked as he stood again.
"Most of the night."
A few people stepped forward, offering short words of thanks. One man handed him a loaf of bread. Another offered a stitched leather pouch filled with what looked like copper coins. An older woman pressed a hand over his and said, "We'll tell our grandchildren what you did."
It was humbling. And terrifying.
Because he didn't feel like a hero.
He'd done what needed to be done. That was it. No grand speeches. No divine intervention. Just recoil, muzzle flash, and a bit of luck.
A bell rang from the edge of town. Once. Then twice.
The sound carried a weight to it—somber, deliberate.
Garrick turned his head toward the distant church tower. "Funeral bell."
Inigo's chest tightened.
"Those who fell?" he asked.
Garrick nodded. "We lost twelve. Could've been more. Should've been more. But thanks to you... it wasn't."
The crowd began to disperse quietly, heading toward the modest chapel at the town's northern edge. Garrick placed a hand on Inigo's shoulder. "You don't have to go. But I think they'd appreciate it."
"I'll go," Inigo said, already moving.
The chapel was nothing like the grand cathedrals he'd seen in games. No towering spires or stained glass. Just a simple wooden structure, painted white, with a small bell hanging above the doorway and rows of chairs set up outside under the morning sky.
Twelve coffins.
Twelve sheets, neatly draped.
Inigo stood toward the back, his hands behind his back, the key still hanging over his hoodie. Garrick stood beside him. The elder stood near the front, reading names one by one. Each name was followed by silence. Then the bell rang again.
He noticed the little girl from earlier sitting near the front. Her mother—injured, bandaged—held her close. Their faces were solemn, but unbroken.
As the ceremony continued, Inigo felt the burn of something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Guilt.
Not because he could've done more—but because part of him liked the fight. The rush. The control.
Was that wrong?
Maybe.
But he also knew this much: if he hadn't been there, more graves would be filled today.
After the final name was read, the elder spoke again. "Let today be a day of mourning—but also of remembrance. Because amid the fire and blood, a stranger stood with us. And he did not run. He fought."
All eyes turned toward Inigo.
He didn't speak. Didn't make a grand gesture. Just nodded once, firmly.
He saw the respect in their faces.
Real respect.
Not the kind you farmed in a game for grinding rep. Not numbers in a loyalty bar. But the kind that came from shared struggle.
The kind earned.
This is what it feels like when you help people. And with the shop of freedom system that he has, he believed he could do more!