Chapter 55- Meeting Shen again.
Leo found himself back in the familiar room.
Cracked plaster walls. The same stained ceiling. A single fluorescent bulb hummed overhead, casting its cold, uneven light across the cluttered smithy.
He was home at last.
He drew a slow breath, expecting the familiar scents—hot oil, scorched metal, seasoned oak, the faint iron tang of the forge. But, what filled his lungs instead made him gag. Ammonia. Rancid sweat. Something thicker and fouler beneath it, like meat left too long in a closed room. The stench struck. He choked, nearly doubled over, and fought hard against the urge to vomit.
"God..."
It was unbearable.
He looked down at himself. His clothes were ruined—dark, stiff patches of dried waste clung to the fabric in places that turned his stomach upside down. The same filth coated his skin in a thin, cracking layer. This was the second time his body had expelled everything while he was gone.
Looks like staying in the game longer cleanses the body and expels the wastes?
He tried to take a step. Pain lanced through every muscle, as if they had been wrung dry and left to rot. His joints cracked audibly. The first few steps were labored and agonizing, but after a few more his body began to remember how to move. He staggered toward the washroom, driven by one need only: to be clean.
His stomach gurgled loudly. He ignored it. The smell was so bad he could not picture eating anything.
He made it to the shower. The water was cold. He scrubbed until his skin went red, then pink, then raw. The runoff ran gray, then brown, then finally clear. He stood under the stream a long time, breathing hard, watching the last of the filth spiral down the drain.
When he finally stepped out, he pulled on clean clothes—fresh jeans and a plain T-shirt. Finally, he felt almost human.
Then his stomach reminded him again.
He was thirsty too. He drained the water bottle beside the sink, but it was not enough. He twisted the faucet open, shoved his head under the stream, and drank. Water flooded his throat. He coughed, choked, and drank more. The tap water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of copper pipes. It felt like the best thing he had ever tasted.
When the shaking in his hands finally eased, he tore through the tiny kitchenette in the shop. Stale crackers. A heel of bread with green spots on the crust. He ate both without hesitation. His body demanded fuel, and he gave it whatever he could find. The hunger was so sharp he felt he could have eaten the metal in the smithy.
Only when the worst of it subsided did he calm down enough to look at himself properly.
The mirror showed the same face—same tired eyes, same hair. But something had changed.
The T-shirt fit tighter across broader shoulders. Veins stood out more clearly along his arms. He felt stronger—noticeably, almost absurdly so.
He could not resist testing it.
He picked up a scrap of steel from the workbench—a half-inch rod—and tried twisting it. The metal bent easily to a forty-five-degree angle. He squeezed harder. The rod crumpled in his grip.
Leo stared at his hands in astonishment.
The stats synchronization was even stronger now.
He walked past the forge. As he passed, the banked embers in the hearth leapt higher, as if responding to his presence. He stopped and stared.
Freya’s words came back to him: the higher the spiritual integrity, the greater the strength that transferred into the real world. Only those with high spiritual integrity could sense it.
To everyone else, he would simply look a little fitter.
A sharp knocking cut through his thoughts.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Leo? ...Leo, are you in there?!"
He knew that voice. Mrs. Patterson—high-pitched, worried, and edged with anger.
A shiver ran down his spine. Had she brought the mower back for repair again?
"Coming," he called.
He glanced around quickly. The soiled clothes were already in a trash bag. The sink was clean. The floor was mostly clean. Satisfied that nothing looked too suspicious, he unlocked the door and opened it.
Eleven days without contact. She had not called the police... right? Or the hospital? Or had she gone straight to the morgue?
He was sweating at the thought. Knowing her personality, she absolutely might have.
Mrs. Patterson stood on the doorstep, arms crossed, gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. Afternoon sunlight blazed behind her.
"Where have you been?!" she demanded.
"I... I was sick."
"Sick for eleven days? I knocked twelve times just now, Leo. Twelve!"
Six more and she would have broken the door down, he thought.
"I’m sorry," he said. His voice was still hoarse. "I passed out. Woke up just now."
Her expression softened—slightly. The anger did not vanish, but concern pushed its way in beside it.
"You look terrible."
"Yeah. I feel terrible." Leo answered with a tired face and low voice.
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed.
"A man came by. Every day for the first week. Looked shady. Real shady." She lowered her voice.
"Turns out he was a delivery man. He had a package. Said it was urgent. I told him you weren’t here, but he kept coming back, so eventually I took it from him."
Leo’s heart stopped.
No. No no no—
"It’s inside." She handed him a brown paper package roughly the size of a shoebox. "I didn’t open it. Figured it was smithy supplies. None of my business."
He took it with trembling hands. He checked the box. She had not opened it.
"Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. Really."
"Hmph. Don’t disappear for such a long time again without telling anyone. I nearly thought you’d died in there. I thought about calling the police ten times a day."
Leo watched her go, relief flooding through him. He closed the door, locked it, and retreated deeper into the shop.
He opened the package.
Wrapped in cloth and bubble wrap was a compact black pistol with a matte finish. Beside it sat four boxes of ammunition—fifty rounds each.
This is badass.
His eyes shone as he turned the weapon over in his hands. Real protection.
He picked up the gun. It fit his hand like it was made for it. The weight was reassuring.
Now that I think about it, I don’t see any shady car waiting around. Paul’s people must have searched for me extensively.
"Haha... serves them right."
They could not find him in the game or the real world. By now they probably thought he was dead. It was better if it stayed that way.
I feel stronger now. If I can learn some basic defense, I should be able to protect myself.
I should join a dojo or a training hall, he decided.
He tucked the pistol away somewhere he could reach it quickly but no casual visitor would find it, then checked his phone.
He had expected headlines about monster attacks or players manifesting game abilities in the real world. Thankfully, there was nothing like that yet. Not many people had awakened those abilities.
He scrolled through the news instead.
MYTH ONLINE PLAYER COUNT EXCEEDS 3 BILLION — GLOBAL PHENOMENON
BREAKING NEWS: UNITED STATES ARMY DEPLOYS DEDICATED IN-GAME UNIT
SPORTS STARS, ACTORS, MUSICIANS JOIN THE RUSH
"MY BUSINESS IS FAILING BECAUSE MY EMPLOYEES WON’T LOG OFF" — CEO BLAMES MYTH ONLINE
RICH FIRMS INVEST HEAVILY IN GAME ASSETS — MARKET SHIFTS
Article after article. In eleven days the world had changed. Myth Online was no longer just a game.
It was a global force. Economies were shifting. Power was consolidating.
He set the phone down.
I should get some real sleep...
Finally... I missed this bed and the ceiling.
He collapsed onto the bed in the back of the smithy and drifted under almost at once.
He slept through the afternoon and straight into the next morning.
Sunlight spilled over his face the next morning. The light glared through his closed eyelids, waking him.
He got up, brewed himself a cup of coffee, forced down whatever food he could find, then lay back on the bed.
"Connect."
The world dissolved into familiar light.
Graystone City materialized around him.
The teleportation platform. Cobblestone streets. Towering dwarven architecture carved with runes and fitted with brass. Players streamed past—some running, some walking, some mounted on creatures he did not recognize.
"Hey. When you were logged out, I could still see everything in your real world. But I couldn’t contact you or connect to you." Surtr’s voice resonated inside his mind.
The words made Leo uneasy. "You mean you were there with me? In my consciousness?"
"I think so. I saw you talking to some old woman. She handed you a box with a gun in it."
Leo stared into empty space. "Holy moly. That’s possible?"
He muttered under his breath, "Wait... is the awakening process speeding up? Is Earth going to face the dungeons soon?"
Surtr’s tone sharpened. "Snap out of it. Just go with the flow and do your best. Everything will work out... probably."
Before Leo could answer, his message log exploded.
"Leo... Where are you?"
"Your status has been offline for the past 18 hours or so."
...
"Did you die? Okay, I’m coming back to Graystone."
...
"I’m at the Adventurer’s Guild. You better show up."
Shen had been messaging him one-sidedly since morning.
Leo opened the private channel and typed: "I’m back. On my way, boss."
The reply came instantly.
Shen: FINALLY. WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!
"I will tell you in person," Leo answered, and made his way to the guild.
The Adventurer’s Guild was packed.
Players crowded the quest boards, the counters, the benches. The air smelled of leather, steel, and sweat. Leo pushed through the press of bodies, spotted Shen in a corner booth, and sat down across from him.
Shen’s worn leather coat stretched tight across his shoulders. The talisman pouch at his hip—usually pristine—was frayed at the edges, the leather darkened from constant handling.
Shen finally looked up and really saw him.
"You look... a bit different."
He leaned forward, squinting. "Your aura... There’s something new. Something that wasn’t there before..."
"Ohh!! This mortal somewhat perceived me," Surtr commented, sounding intrigued. "Wait... I sense something in this mortal..."
"Huh. That’s impossible. How can it appear here in the tutorial world?"
"This guy’s bloodline is not normal. It’s very rare. An ancient bloodline. I can feel it." Surtr’s voice dropped, low with something close to reverence. "And a talisman warrior at that. Very rare. I haven’t seen a pure line in thousands of years."
Leo sat there blankly while Surtr spoke about Shen.
He blinked. "Huh?"
Shen stared at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
Shen’s expression did not relax. "Where were you for nearly a week? What happened to you?"
Leo started recounting—the class advancement, the Common Universal Server, Asgard’s floating islands, Yggdrasil’s branches spanning dimensions. He poured out everything Freya and Odin had told him about the threats, his exaggerated heroic valor in the Starfall Hammer competition, and the repair of Mjölnir in a single unbroken stream that left Shen pale.
Shen’s expression shifted with every sentence. Confusion gave way to disbelief, disbelief to shock, shock to something that looked like terror.
"You repaired the hammer of Thor."
"Yes."
"You met the king of the Norse gods."
"Yes."
"And you have a primordial fire giant living inside your head."
"That’s the one." Leo tapped his temple. "He’s chatty."
I am not chatty, Surtr protested. I am informative.
Shen sat back. His tea had gone cold. He did not seem to notice.
"Leo... the game. Myth Online. You mean it is—"
"Real." Leo’s voice was quiet. "The game is real I mean its like fucking real, not a game at all. The tutorial phase hides new worlds until they reach average level seventy to eighty. Earth is one of those worlds. A newborn world. And there are things out there that want to consume it."
He paused.
"The Inverse."
Shen’s jaw tightened. He had heard the name before—in the ruins, in the ancient forge, in the echoes of a battle fought before humanity had writing.
"You’re saying this isn’t just a game."
"Yes."