Prologue
...I... am... confused, to say the least.
Now, why am I confused?
I don't know.
Maybe it has something to do with the two kids—twins, maybe?—clinging to each other in the corner, eyes wide with fear.
Or maybe it's because I'm standing here, arm raised, bottle in hand… like I'm about to hit them.
What the actual hell?
Where the fuck am I?
No, seriously. Where am I?
The room stinks—filth, piss, alcohol. Bottles scattered across the floor like broken memories. Spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling. The kind of place people rot in. The kind of place you end up when life chews you up and spits you out.
But that's not me. That wasn't me.
Last thing I remember, I was sleeping in my own bed—my real one. Warm blankets, white ceiling fan, the usual hum of traffic outside.
Next thing I know… this.
This nightmare.
Wait.
Maybe that's what this is.
A dream. A really messed up dream.
That would explain the headache, the smell, the two terrified kids.
I stare down at the bottle in my hand, feel its weight like it doesn't belong to me. I let it go. The bottle hits the floor with a dull clunk, rolling until it settles in a puddle of something I really don't want to identify.
This has to be a dream.
No better way to test that than to sleep again.
I find a door—peeling paint, barely hanging on its hinges. I open it.
A bed. Moldy sheets. Sagging mattress.
Doesn't matter.
I stumble toward it, lie down, and close my eyes.
If I wake up, maybe all of this will be over.
Right?
The next morning.
Why am I still here?! I screamed internally as I jolted awake.
Everything was still the same—the stained ceiling, the moldy stench, the wreck of a house. And me? Still lying on a bed that probably gave me tetanus just by sleeping in it.
Dragging myself up with a groan, I stumbled toward what looked like a bathroom. Cracked tiles. Dusty mirror. I flicked at the glass to see my reflection more clearly.
What the hell...
That's not my face.
I mean, technically it's mine now, but it's definitely not the one I remember. My old face was average—teenage, skinny, unimpressive.
This one? Sharper jaw. Rugged features. Still had black hair, thank God. And now… a beard?
I touched my chin. Yep. Real. I look… older. Stronger. Definitely not some baby-faced anime protagonist with wide sparkly eyes and the body of a malnourished elf.
Never liked those types anyway. Always too clean, too perfect. No beard. No soul.
But that wasn't the weirdest part.
The weirdest part was the feeling in my gut. Like I'd seen this face before.
And then I did.
Not in real life, not in the mirror—but in memory.
"Wait a second…" I muttered, squinting at the mirror.
I know this face.
That scar near the brow… that dead look in the eyes…
He looks like Darian.
Darian Holt.
No.
No, no, no, no—no freaking way.
That piece of shit from The Twin Falcons? The alcoholic bastard who abused the hero twins? That Darian?
My heart dropped into my stomach.
I loved that game.
I played it obsessively that one summer—on console, on emulator, anywhere I could. First RPG I ever really got into. The prologue opened with the tragic backstory of the twins, how they grew up with an abusive father. A drunk. A violent man. A man named Darian Holt.
And then the game kicked off ten years later at the Academy of Heroes, where the twins rise up to become legends.
I used to hate that opening scene. It pissed me off. The way the kids flinched, the way he hit them, screamed at them. It made beating his ass in the later chapters so satisfying.
But now... I'm looking at his face in the mirror.
I'm him.
And those two kids from yesterday—oh God, they looked familiar too.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Click.
It all came together.
"No," I whispered.
Then louder.
"NO."
And finally, for the first time since arriving in this nightmare of a world, I screamed so loud it could've broken the walls:
"WWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!"
As I sat on the creaky excuse of a bed, staring blankly at the moldy ceiling above me, a sigh escaped my lips.
"There's no other way to look at this… I've been isekai'd."
I paused. The words felt surreal even as I said them. I lifted one hand slowly, looking at the calloused fingers, the veins, the scars.
"It's official. You can all clap now," I muttered bitterly—to no one.
"Congratulations to me. I've made it. I'm finally in a fantasy world… stuck in the body of a bastard dad from a tragic RPG. Amazing."
I rubbed my face again, trying to process the weight of everything. The twins. The filth. The bottle that still reeked of cheap booze from last night.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now? Just sit around waiting to die at the hands of my children? Yeah, real inspirational."
I leaned back, elbows resting on my knees, hunched forward in pure existential dread.
"Mentally, I'm seventeen. I know nothing about raising kids. Like, I'm not even a dog person. Oh, and let's not forget—still a virgin. Shocker, I know."
"Someone as great as me, untouched? I was waiting for marriage. I'm old-fashioned, okay? Don't judge me."
I looked around the empty room and winced at myself.
"…Who am I talking to, anyway?" I muttered, the silence answering back.
"I'm going insane. This is it. It's happening."
I leaned back and flopped onto the bed dramatically.
"Alright, alright. Let's relax for a bit. Think this through. If I've really been thrown into a different world—especially one based on a game—that means…"
I sat back up with a flicker of hope in my eyes.
"That means there's got to be some kind of system, right? You know, like in those trash-tier light novels or gacha-hungry mobile games. Some floating magical screen, skill trees, stats, something."
I raised my hand and said it with as much dramatic energy as I could muster:
"System! Open!"
…
Nothing happened.
I blinked.
"...Seriously?" I said, waving my hand like an idiot. "System, open. Menu. Status. Sheet. Stats. Window. Ding. Pop-up. Please?"
Still nothing.
"Ughhhhhhhhh." I flopped back down onto the bed again.
Then—
DING
A faint chime echoed through my skull, followed by the sound of something mechanical clicking into place.
I sat bolt upright.
A glowing, blue-tinted translucent window suddenly appeared before my eyes.
[STATUS WINDOW LOADED]
I stared at it wide-eyed. The layout looked eerily familiar—like a more rustic, medieval-style RPG menu.
"Holy crap. It worked… it actually worked."
📜 [Status Window – Darian]
Name: Darian
Age: 24
Race: Human
Title(s): Abusive Father, Fallen Commoner
Class: None
Profession: Unemployed
Level: 4
Attributes
Strength: 13 🟨 (Knight-level strength)
Endurance: 16 🟥 (Takes hits like a drunk ogre)
Agility: 7
Dexterity: 6
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 4
Perception: 5
Charisma: 3
Mana: -1 ⚠️ (Magically bankrupt)
Skills
Brawl Lv. 10 (Barroom brute with brutal instincts)
Intimidate Lv. 6 (Terrifying when angry)
Drunken Resilience Lv. 3 (Alcohol-fueled durability)
Passive: Resistance to Ethanol (Can outdrink 90% of tavern patrons)
Traits
- Street Dog
You fight dirty, wild, and with zero concern for formality. Biting, headbutting, gouging—if it keeps you alive, it's fair game.
- Unorthodox Swordsmanship
No formal training, no noble style. You fight with whatever blade you have like a butcher with a grudge— unpredictable, aggressive, and terrifying in close quarters.
"What the fuck? The only thing impressive here is my strength and endurance. That's it. Everything else is garbage. My mana's literally negative—how is that even possible? I've got no class, no profession, and my charisma is basically a war crime."
"And these skills? Brawling, intimidation, being a drunk? That's not impressive—that's just surviving!"
"Okay… okay, let's think. In most RPGs, skills increase the more you do something—fight, craft, run, train. So I can get new ones and level them up without actually gaining XP or leveling up… which is good. Because I'm only Level 4. Four! That's below average. Most regular people are at least Level 5. Great. Just great."
"Then there's traits… They're different. Traits are more like ingrained habits or natural instincts—usually permanent. Like my 'Street Dog' trait. That's… kind of accurate. I'm used to fighting dirty. Guess it makes sense."
"So if I want to survive, I need to grind—fast. Raise my skills. Maybe find a weapon. And somehow become a half-decent parent… or at least a less murder-worthy one."
I feel like I forgot something…
......…..oh yeah.
The kids.
OH SHIT—THE KIDS!
Without wasting another second, I burst through the door like a man possessed—probably because I was. My body moved on instinct, legs pumping like this rundown shack was about to burn down. I followed that awful memory—two small, terrified figures huddled together like stray kittens.
When I got to the room…
They were still there.
Exactly where I'd left them yesterday.
In the same corner.
On the same cold, dirty floor.
Sleeping like they hadn't moved all night.
My stomach twisted.
I just stood there for a moment—watching them breathe, watching them twitch. They were still clutching onto each other like the world outside that corner was a monster waiting to strike. One of them sniffled in her sleep. The boy had a bruise under his eye I didn't notice yesterday.
No child should go through this...
The thought hit me harder than expected. Not because I disagreed—but because I agreed so much it hurt. Me. The guy who just last night didn't even know their names.
Maybe that's why my hands moved again. Slowly, this time. Gently.
I walked over and bent down, sliding one arm under each of them. They were light. Too light. I could feel their bones through their clothes.
I carried them—careful not to wake them—to the bed I was sleeping in earlier. It was old, uncomfortable, and smelled like sweat and mildew. But it was better than the floor.
I laid them down. Covered them with the scratchy blanket. Made sure they were tucked in.
Then I left the room.
Closed the door behind me.
And leaned against the wall.
Silent.
For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I didn't feel confused.
I felt responsible.
Maybe I should make them something to eat…
The thought drifted into my head like a leaf on a breeze. It wasn't dramatic or emotional. It was just there. A simple, human instinct.
The sun hasn't even come up yet.
I shuffled into the kitchen, or what passed for a kitchen in this dump. Wooden counters stained by time and something worse. Rusted pans, chipped plates. A pantry with some dry bread, a few potatoes, a single egg… and, surprisingly, a chunk of cheese.
Huh. Jackpot.
I got to work—if you could call it that. Sliced the bread, warmed the potatoes, melted the cheese a bit over the fire. I wasn't winning any cooking contests, but it looked edible. Hopefully.
There. Something warm for them when they wake up.
I left the plates on the table and stepped back.
Now that I had something resembling a goal, it was time to focus.
First order of business: Acquire more skills.
This world… the game world… it was built around systems. Skills were everything. Whether you were a merchant or a monster slayer, your survival depended on what you could do, not what you wanted to do.
And luckily for me—I played The Twin Falcons to death. Over 500 hours. I knew how to get most skills, and how to level them. At least the generic ones. The special, unique crap the twins get later on? Not a chance. I wasn't touching that plot armor. But basic survival stuff? I had a shot.
"Skills can be acquired by doing certain actions repeatedly. Walk enough? You get Stamina Recovery. Get punched enough? Toughness. Try cooking every day? Cooking Skill. Swing a stick for ten hours straight? Boom—Club Mastery Lv.1. It ain't rocket science."
Leveling up in this world was more like raising stats in a grind-heavy RPG. You didn't gain experience for winning, you gained it by doing. Repetition. Effort. Grit. And maybe a few close calls with death.
But here's the catch…
I can't choose where my level-up points go.
Yeah. You heard me. You don't get to manually assign stat points when you level up.
Which brings me to my problem.
I have two stats that I absolutely do not want to go up.
Wisdom. Intelligence.
Now don't get me wrong. In the hands of a proper mage, those two stats are cracked. Magic damage scales with INT. Mana regen scales with WIS. And if you're a Swordmage—someone who blends swordplay and spellcraft? That stuff's essential. Those are the stats that let you slice a wyvern in half while setting it on fire with your mind.
But here's the problem.
My mana… is literally -1.
Negative. One.
I don't even know how that's possible. In the game, zero mana meant "can't use magic." But this? This feels like the gods themselves are telling me: "No magic for you, dumbass."
So yeah—if WIS or INT goes up when I level, I swear, I'll scream.
"Please God, let me never raise those two. Amen."
That means no reading spellbooks, no learning enchantments, no talking to mages unless I have to. I'm going full muscle route. Brawler. Street fighter. Survivor.
If I'm going to survive this world…
If I'm going to protect those kids…
If I'm going to avoid dying like Darian did in the original timeline…
I need to fight.
I need to learn.
I need to grind.
As I stood outside the creaky old house, the morning chill nipping at my neck, I took a deep breath and tried to recall everything I could about the game. The air smelled like wet dirt and firewood. Somewhere, a rooster screamed like it owed someone money.
I looked around—dirt road, wooden fences, shabby houses, mist rolling off the hills in the distance. Yeah, this was it.
"Alright... think." I rubbed my temples. Pinpoint my location... where the hell am I on the world map?
This felt weird, but I closed my eyes and imagined the game's fast-travel screen from memory. The big parchment-style map, faded edges, animated markers...
📍**[Bluff's End – Outskirts of Eastwind Vale]**
A tiny farming village at the edge of the human kingdom. Not even important enough to be a proper quest location.
"Oh shit... I'm here?"
This place was barely a pixel on the world map. In the game, it appeared briefly in the prologue cutscene—the one showing where the twins came from and their drunk father, me, apparently. It wasn't even accessible afterward. Just a background set-piece.
This was bad. No quest hub, no item shop, no tavern, no NPCs to give me beginner gear. If this was the actual Bluff's End, that meant I was literally starting from dirt.
"Goddamn it. I'm living in a tutorial zone that the devs abandoned."
Still, at least that helped. If this was Eastwind Vale, then the closest town would be Harrowick, a trade post about a day's walk west. That place had blacksmiths, quest boards, maybe even a guild branch. But between here and there were wolf packs, goblin dens, and worst of all—random events.
"I'm gonna need a stick, a knife, and a whole lot of luck."
But FIRST...
"Let's see what this dump has to offer," I muttered, brushing the dirt off my worn-out pants and walking down the crooked path leading away from the house.
In the game, Bluff's End was just a backdrop—something to tug at your heartstrings before the story time-skipped ten years and dumped you into the flashy Academy. You didn't explore it, you didn't loot it, hell, I'm pretty sure they reused one of the background assets from a failed Kickstarter game.
But now? Now it's real.
Wooden fences, most of them broken. A well with a bucket barely hanging on a frayed rope. A few sad-looking houses scattered across muddy patches of land. Chickens that looked like they'd lost every fight they'd been in.
There were maybe six or seven houses in total. No shops. No inn. No signposts. This wasn't a starter village—it was more like the game's forgotten test zone.
But it had people. A hunched old man sharpening a hoe. A woman hanging laundry with dead eyes. Two kids kicking a rock back and forth like it owed them money. And they were all looking at me like I farted in a church.
They probably knew Darian—the real one. The abusive drunk.
Their eyes said it all: There goes that piece of shit again.
I raised a hand awkwardly. "Morning…"
They didn't wave back. Fair.
Great. So I have no friends. No money. No equipment. And no mana.
Mana: -1
Still insulting.
I looked toward the woods at the edge of the village. In the game, that forest had no official name—just part of the "Scenery Mesh." But I remembered a post on the forums about a hidden dev room near a bugged tree texture. Probably bullshit, but now? Worth checking.
"Alright, Darian 2.0," I whispered. "Let's see what else this forgotten zone has before I pack up and make a break for Harrowick."
Wait… the twins.
I froze mid-step.
Right. I can't just leave. I may have the brain of a seventeen-year-old and the social grace of a raccoon in a trash can, but I am apparently their father now. And those kids? Still asleep. Still traumatized. Still barely skin and bones.
If I just walk out now and something happens to them? That's my sin. Not Darian's. Mine.
"Goddamn it…" I muttered, turning around and heading back toward the house.
Back inside, the place still smelled like mold, dust, and regret. But the twins were still on the bed, curled up in a tight bundle like abandoned kittens. No nightmares. No crying. Just... stillness.
I stood there awkwardly, watching them for a moment before sighing.
"Alright. First, food."
[Montage-style inner monologue while preparing food again]
I raided the cupboards. Slim pickings, but enough: dried oats, a few root vegetables, some kind of salted jerky, hard bread. I boiled water—clean enough—and made something vaguely resembling stew. Then I started sorting everything into jars and containers like I was prepping for war.
"Let's see… enough for breakfast, lunch, and dinner… multiplied by two… times seven days..."
Even rationed, it was barely a week's worth. But I made it work. A big pot of barley stew, some dried jerky tucked into paper wraps, boiled potatoes, and an entire pitcher of clean water set aside.
I placed a note nearby—not that I know if either of them can read—but just in case.
"I'll be gone for a bit. Eat. Rest. I'll come back."
It looked dumb after I wrote it, but I left it anyway.
Back outside, I leaned against the doorframe, staring out at the half-dead village again.
Okay. They'll be alright for a few days. I'll scout the area, see what kind of monsters or NPCs are hiding around here, and get some skills leveled up. Then I come back. No hero's journey. Just… prep.
I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders.
"Right. Let's go level up. Darian the Drunk is dead. Long live... whatever the hell I am now."