The wooden katana had begun to feel less like a foreign object and more like an extension of intention. Not perfect—never perfect—but the wrongness had shifted from glaring to subtle. Three weeks in-game. Maybe four. Time moved strangely when measured only in repetitions.
The clearing had become familiar. The same tree. The same angle of light filtering through leaves that never truly changed because the weather system cycled on predictable intervals. He had learned the pattern without meaning to: golden hour at 6 PM server time, lasting exactly forty-three minutes before the algorithm shifted to dusk.
He didn't care about the sky. But he noticed it anyway, the way you notice your own breathing once you start paying attention.
The wooden blade had durability. Everything in King of the Beginning had durability. He'd watched the condition bar drop from green to yellow over the course of a thousand cuts, then from yellow toward orange. The system didn't punish you for using broken equipment—it simply became less effective, the damage numbers dropping, the weight distribution shifting as invisible structural integrity degraded.
He needed a real blade. Or at least, a blade that wouldn't lie to him by falling apart mid-swing.
That meant going into town.
---
The starting city was called Threshold, which was either profound or lazy depending on how much credit you gave the developers. It sprawled across a river valley in that particularly fantasy way—cobblestone streets that were too clean, market stalls that were too organized, NPCs that stood in the same spots day after day unless a player triggered their scripted routines.
Except they didn't. Not anymore.
The AI governing the NPCs had been updated six months before launch, according to the forums he'd skimmed once and never returned to. The developers called it the Emergent Behavior Engine. It meant NPCs learned, adapted, developed preferences and grudges and routines that weren't scripted. They became, in some unsettling way, *persistent*.
He noticed it immediately.
The blacksmith—a broad-shouldered woman with soot-darkened hands and silver streaking her tied-back hair—didn't look up when he entered. She was bent over an anvil, hammering something that glowed orange-white, and the rhythm of her strikes had a deliberation that felt *real*. Not the looping animation of a placeholder NPC. Real focus. Real annoyance when he stepped too close and disrupted her line of sight.
"You're blocking the light," she said without stopping. Her voice had texture—rough from heat and smoke, but not unkind.
He stepped aside.
She finished whatever she was doing, quenched the piece in a water trough with a hiss of steam, then finally turned to look at him. Her eyes moved across his avatar with the kind of assessment that wasn't about stats or equipment quality. It was the look of someone measuring intent.
"You're the one who's been living in the eastern clearing," she said.
He blinked. "You know about that?"
"Hunters talk. You've been scaring off the rabbits." She wiped her hands on her apron, which did nothing because the soot was permanent, part of her character design. "What do you want?"
"A katana," he said. "Something that won't break."
She snorted. "Everything breaks. You want something that breaks slower."
"Fine."
She studied him for another moment, then turned toward a rack of blades along the wall. They were organized by type, not quality—swords with swords, axes with axes. The katanas were few. Most players went for broadswords or spears, weapons that fit the generic fantasy aesthetic.
"You actually know how to use one of these?" she asked, pulling down a plain single-edged blade with a wrapped handle. No guard. No decoration. Just function.
"I'm learning."
"That's not what I asked."
He met her eyes. "I know enough to tell when a blade is lying."
Something shifted in her expression. Not approval, exactly. More like recognition. She handed him the katana.
The weight was wrong. Not bad—just different. Heavier than a shinai, lighter than a real sword. The balance point sat further forward than he expected, which would change the way it moved through a cut. He'd have to relearn the distance. Recalibrate his sense of maai.
"How much?" he asked.
"Two hundred silver."
He had seventy.
"I'll come back," he said, handing it back.
She didn't take it. "You'll come back with money you don't have, buy a blade you'll outgrow in a week, then come back again. I've seen it a thousand times." She crossed her arms. "You want a sword that doesn't lie? Then don't lie to yourself about what you're doing."
He didn't know what to say to that.
She took the blade back, hung it on the rack. "Come back when you've figured it out."
---
He left the smithy feeling unbalanced, which was ridiculous because nothing had actually happened. No transaction. No conflict. Just a conversation that felt like it had weight.
The street outside was crowded. Players everywhere, moving in packs, shouting about dungeon runs and loot drops and guild recruitment. A party of five sprinted past, weapons drawn, chasing some quest marker only they could see. One of them—a mage in blue robes—nearly collided with him, then stopped.
"Hey," the mage said. "You're the AFK guy, right?"
He wasn't AFK. He was training. But he didn't correct her.
"Some people in the guild were talking about you," she continued. Her username floated above her head: Seraphine. "You've just been standing in the same spot for like three weeks. Are you botting?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Training."
She laughed. Not mockingly—genuinely confused. "Training what? You're level one. You don't even have skills yet."
"I'm training a cut."
"A... cut." She looked at him like he'd said something in a foreign language. "You know the game has a skill system, right? You don't have to manually practice. You just unlock the skills and the system does it for you."
"I know."
"Then why—" She stopped. Shook her head. "You know what, never mind. You do you. But if you want to actually play the game, my guild's recruiting. We're running the Stonefang Mines tonight. Could use another DPS."
"I'm not DPS," he said.
"Everyone's DPS if they're holding a weapon."
"I'm not holding a weapon. I'm training one."
She stared at him. Then she laughed again, this time with a edge of pity. "Okay. Good luck with that."
She left.
---
He found an armor vendor two streets over. The shop was smaller, dimmer, lined with mannequins wearing leather and chainmail. The NPC behind the counter—a young man with nervous hands and a habit of adjusting his glasses—looked up as he entered.
"Can I help you find something?" the NPC asked. His name tag read Edrin.
"Light armor," he said. "Something that doesn't restrict movement."
Edrin nodded, already moving toward a section of leather cuirasses and bracers. "Are you looking for defense or mobility priority?"
"Mobility."
"Okay. What's your build?"
"I don't have one."
Edrin paused. "You... don't have a build."
"I'm level one."
"Right, but—" Edrin hesitated, then seemed to decide something. "Okay. Let me show you a few options."
He pulled out a set of dark leather armor—chest piece, gloves, boots. Lightweight. Minimal plating. It looked functional, which was all that mattered.
"Try it on," Edrin said, gesturing toward a mirror in the corner.
He equipped the armor. The system handled the transition instantly—his plain starter clothes replaced by fitted leather that moved when he moved. He stepped toward the mirror.
And stopped.
The reflection looking back at him was a woman.
He'd known that, technically. He'd chosen the avatar without thinking, clicked through the customization screen in thirty seconds. But he hadn't looked. Hadn't seen it. The fox ears. The long black hair tied back. The sharp features and dark eyes.
It wasn't his face.
But the body moved like his. The weight distribution, the balance, the way the armor sat across the shoulders—it all responded to his intent. The avatar was just a shell. The movement was his.
He turned slightly, testing the range of motion. The armor didn't bind. Didn't pull. The reflection mimicked him perfectly, a woman's body performing a man's intention.
It didn't matter.
It shouldn't matter.
But something about seeing it—about recognizing the disjunction between image and intent—made him feel unmoored.
"Does it fit?" Edrin asked.
He looked at the NPC. Edrin was watching him with an expression that wasn't quite concern, but wasn't indifference either. Like he'd seen this before. Like he understood something without needing it explained.
"It fits," he said.
"Good." Edrin smiled. "That'll be fifty silver."
He paid. Equipped the armor. Left the shop.
Outside, the sun was setting—server time 6:00 PM, golden hour beginning right on schedule.
He walked back toward the clearing, past the crowds, past the noise.
The wooden katana was still in his inventory, durability at 34%.
He'd need a real blade soon.
But first, he needed to relearn how this body moved.
The cut still wasn't right.