He had no idea how it happened. One moment, his old life; the next, he awoke in a snowy wasteland, his body transformed into that of a barbarian. There was no time to question it.
The biting cold stole the breath from his lungs and turned it to frost. It was a cold that defied fire, snuffing out any flame in an instant. Farming was impossible; even finding warmth was a constant struggle. This was a land where the very air was an enemy, a bitter, absolute harshness that froze everything solid.
The only other inhabitants were monsters, endlessly powerful and terrifying things ripped from nightmares that lunged from the snow, intent on killing and devouring him.
Survival was the only law. There was no luxury for anything more.
He fought, a desperate, bloody struggle. He slew the beasts, skinned them for their thick hides, and wrapped the raw pelts around his body. He gulped down their blood while it was still warm, a fleeting heat against the encroaching frost.
He led his new tribe, wandering the frozen expanse. Only after they had carved out a semblance of stability did he finally find a moment to look beyond their immediate peril.
It was from the rare human traveler, those who dared to venture from beyond the snows, that he learned the truth.
And with that truth came a staggering realization: he was in the kind of fantasy world he had always longed for.
Just outside this frozen hell was a world of magic and adventure.
The urge to flee to it was immediate, overwhelming. But the damned snowfield held him captive with a powerful constraint, an invisible barrier he could not cross until its conditions were met.
With the world he’d always dreamed of just out of reach, he found all the motivation he would ever need.
His existence shifted from mere survival to a determined purpose. He trampled monsters underfoot and shattered the constraints one by one.
Time bled away, a period far longer than his original life. In the endless cycle of struggle and death, his past became a distant echo.
An ordinary person would have forgotten their old life entirely, becoming one with the snowfield.
But Torg was different.
He clung to his one, singular goal: to see this fantasy world.
Even as ages passed and he forgot the man he used to be, he never lost sight of that dream.
And now, finally.
After overcoming trials that would have broken nations.
The barbarian Torg set foot on green grass.
How long had it been since he’d seen the color green? An overwhelming emotion threatened to bring him to his knees.
Torg took a deep, shuddering breath, and the world flooded his senses.
The fragrant scent of crushed grass.
The rich musk of animals.
The clean, wet smell of a river.
Aromas for which the sterile snowfield had no equivalent filled his lungs.
He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the rough texture of a leaf. The simple sensation felt so exquisite he thought he might go mad with joy.
Torg tore a handful of grass from the earth and shoved it into his mouth.
A distant memory warned that most wild grasses were poisonous, but he didn't care.
The venom of spiders that festered in millennium-old ice had failed to kill him; the paltry defenses of a common plant stood no chance against his hardened body.
Torg chewed.
It tasted awful.
He was delighted.
He laughed, a raw, booming sound, as he clawed at the dirt beneath a tree. The rich soil ran through his fingers like sand.
Torg pulled up a root and bit into it, the earthy taste a glorious shock.
If anyone had seen him then, they would have taken him for a madman, but he couldn't have cared less.
Torg chuckled, the sound thick with relief.
He had finally escaped the damned wilderness.
He had always wanted out, but that infernal system had blocked his path.
“This cursed window,” he muttered, glaring at the empty air before him where a translucent panel shimmered into view.
[784th quest completed.]
[Reward distribution completed.]
[Conditions fulfilled.]
[You can leave the wilderness.]
It was because of those damnable quests that he'd been trapped. Every time he tried to leave, some unseen force had repelled him.
But no more.
He had cleared every condition.
He had finally escaped.
“Damned place! Let's never see each other again!” Torg roared, thrusting a middle finger toward the distant, white peaks.
Laughter continued to bubble up from his chest.
He knew, from those rare outsiders, that this was a fantasy world—the very one he had dreamed of but never thought he'd reach.
That knowledge had been his only fuel.
Now, though he was a man weathered by centuries, he felt the giddy excitement of a boy.
His starting point had been hell itself, but he had survived. It was time to finally enjoy this world.
There were a thousand things he wanted to do, a thousand ways to experience the essence of fantasy.
Without that dream, he would have died long ago; the wilderness was a hell that mere survival instincts could not conquer.
Torg began to walk, his steps unhurried. He could have crossed the entire forest in an instant, but there was a deep pleasure in this simple, leisurely stroll.
But even after walking for some time, the forest showed no sign of ending.
“How far does this place go?” he wondered. His newfound freedom was a luxury, but the desire to finally see other people was stronger.
Eventually, he abandoned his stroll and expanded his senses, casting them out into the world around him.
The forest came alive in his mind.
He felt the rustle of every leaf.
The breathing of every wild animal.
The flick of a fish's fin in a hidden stream.
And among it all, something else: the sound of countless footsteps, roughly human-sized, all gathering in one place.
It had to be a village.
Torg’s face flushed with excitement.
“A civilized village, at last?”
His own tribe were ignorant brutes, content to sleep in the snow without so much as a proper shelter. When he’d spoken of building homes, they had only blinked at him, uncomprehending. He yearned for a place built with purpose and order.
What would be the proper greeting?
Should he ask them about this world, as tradition dictated for a newcomer?
Whatever the case, he would be respectful. He moved forward, his heart pounding with anticipation.
Deep in the verdant forest, a hemispherical dome of woven branches shimmered into existence. As the last gap sealed, the elves who had been chanting lowered their hands, their faces etched with relief.
The eldest among them, his face a map of wrinkles, smiled with satisfaction.
“Everyone!” he called out. “This is our new home!”
A cheer rose from the gathered elves; some were so overcome they shed tears of joy. After a long flight from slave hunters, they had finally found refuge here, in a remote wilderness supposedly untouched by human hands.
“Unpack your belongings! Make your homes!” the Elder commanded.
The elves moved with brisk purpose, beginning to weave new shelters from the living branches of the forest.
Elarion watched them, his heart full.
A young elf approached him then, his expression cautious. “Elder, is this place truly safe?”
Elarion smiled confidently. “This is the farthest reach of the wilderness. Humans cannot come here. I have checked myself, many times. There are no signs of them.”
“Yes, I know,” the young elf conceded, “but…”
A wilderness where humans did not tread. There was always a reason for that.
“Isn't the snowfield nearby?”
Elarion understood the youth's fear and chuckled softly. “You are worried the monsters of the snowfield might wander this way?”
“It's too close,” the young elf insisted.
That frozen wasteland was known as a gathering place for all the world's most terrible and powerful creatures. Their new home was a mere few hours' walk from its border. The young elf was terrified of it, but the Elder simply shook his head, a calming gesture.
“It is no problem,” he said. “In a thousand years, there have been no tales of anything emerging from that wasteland. Besides, we have taken precautions.”
He gestured to the dome that enclosed them, an illusion woven from ancient elven magic that had taken them months to craft. It hid their presence completely, making their settlement appear as nothing more than an ordinary patch of forest. So long as it stood, no outsider could find them.
“And even if a monster from the snows did wander this way, it would be no matter. We have the queen with us.”
At this, relief finally washed over the young elf's face. Their queen, the first in hundreds of years and a figure of legend in their history, was here.
“That's right,” the youth whispered. “She is protecting us.”
“Indeed,” the Elder said, his voice firm with confidence. “Not even the monsters of the wilderness can stand against our queen. So do not worry.”
Torg paused, tilting his head.
Felt like I just tore through something.
Did he brush against a branch? No, it felt different, like a thin film had brushed against his skin. If it was just his senses playing tricks, it wasn't worth worrying about. He dismissed the feeling and refocused.
Moving toward the cluster of life he'd sensed, Torg soon spotted a lone figure.
His own presence vanished in an instant, a deeply ingrained instinct from his time in the wilderness. When you encountered anything, you first became a shadow.
As he focused on the figure, Torg’s pupils widened. The first thing he saw were the ears: long and gracefully pointed.
The shape was humanoid, but this was no human.
The features were so fine they would be considered beautiful even on a child, and it was dressed in simple, light cloth.
Torg let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
An elf. One of the first races anyone imagined when they thought of a fantasy world. He never expected to meet one so soon.
The elf, a child by the looks of him, was wandering through the trees with a fearful expression, his pointed ears twitching like a rabbit's.
This was no drawing from a book; this was a real, living elf.
He felt the sting of tears in his eyes.
“It was worth it... surviving,” he whispered.
This single moment felt like a reward for all the centuries of hardship.
The child continued on, oblivious, as Torg closed the distance between them. Just as he was nearly upon him, the elf-child must have sensed something. He froze, ears twitching, and looked around wildly.
His gaze landed on Torg.
Torg tensed, caught off guard, and cautiously raised a hand in greeting.
The elf stared up, and up, and up, his neck craned back at a sharp angle to take in Torg's full height. Then, the child's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled.
Torg moved instinctively, catching the small body before it hit the ground.
Torg scratched his cheek, a little nonplussed.
He supposed he was rather large. The boy barely came up to his knees.
Having a figure like him suddenly appear out of nowhere would probably be enough to make anyone faint.
So much for their first meeting; they hadn't even gotten to a proper conversation.
Torg carefully lifted the child into his arms. Since things had turned out this way, he might as well take the boy back to his village. It could even be a good thing; returning their lost, unconscious child would surely cast him as a benefactor.
He recalled the old myths. Elves were generally a peaceful, orderly race. As long as you didn't show hostility, they were known to be kind.
Perhaps he would even be offered some hospitality.
What would that be like? He found himself very much looking forward to finding out.
With a newly cheerful stride, Torg headed toward the gathering of life signs he had sensed earlier.