Cool air brushed his face, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Cohen stood at the edge of the forest, watching the town gates. Two guards, clad in simple leather armor, chatted idly, leaning on their spears. Their vigilance seemed... relaxed. A deep breath filled his lungs. This was it. A new start. He yearned for the mundane, for a life where immense power wasn't a constant, terrifying burden. Flickering, a blur of motion. He didn't run, didn't jump. One moment he was by the trees, the next, he was past the gates, a faint ripple in the air the only evidence of his passage. The guards continued their conversation, oblivious. His movements were a whisper, a forgotten thought. Cobblestone streets stretched before him. Small, two-story buildings, mostly timber and plaster, lined the thoroughfare. Merchants hawked their wares from open stalls, their voices a vibrant cacophony. A child chased a scruffy dog, their laughter echoing off the walls. Warmth bloomed in his chest. This was what he sought. Life. Unfiltered, unburdened. A simple existence. He wandered deeper, observing. A baker pulled trays of golden-brown loaves from a stone oven, the aroma of fresh bread irresistible. A blacksmith's hammer rang out, rhythmic and strong. People moved with purpose, their faces etched with the daily concerns of living. No grand ambitions stirred within him. No desire for conquest, no urge to reshape this new world. He only wanted to be a part of it, a quiet observer, perhaps even a contributor, without drawing attention to the typhoon residing within him. Soon, hunger gnawed at his stomach. He hadn't eaten properly since… well, since before. Before the end. Currency would be an issue. He possessed none of the local coinage. A job. He needed a job. What could he do? His skills were devastating, world-ending. Not exactly marketable for a simple town laborer. He could easily build a house with a thought, or carve a quarry with a gesture, but that would defeat the purpose. Manual labor. That was an option. Lifting heavy loads, digging ditches, perhaps even assisting the blacksmith. He could feign moderate strength, enough to be useful, not enough to be alarming. Passing a bustling square, his eyes caught a large, weathered building. A sign, crudely painted, depicted a sword and shield. Below it, words he could now understand: “Adventurers' Guild.” Curiosity pulled him inside. The interior was noisy, filled with burly men and women in various states of armor, clanking tankards, and boisterous laughter. A massive bulletin board dominated one wall, covered in parchment scrolls. Perhaps this was it. Adventuring. It promised variety, allowed him to travel, and offered tasks that might seem dangerous to others but would be trivial to him. He could choose low-risk assignments, avoid anything requiring overt displays of power. He approached the counter. A stout woman with an impressive braid and a knowing smile looked up from her ledger. “Well, stranger? Looking to join the ranks, or just admiring the view?” “Joining,” Cohen said, his voice a low rumble. He tried to project an air of quiet determination, not world-shattering might. She eyed him, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “Name?” “Cohen.” “Any experience? Any skills?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Some,” he replied vaguely. “Survival, observation, basic combat.” He omitted the part about 'basic combat' meaning flattening mountains. She chuckled. “Always ‘some’ with you quiet ones. Alright, fill out this form. Standard stuff. Your background, your desired rank… start as a Novice, of course. Everybody does.” He took the parchment and quill. The questions were simple. Name, age (he picked a reasonable-sounding number, knowing his true age was beyond comprehension), preferred weapon (he wrote 'unarmed'), and a short declaration of intent. His intent was clear: earn a living, stay unnoticed, and enjoy the simple thrill of minor challenges. He wanted to feel the crunch of leaves under his boots, the warmth of a campfire, the satisfaction of a job well done without the crushing weight of universal responsibility. “Done,” he announced, handing back the form. The woman scanned it, her eyes lingering on 'unarmed'. “Brave, or foolish. We’ll see. You’ll need to pass the basic assessment. It’s mostly to see if you can follow instructions and hold your own against a training dummy. Nothing too strenuous for a newcomer.” --- He stood in a small courtyard behind the Guild, facing a straw-stuffed dummy. Its head was a bit lopsided, its arms dangling. Two other Novice hopefuls, a lanky young man with a rusty sword and a nervous-looking woman with a small dagger, waited their turn. “Alright, Cohen,” a gruff instructor called out. “Show us you can handle yourself. Basic strikes. Don’t hold back too much, but don’t destroy the equipment either.” Cohen nodded. He approached the dummy. He could dismantle it with a breath, collapse it into dust with a thought. But he needed to *act* normal. He adopted a simple stance, one he'd seen common folk use in his world. A simple jab. His fist connected with the dummy’s chest. The straw rustled. No more, no less. It felt almost… playful. He followed with a kick, aiming for its legs. The dummy swayed. He wasn't trying to show power, but control. Precision. He could deliver the exact force required, not an atom more. The instructor grunted. “Adequate. Not flashy, but clean. Next!” He passed. It was almost disappointingly easy. His adventurer's badge, a simple copper disc, felt light in his palm. Novice. The lowest rank. Perfect. Days turned into weeks. Cohen embraced the routine. He took odd jobs: delivering messages between town districts, gathering specific herbs from the nearby forest (carefully avoiding anything resembling a behemoth), helping a farmer mend a fence. Each task was a small puzzle, a minor contribution, and it filled a void he hadn’t known he could fill. He learned the rhythms of the town. The morning chatter of merchants setting up, the midday bustle around the market, the quiet evenings as families gathered. He ate simple meals at a local tavern, nodding to the regulars, never engaging in lengthy conversations. His melancholic aura kept most at a polite distance, which suited him fine. Sometimes, he’d sit by the river, watching the water flow, thinking of nothing. Just existing. It was a profound peace, fragile yet real. He hadn't felt it in centuries. The memories of his old world still lingered, a dull ache, but they no longer consumed him with the same ferocity. His meager earnings were enough to secure a small room above the baker’s shop. The scent of fresh bread was a constant, comforting presence. He bought new, simple clothes, shed the worn robes from his previous life. He was a Novice Adventurer, Cohen. No more, no less. One afternoon, back at the Guild, he perused the bulletin board. Most jobs were familiar. “Goblin patrol in the western hills,” “Lost cat in the merchant district,” “Escort for a traveling merchant to Oakhaven.” He’d considered the escort job, but it meant prolonged interaction, which he still found taxing. His eyes scanned lower, catching a new posting, tacked up fresh. The parchment was thick, the handwriting bold and clear. “Urgent: Fixing the Eastern Town Wall. High priority, decent pay for skilled labor. Inquire within.” Fixing a wall. Not fighting, not exploring. Building. Cohen felt a strange pull. Something constructive. Something that would last, even if only for a time. A physical manifestation of his new life, his contribution to this small, vibrant world. Looking forward about building a town wall.

Chapter 3: