Gideon spent the next hour doing what any mildly traumatized, semi-sentient NPC with imported player memories would do in a situation like this—he lied.
Not out of malice. Just the gentle kind. The kind of lies made from soft words and half-truths, carefully wrapped in familiar tones and harmless explanations.
He told his family he was just tired. That he'd collapsed from overwork. That maybe he hadn't been eating right. That the Cathedral's air had always smelled weird and probably knocked him out or something.
Alice nodded solemnly. His parents exchanged knowing glances like they'd been waiting for this day ever since he forgot to take a coat during last year's frost season.
They didn't question it. Not once.
Of course they didn't.
This was Gideon. The reliable one. The dependable one. The guide who always knew what to say, what to do, and which monster dropped worthwhile loot. He'd never given them a reason to doubt him before.
So when he smiled and said he'd be fine after some rest, they smiled back and believed it.
And that hurt a little more than he expected.
Because for the first time in his life—no, in either of his lives—he couldn't share the truth with the people he trusted most.
Not the voice in his head.
Not the memories that weren't his.
Not the status board floating somewhere behind his eyelids.
Not the fact that he was now part guide, part player, part... problem.
Eventually, after a lot of hugging and fussing and Alice very pointedly trying to rearrange his pillow like a full-time nurse, they finally left him alone to rest.
The door clicked softly shut behind them.
Gideon stared at it for a moment.
The smile on his face lingered for a heartbeat longer.
Then it quietly faded.
It had only been there for them. A soft mask. A harmless lie.
Because the truth?
He didn't feel fine.
Not even close.
The fake smile dropped like a poorly coded illusion spell.
His expression flattened, eyes sharpening with the kind of focus that only shows up when a person stops pretending and starts internally screaming with structure.
He let out a breath—not dramatic, not heavy—just the kind people use when they know they're about to dive headfirst into a situation that absolutely doesn't come with a tutorial.
And then, without needing to call it or even think too hard, the interface reappeared in front of him.
Floating. Unbothered. Slightly smug, if that was even possible for translucent UI.
He glanced at it, narrowing his eyes.
Five stats.
Just five.
Simple. Clean. Absolutely loaded with unspoken chaos.
Constitution. Intelligence. Strength. Dexterity. Agility.
No flair. No shiny animations. Just raw numbers, sitting there with the casual arrogance of a reality that suddenly expected him to understand combat math.
He already knew what each one meant. He'd explained them to Players a thousand times, after all. It was basically part of his dialogue wheel. Escort NPCs had to know things—directions, monster spawns, item shop hours, which stats did what—but knowing about stats and actually having stats were two very different things.
Gideon stared at the numbers like they were personally responsible for his current stress.
"Okay. So I've officially crossed into the other side of the glass."
Before this, stats were just invisible lines on someone else's page. Now? They were his.
Which meant this wasn't theoretical anymore.
This was real.
And for the first time in his existence, the world wasn't just something he explained to others.
It was something he had to survive in.
Gideon narrowed his eyes at the glowing interface in front of him, the stat board floating with the quiet authority of something that now ruled his life whether he liked it or not.
Constitution. Ten HP per point. A steady stream of health regeneration. Resistance to all the annoying things that made battles unfair—poisons, freezes, paralysis, confusion, mind control. A stat made for survival, built for people who intended to get hit and live to complain about it.
Intelligence. Ten MP per point. Better mana flow, faster recovery. Stronger magic, if you had it. But more than that, it reached into the brain—sharpening memory, tuning up logic, and enhancing the kind of observation that made people say things like "Did you see that?" when no one else did. The stat wasn't just smart. It made you smarter.
Strength. Ten SP per point. Stamina. Physical power. A stat that put more weight behind every punch, swing, lift, and effort. Everything heavy got lighter. Everything breakable, more breakable. It even improved appearance by making the muscles more pronounced—toned, defined, sharpened like a sculptor had done some sneaky touch-ups while you slept.
Dexterity. Precision, grace, and control. Every point tuned the body like an instrument—faster hand movements, cleaner technique, sharper reactions. It sharpened weapon handling and gave finesse to even the clumsiest actions. A stat for professionals. Or thieves. Or anyone who wanted to draw a sword without throwing it across the room.
Agility. The art of speed. Movement, dodging, attacking—this stat poured into every motion. Where Strength made you hit hard, Agility made sure you hit fast—and didn't get hit back. Every point made steps lighter, dodges cleaner, slashes faster than they had any right to be. It also improved the damage of weapons that scaled with speed—agility-based blades, thrown weapons, light projectiles. If it flew fast or moved sharp, Agility made it deadlier.
Gideon put his hand on his chin.
The move was dramatic in a low-energy sort of way, like his brain was staging a protest and his fingers were there to mediate. He wasn't thinking deeply—just buffering. Slowly. Like someone trying to download clarity on a bad connection.
"Yeah, no. Whatever this is, it feels like tomorrow's problem. Preferably after sleep, food, and maybe a full brain reboot."
Gideon looked at his skills. The skill Inheritance of the Doomed was there—the curse skill Agharan given to him.
It hovered at the top like a cursed heirloom no one wanted to touch, glowing faintly like it knew it wasn't welcome but had squatter's rights. The title alone gave off cursed-side-quest energy, the kind where rewards came gift-wrapped in nightmares.
He already knew what it does, and immediately looked at the other skill on the list.
No need to re-read. That knowledge was already burned into his memory like a bad tutorial he couldn't skip. So he moved on—like any sane man eyeing the next least horrifying option on a cursed menu.
Gideon's eyes darted to the single Tier 1 skill he had—Fleetpaw Instinct. A passive skill that granted him 50% movement speed when he was in a grassland environment.
There it was. His one normal-looking skill. The only part of this new mess that didn't sound like it would open a portal to his own downfall.
This was the skill of the Grassland Wolf he killed back then.
The memory wasn't flattering. One part blind panic, two parts dumb luck, and just a sprinkle of wild flailing. Somehow, that hot mess had resulted in a dead wolf, a skill drop, and a very confused ex-NPC with grass-enhanced speed.
Fifty percent. That was no joke. But only on grass. Real, actual, green-swaying-in-the-wind grass. If the terrain had so much as a cobblestone, the boost took a break.
Still… better than nothing.
And if all else failed, at least he'd be able to dramatically sprint through a field.
Gideon knew that he was not supposed to get this skill because he killed that wolf before receiving Inheritance of the Doomed from Agharan.
It didn't take a genius to piece that together. The timestamps were off. The order was wrong. The wolf had dropped before the curse ever touched him, which meant the skill shouldn't have registered under his name at all.
The wolf skill was given to him by Agharan as a starting skill, which all Players had when they got summoned.
Standard procedure. Every fresh arrival came with one basic skill—nothing flashy, but enough to keep them from dying in the tutorial zone. It was like a welcome gift from the world's least friendly game master.
The only difference was he didn't have a chance to choose his starter skill.
No list. No preview. No, "click to confirm your fate." Just a silent download in the background and a glowing line of text waiting for him when he finally opened the menu.
But Gideon concluded that it's better than not having any skill to start with.
Even if it was recycled. Even if it came with fur still metaphorically attached. At least it was something. Something fast. Something usable.
Something his new, very breakable self could rely on while figuring out how to survive in a world where people casually used swords bigger than their legs.
Gideon got up with the dramatic energy of a man who had just remembered he was broke.
His eyes flicked toward the corner of the room, where an old piggy bank sat like a forgotten relic of optimism. It was shaped like a pig, naturally—clay, chunky, and slightly cross-eyed like it had questions about its own existence. Dust clung to it like a second skin, but the important part was the sound it made when he picked it up.
Clank. Clink. Clonk.
Music to his financially anxious ears.
He gave it a little shake, just to be sure. More clanks. Not bad. Not great. But definitely not empty.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Gideon reached for a small hammer he kept around for totally normal reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with emotional breakdowns or ill-advised DIY furniture. The piggy bank didn't stand a chance.
He gave it one clean smack.
Clay shattered like it had been waiting to give up. Shards crumbled apart and rolled across the floor like confetti from a very underfunded party.
Inside, lying in a neat little pile as if they hadn't just lived inside a hollow animal for three years, were six gold coins.
Six.
That was it. That was the grand sum total of his life savings.
He stared at them.
Six lonely, slightly dusty coins.
This was what he'd managed to put aside since day one of working as a Player Escort—a job that definitely sounded fancier than it paid.
Life, as it turned out, charged food costs. And occasionally surprise monster damage fees when a particularly excitable boar decided to break someone's fence and he got guilt-tripped into fixing it.
But every now and then—usually when he wasn't emotionally drained or spiritually bankrupt—he had dropped a single coin into that piggy bank.
So yeah. Six gold.
One coin for each time he remembered to be financially literate.
He crouched, scooped up the coins, and let them roll between his fingers. The gold was warm, slightly grimy, and jingled with the smugness of being rare and hoardable.
He tilted his head, lips twitching into something halfway between a sigh and a smirk.
"I mean, hey. Could be worse. Could've been five."
•••••
Morning came like it had somewhere to be—quiet, slow, and a little too bright for anyone's taste.
Sunlight slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls, soft and golden, painting lazy lines across the floor like it was trying to decorate without permission.
The warmth touched everything it could reach, brushing the old planks with a gentle glow and hinting that maybe, just maybe, today wasn't going to be a complete mess.
Alice marched down the hall with the kind of cheerful energy that only existed in younger siblings and people who'd slept well. Her footsteps were light, her pace quick, and that grin on her face was already prepped for maximum teasing. She had one mission, and it was called Wake-Up Duty: Gideon Edition.
She stopped in front of his door, lifted her tiny hand, and aimed for that knock like a champion.
But before her knuckles even touched the wood, the door swung open.
Gideon stepped out.
Wide awake.
Alert.
Looking like he had just finished writing a dramatic speech in the mirror and was about to declare war on procrastination.
Alice blinked. She blinked again.
For the first time in actual memory, she didn't have to drag him out of bed like a blanket-loving hermit.
Not even a single groggy grunt. No sleepy hair ruffling. No complaints about mornings being unnatural.
Alice stared at him like someone had just rearranged the laws of reality behind her back.
Gideon leaned down just enough to ruffle the top of Alice's head, fingers landing with the expert precision of an older brother who knew exactly how to annoy and endear in the same motion. His smirk said it all—calculated mischief with just a hint of dramatic flair.
"Good morning, dearest sister."
Alice didn't move. Probably because her brain was still rebooting from the earlier shock of seeing him awake before noon.
He strolled past her with the confidence of someone who had made exactly one good life choice and intended to ride that high for the rest of the day.
The corridor creaked underfoot—narrow, familiar, and just slightly too cramped to pass someone without bumping shoulders. Not that it mattered. Gideon moved through it like a man on a mission, dramatic inner monologue not included but heavily implied.
By the time he reached the dining room, his pace had shifted into something more casual. He pulled out a chair and sat next to his father without a word, slipping into his seat like he'd always been there and absolutely hadn't just been unconscious in a cathedral the day before.
Cecily was already there—efficient as ever—moving with the grace of someone who could probably serve food and scold someone at the same time if needed. She placed the morning meal in front of them, warm and simple, no unnecessary fuss.
"How are you feeling this morning, Gideon?"
He didn't answer right away.
He just smiled. That same sly smile he used when he'd done something weird but wanted you to think it was on purpose.
"Strangely well... more than I expected, honestly."
Cecily gave a small nod, satisfied with the answer, like she didn't need any further proof as long as he could deliver lines with that much confidence.
Cecily eased into her seat, quiet and thoughtful, though not in a suspicious way—more like a mother trying to read subtitles that weren't showing up.
Beside her, Alice and Greg wore nearly identical expressions: a strange mix of confusion, curiosity, and the vague concern of people witnessing a rare phenomenon, like a cat doing taxes.
Their eyes drifted to Gideon, who was already busy with breakfast. But it wasn't the eating that had them blinking.
It was the hair.
His hair—neat. Tidy. Combed. Purposeful.
This was not the hair of someone who woke up five minutes ago and fought his blanket in the process. This was the hair of a man who looked in a mirror and made decisions.
Cecily squinted, the gears in her head very clearly turning.
"Did you comb your hair this morning?"
"I figured I had a few extra minutes to spare."
Short. Calm. Delivered with zero shame and just enough casual confidence to make it weirder.
He didn't elaborate. He just started eating like this was perfectly normal, like he hadn't just fundamentally altered the unspoken law of Gideon Mornings.
The rest of the table watched him chew like he might reveal the secret to time travel mid-bite.
Something was definitely off.
Not bad-off. Not danger-off. Just... off in a way they couldn't quite name.
There was a slight shift to the way he moved, the way he responded. Nothing dramatic. Just smoother. A little sharper. A little too calm.
And when he spoke? There it was again.
That tone. That rhythm. Words rolled out of him with the same kind of ease most people reserved for thoughts that had been said a hundred times.
It was the way Players talked. Modern. Polished. Lightly ironic in all the wrong places.
Except on him, it didn't sound fake.
It didn't sound borrowed.
It sounded like something he'd always been able to do—like the words had just been waiting for permission to show up.
Gideon cleared his throat—not the dramatic kind, not the awkward kind, but the kind people use when they're about to drop a sentence they've rehearsed in their head six different ways and still aren't sure which version is safest.
He looked around the table. Three pairs of eyes, three different kinds of love, and one shared look of quiet curiosity, like they were trying to guess whether he was about to confess a crime or declare a career change.
"Mom… Dad… Alice. You all know I love you, don't you?"
There was a pause.
Not the polite kind.
The heavy kind, like time was politely backing away and saying, "Nope. This one's yours."
Cecily's spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bowl. It bounced once, then rolled slightly before settling into an uncomfortable silence—one that matched the expression on her face far too well.
Her eyes were wide. Wide enough to start forecasting doom.
"My stars, Gideon—what kind of question is that? Are you about to tell us something terrible?"
Gideon blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and offense. He raised a hand, vaguely gesturing at his perfectly functional limbs and mostly intact spirit.
"You do remember we're not exactly built to die normally, right? Unless a divine lunatic gets involved."
Greg leaned forward, arms crossed like a man who'd sat through one too many long-winded tales already today.
"Then why say something like that after what happened yesterday? You're making us worry all over again."
Gideon opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then reopened it.
Okay. Fair.
It did sound like he was about to deliver a farewell letter from a rooftop.
Gideon smiled—but not the usual kind. Not the lopsided one he used when dodging chores, or the guilty one reserved for "I accidentally broke something but fixed it before you noticed." This one was different.
It was calm. Steady. The kind of smile that didn't wobble or hide behind jokes. The kind that knew exactly what it was doing.
"I'm not dying. And I'm not about to let anything harm this family… whatever it takes, I'll protect all of you. That's a promise."
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They sat in the air with quiet weight, like they were meant to stay long after the moment passed.
Across the table, Cecily blinked. Alice tilted her head. Greg frowned just a little—not upset, just puzzled, like someone trying to read a book with half the pages missing.
Then, in perfect sibling-parent-union, all three of them turned to each other with equally confused faces, silently holding a roundtable meeting through glances alone.
They clearly had no idea what was going on.
But they nodded anyway.
"Um… okay?"
"Sure?"
"Right…?"
It came out in uncertain harmony—three voices stacked like an improvised choir that wasn't sure if they were agreeing or just trying to be polite.
Gideon watched them, the smile still hovering at the edge of his lips.
They didn't get it.
They didn't need to.
But they would.
Because in that moment, behind his calm expression, something shifted. A quiet focus settled in his gaze—determination, clear and direct, flickering like a new kind of fire behind his eyes.
Something had changed.
And whether or not the rest of the world noticed yet, Gideon had already made up his mind.