•••••
NAME: Gideon Brangwen.
CLASS: Non-Player Character.
SUBCLASS: New Player Escort.
GOLD: 6
LEVEL: 1
HP: 10/10
MP: 10/10
SP: 10/10
•••••
Gideon stepped out of the house with all the casual confidence of a man pretending nothing was weird.
Morning light filtered down in lazy strips, catching the edge of rooftops and brushing the ground like it had all the time in the world. The breeze was just light enough to whisper things like "you definitely have a stat screen now", which he politely ignored.
A few villagers offered their usual nods and waves—cheerful, unaware, blissfully grounded in a world that still made sense.
He waved back, smile in place, shoulders relaxed, footsteps steady.
From the outside, it looked like a normal day.
But it wasn't.
Not even close.
Because instead of heading straight toward the town circle—where responsibilities lived and routine politely tapped its foot—Gideon took a sharp turn down a narrower road, the kind people called a "shortcut" when they really meant "suspicious side alley."
His destination wasn't marked. It didn't need to be. Everyone who needed to know knew exactly where the back alley weapon shop was. And everyone else was too smart to ask.
Gideon didn't walk fast. He wasn't rushing. But there was a purpose to it now. A shift. Like the steps of someone who finally had a secret and wasn't sure if it was a blessing, a glitch, or a very elaborate prank from a divine being with bad social skills.
He waited until the street quieted.
Then, with the mental equivalent of a hesitant poke, he opened the interface.
It responded immediately, flickering to life in front of him like it had been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
A series of soft, translucent panels bloomed into view—sleek, minimalist, and entirely too confident for something that hadn't even offered a tutorial.
Gideon focused.
With a few practiced clicks—mental, instinctive, second-nature even though they'd never been second-nature before—he summoned the Gear Slots and Inventory interface.
•••••
GEAR SLOTS:
WEAPON 1:
WEAPON 2:
WEAPON 3:
WEAPON 4:
WEAPON 5:
WEAPON 6:
WEAPON 7:
WEAPON 8:
WEAPON 9:
WEAPON 10:
HEAD:
TORSO:
ARMS:
HANDS:
LEGS:
NECKLACE:
EARRING 1:
EARRING 2:
RING 1:
RING 2:
•••••
INVENTORY:
1:
2:
3:
4:
5:
6:
7:
8:
9:
10:
•••••
Gideon looked at his weapon slots.
And paused.
There was a very specific kind of silence that happened when the brain tripped over something it wasn't built to process, and this was it. A short, stunned pause. The mental equivalent of a double-take.
He stared.
Confusion wasn't quite the word for it—it was more like quiet disbelief mixed with the faint suspicion that the system was messing with him.
Ten.
There were ten weapon slots sitting neatly in front of him.
Not two. Not even a hidden extra tucked behind some upgrade tree. Ten.
Each one was listed clearly, labeled without fanfare, lined up like it was the most normal thing in the world.
A player was only supposed to have two weapon slots. That was standard. Every rule, every guidebook, every game-side explanation he'd ever recited to confused Players said so.
One slot for the main weapon, one for a backup—anything more than that was pushing it into high-level flexibility.
But here he was.
Ten.
And the reason?
Sitting quietly in the system's explanation, plain as anything: his subclass.
New Player Escort.
A designation that once meant he could show people where the potion shop was and explain why the Forest Boars weren't worth grinding past Level 1.
A harmless title. A support role. Something background characters got when the world needed a reliable face in the tutorial zone.
But the subclass came with a quirk.
Or maybe a flaw.
A natural ability, hardcoded into its function: universal weapon compatibility.
Which meant this wasn't a bug.
It wasn't a mistake.
It was a feature.
Because the system had decided—without asking—that if he could guide new players through every weapon type in the game, then he must be qualified to use them all.
So it gave him the capacity.
Ten slots.
He could equip ten weapons at once.
All types. No restrictions.
It was absurd.
Absurd in that quiet, rules-don't-apply-here kind of way that made balancing teams cry.
No Player started with this.
And he had it now. By default.
He just stared at the slots again. Clean. Empty. Waiting.
It wasn't the power that unsettled him—it was the potential.
The kind of potential that came with choices. With consequences. With figuring out what kind of person actually needed ten weapons.
And right now?
He wasn't even sure what kind of person he was.
Gideon slipped through the narrow alley with the quiet confidence of someone who definitely wasn't doing anything suspicious, despite the setting loudly insisting otherwise. The shadows here didn't just hang—they lounged, draped across the cracked walls and uneven cobblestone like they'd been here so long they started paying rent.
At the very end of the path, tucked between two leaning buildings that looked like they were in a long-term argument about personal space, sat a shop.
Calling it a shop was generous.
It was more like a structure that happened to contain items, and legally counted as a business because someone, somewhere, was willing to exchange coin for what was technically gear.
Old. Crooked. Small enough to mistake for a tool shed on a bad day.
There was no sign.
No open hours posted.
The door looked like it had survived at least two minor disasters and was only hanging on out of habit.
Gideon didn't hesitate.
He reached for the handle and pushed it open, expecting the usual.
He got... something slightly better.
Not better better. Just less concerning.
Inside, the shop looked like a clearance bin had exploded mid-spin.
Weapons of every shape and size were scattered across the room like someone had tried organizing them by the method of "throw it wherever you stop caring." Rusted daggers, chipped swords, bent polearms—all strewn across the floor, leaning against walls, hanging from nails that absolutely weren't meant to bear that kind of weight.
There was no organization. No logic. Just piles. Stacks. Heaps.
And somehow, against all odds, it looked cleaner than usual.
Fewer spider webs. Less weird dust buildup. One of the piles might've even been swept around.
Gideon raised an eyebrow, stepping carefully over what may have once been a throwing axe, now retired into doorstop duties.
"Wow. Emir, did you go and clean up or something? This place looks almost respectable. I can see the floor. That's new."
From somewhere behind the clutter—past the leaning shelves, the weapon bundles tied together with mystery rope, and a suspicious stack of shields doing a perfect impression of modern art—movement stirred.
A creak. A shuffle. The soft sound of something being knocked over and promptly ignored.
Then he appeared.
From the back of the shop emerged a man who looked like he'd lost a wrestling match with both time and gravity—but still walked like he'd won. His hair, long and silver, framed the sides and back of his head in dramatic waves, while the top remained proudly bald, like it had decided decades ago that growing hair was optional.
He moved with the slow confidence of someone who knew exactly where everything was, even if it didn't look like it. A few steps later, he was behind the counter—a solid slab of aged wood that had more cracks than a retired adventurer's knee joints.
He spotted Gideon and smiled.
It wasn't a big smile. Just the kind that tugged at the edges of his mouth and creased the lines that time had etched into his face. Familiar. Dry. The kind of expression that came with an entire history of sarcastic bargains and poorly stored inventory.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite little guide-to-beat-things. What brings you crawling through the junk today? Your old man snap another pickaxe in half mining?"
"Not this time. I'm actually here to buy a few Tier 0 weapons—y'know, the kind that still vaguely function."
Emir's expression shifted ever so slightly.
One brow lifted. His mouth twitched, like a man trying to decide if he misheard or if reality had quietly rewritten its rules when he wasn't paying attention.
He looked Gideon up and down, squinting in that slow, deliberate way shopkeepers do when someone walks in asking for things that don't match their usual category.
Gideon. Guide. Floor One. Professionally non-lethal.
Now asking for weapons.
Weapons.
The kind that didn't come with a safety disclaimer or a refund policy.
There was a pause.
"Tier 0 weapons? What for, lad? Planning to defend your carrots from aggressive rabbits?"
The grin Gideon gave in return was automatic—amused, relaxed, and way too casual for the topic at hand. For a second, Emir might've believed it was all a joke.
Except Gideon kept talking.
"Nah. I figured I'd start crawling the Dungeon soon. Nothing fancy, just testing the waters. Tier 1's too pricey—one hundred gold for a sword that lights up when you sneeze? Can't swing that yet. So, I'll make do with Tier 0 gear. No bonus stats, no glow, but they still stab things. Probably."
Emir stared.
Then nodded.
Slowly.
The kind of nod reserved for moments where comprehension had politely exited the building, but social instinct demanded a response anyway.
His eyes said what.
His head said sure.
The two parts did not match.
But he kept nodding like he understood anyway.
Gideon let out a sigh. Not the dramatic kind. More like the slow exhale of someone trying to explain taxes to a very confused cat.
He scratched the back of his head like that might summon patience from the void.
"Alright. I'm just gonna say it straight. I need weapons. Multiple. Today."
Emir didn't move right away.
There was a small pause—just long enough to make Gideon mildly concerned that the man might be rebooting. Then, another slow nod, full of the same cautious agreement people gave when pretending they totally understood a complicated plan they'd absolutely missed the first half of.
"I've no idea what you're planning, kid. But fine. Your coin's good. Let's figure it out. What sort of gear are you thinking? Any battle style in mind?"
He leaned a little closer, as if this part was routine again, like explaining weapon loadouts was his real job and not just an excuse to rummage through piles of iron and pray nothing was secretly cursed.
"You probably already know this, but just in case you've taken a hit to the head lately—Dungeon damage comes in three flavors. Strength's for heavy hitters—smash, slam, break bones. Intelligence is your magical type—fireballs, zaps, and all the glowy stuff. And Agility, that's for speed. Dodging, dashing, projectiles—makes light weapons sing and sharp things sharper."
He waved a hand vaguely at the wall, where a spear was hanging sideways on a hook meant for hats.
"But you're an Escort. Bet you've explained that breakdown more times than I've said 'don't lean on the sword rack.'"
Gideon tilted his head, thinking.
It wasn't just about picking favorites anymore. He had ten weapon slots. Ten. He could afford to go wide.
"I'll need a one-handed sword... a shield... a greatsword... Twinshift Blades if you've got them... and a bow, with arrows to match."
He said it plainly, like he was ordering lunch and not listing five completely different approaches to combat in one breath.
Because why not?
If the system was going to hand him a ridiculous weapon allowance, he might as well shop like someone preparing for a Dungeon crawl and a mid-boss fashion show at the same time.
Emir stared at Gideon like he'd just ordered every item on the menu and asked for it to go.
There was a long pause. The kind that stretched just enough to feel awkward but not enough to stop the process.
"Alright then. That's... quite the shopping list."
He didn't argue, though. Just gave a little huff, turned around, and started digging through the organized chaos that was his inventory system—otherwise known as "whatever pile the weapon landed in last."
First came the one-handed sword.
It looked like it had been forged during an economic downturn. The edge was still intact—mostly—but the blade had that slightly worn finish that suggested it had seen more tree chopping than combat. It scaled with Strength, naturally. Nothing fancy. Just the basics. Swing hard, hope harder.
Then came the shield.
Steel, yes. Solid? Mostly. It was shaped right, heavy enough to deflect a blow, and just light enough not to immediately break your wrist. A little faded, the metal dulled with time, and a small dent in the side that felt like it had a story no one wanted to hear again. No stats, no shine, but it would hold.
Next, the greatsword.
This one took a bit longer to find. It was tucked behind a broken crate, half-wrapped in old cloth like it was hiding from responsibility.
Emir dragged it out with a grunt, dusted it once with his sleeve, and gave it a look that screamed functional enough. Cracks traced the surface near the base of the blade, nothing fatal, but enough to make someone nervous about overcommitting to overhead swings.
Also Strength-scaled—because if you were going to swing that much steel around, you'd better bring the muscles.
Then came the Twinshift Blades.
Now these looked different.
They were resting in a faded wooden box near the far wall, nestled between a busted halberd and a spear with half a tip. Emir pulled them out gently, almost cautiously, like even he knew they weren't standard fare.
Two slender swords, crafted to shift—lock together into a twinblade or separate into dual weapons. Light, fast, clearly meant for someone with reflexes and the sense to not fight head-on. The grip had a faint groove, the metal tinged in a way that suggested speed over durability. Agility scaling, naturally. Made for darting in and out, not tanking hits.
Lastly, the bow.
It was wooden. Plain. Modest.
The kind of bow you'd give to someone just learning which end to hold. No carvings, no embellishments, just a steady curve and a bowstring that had seen better days but wasn't fraying—yet. It wasn't going to win any contests, but it could still shoot an arrow where it needed to go.
Speaking of arrows—
Emir grabbed a quiver from a nearby shelf, turned it upside down, gave it a shake, and let twenty arrows tumble out onto the counter.
Each one had a different colored feather.
Not intentionally. Just… whatever he had lying around.
One red, one blue, a few green, two that looked suspiciously like pigeon feathers, and one rogue arrow with a shiny gold ribbon tied near the tip for absolutely no explainable reason.
Gideon looked at the collection spread across the counter.
The weapon quality was debatable.
The stats were nonexistent.
But somehow, it all felt right.
Emir eyed the lineup of weapons now covering most of the counter like someone mentally calculating how much dignity each piece had left.
He did a slow count, then nodded to himself.
"That's gonna run you six gold. One per item. No haggling—these beauties are already generously priced at rock-bottom."
Gideon didn't argue. He was too used to the pricing logic of back-alley vendors, which mostly followed the sacred rule of "you get what you get, and also maybe tetanus."
He flicked open his gold interface with a thought.
The digital shimmer of the menu slid into view with that soft transparency only visible to him—six gold coins sitting in their own little corner, shiny, slightly warm, and now suddenly feeling a lot more valuable than they had yesterday.
He pinched the coins into reality, one by one, until they rested neatly in his palm. Solid. Tangible. Slightly heavier than they looked.
With a smooth motion, he slid them across the counter.
Except Emir didn't take them.
He didn't even look at the gold.
Instead, his hand moved past the coins entirely—and closed around Gideon's wrist.
It wasn't hard. It wasn't dramatic. But it was firm. Steady. Like someone anchoring a boat before the storm rolled in.
Emir's voice dropped—not into anger, not into warning—but into something quieter. Rougher around the edges.
"Listen close, boy. Don't go doing anything that rips you off the rails. Breaking script sounds noble until it isn't. You don't want to find out what happens to NPCs who try rewriting their roles."
His grip didn't tighten. It didn't need to.
The weight of the words landed all on their own.
Gideon let a small smirk play across his lips—not cocky, not smug, just quiet and steady, like someone who'd finally accepted something unchangeable and decided to walk with it anyway.
His fingers brushed the edge of the weapons laid out on the counter, one by one. There was no chant. No dramatic gesture. Just contact.
And in an instant, each item dissolved.
Blue particles shimmered into the air, delicate and fleeting, like mist catching the light. The sword flickered away first, followed by the shield, then the greatsword. The Twinshift Blades vanished together in a fluid swirl, almost like they were syncing mid-transfer. The bow followed last, fading like a final breath.
The quiver didn't even pause—it blinked out of existence with the casual efficiency of a package being rerouted straight into storage.
All of it gone.
But not really.
His Gear Slots accepted them without complaint. Each weapon slid into place like it had always belonged there. The arrows tucked themselves neatly into his inventory, joining the quiet, modest lineup of whatever else was rattling around in that system space.
Across the counter, Emir froze.
His eyes widened—not in fear, not even shock, but something softer. Something deeper.
He'd seen this before. Dozens of times.
The gear shimmer. The particle transfer. The clean system slotting that only happened when a Player claimed their items.
But this wasn't a Player.
This was Gideon.
A boy he'd known since he was barely tall enough to peek over the counter. An Escort. A guide. An NPC built for directions, polite warnings, and cheerful side quests.
Not... this.
Not weapon syncing.
Not gear loading.
Not system behavior.
"Unfortunately... I already know what happens to the ones who break their roles."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was just still. The kind of still that came with pieces sliding into place. Realization threading its way through a slow understanding.
Emir's gaze shifted.
The coins were still sitting on the counter.
The hand he'd gripped was now gone.
And the man in front of him was no longer just a familiar NPC.
"Gideon... You..."
Gideon turned without a sound.
His steps were light. Unhurried.
But something in the way he walked carried the finality of someone who had already chosen the road, even if he didn't know where it led yet.
"See you around, Emir."
•••••
GEAR SLOTS:
WEAPON 1: Tier 0: Sword.
WEAPON 2: Tier 0: Shield.
WEAPON 3: Tier 0: Greatsword.
WEAPON 4: Tier 0: Twinshift blades.
WEAPON 5: Tier 0: Bow.
•••••
INVENTORY:
1: Tier 0: Wooden Arrow x20
•••••