Robard turned away from the battlements, stepping into the center of the wooden walkway to address the small squad of guards gathered on the ramparts.
Water dripped heavily from their steel kettle hats and iron pauldrons.
“Tonight, we double up.
Triple patrol!” Robard bellowed over the howling wind.
“Sort out the watches among yourselves as always, but mark my words—if I catch anyone playing dice, drinking, or slacking off, I’ll personally break every bone in your body!
Keep a close eye on the surroundings.
Now that Sigismund knows Radzig’s people have fled, he will certainly send scouts—and likely raiders—to track them.
Keep your eyes peeled and report anything out of the ordinary at once.
Understood?”
“Understood, Captain!” the guards barked in unison.
Robard nodded grimly, then turned his gaze back toward Henry.
“Henry, a word.”
Henry stepped closer, wrapping his wet tunic tighter against his chest.
“Can I be of help, Sir Robard?”
“I could use an extra pair of eyes, and yours are keen,” Robard said, his voice softening slightly.
“Will you keep watch on the battlements with my men for a few hours?”
“I’d be happy to help, my lord,” Henry replied, offering a tired, resolute nod.
“Sleep wouldn’t come to me tonight anyway.”
“Splendid,” Robard said, placing a heavy, iron-clad hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“And don’t worry, I’ll have one of the guards relieve you before dawn.
God be with you, Henry.”
“God be with you, Captain.”
With that, Sir Robard and Lord Divish turned, their cloaks snapping in the cold wind as they made their way down the stone steps toward the warmth of the inner keep.
As soon as the lords vanished down the stairwell, a grizzled guard with a thick, graying beard stepped over, leaning on his spear with a wry grin.
“Hey there, rookie,” the old man grunted.
“I’m Old John.
Captain wants me to show you your post on the patrol route.”
John shook his head, looking up at the black, pouring sky and spitting over the edge of the wall.
“Cursed weather…
Sending a wounded, half-dead lad like you out onto the ramparts in a downpour like this.
These lords really are heartless bastards sometimes.”
Henry wiped a stream of cold rainwater off his forehead and gave a dry chuckle.
“It’s still better than being a target for Cuman arrows in Skalitz.”
Old John let out a short, approving laugh.
“Fair point, lad.
Fair point.”
He led Henry down a covered stretch of the wooden catwalk overlooking the outer bailey and the main gatehouse.
“You stay posted right here under the roof overhang.
Keep your eyes on the road below.
A guard will be along to relieve you in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be fine here, John.
You can continue your patrol,” Henry said with a quiet smile.
“Keep sharp, kid,” John said, tapping his chest in farewell before turning to clank off into the darkness along the battlements.
Left completely alone in the shadow of the wooden hoarding, Henry leaned against the heavy oak timber frame, staring out into the pitch-black night toward the north—the direction of Skalitz.
To any guard looking across the courtyard, Henry appeared as a broken, traumatized boy who had lost everything in a single day, staring hopelessly into the storm that had consumed his home.
In reality, his mind was razor-sharp.
With a silent mental command, Henry summoned his interface.
A warm, golden shimmer bloomed across his vision.
He kept his head tilted toward the dark road, making sure no guard on patrol could tell he was looking at an interface.
The system wasn’t a standard, bloated game HUD—it was remarkably streamlined, yet strangely strict.
At the top of his vision, only four tabs glinted in faint golden light:
[ INVENTORY ] | [ CHARACTER ] | [ CRAFTING ] | [ CODEX ]
He immediately noticed what wasn’t there.
There was no Quest Log.
No glowing quest markers to tell him where to go, no hand-holding sub-objectives, and no checklist to complete.
Even more alarming, there was no Map.
He wouldn’t be able to open a mini-map to pinpoint enemy camps or track roads in real-time; he would have to rely entirely on his own memory, physical maps, and real-world geography.
Henry focused on the Inventory tab first.
The interface split into sub-categories: Armor, Weapons, Food, Books, and Materials.
He clicked through them, his heart sinking slightly.
Aside from the single linen Bandage he had stored from the cottage desk earlier, his inventory was virtually empty.
His equipped slots showed only his torn, blood-stained blacksmith’s tunic, muddy hose, and worn leather boots.
He backed out of the inventory and concentrated on the second tab: Character.
Let’s see what kind of baseline stats I’m actually working with…
==== CHARACTER STATUS: HENRY ======
Level : 5
[CONDITION]
Health : 60 / 100 [Wound: Thigh Arrow Graze, Bruised Ribs]
Energy : 20 / 100 [Exhausted, needs unbroken rest]
Nourishment : 30 / 100 [Starving, stomach burning]
[ATTRIBUTES] Strength : 7 (Honed by the hammer, heavy iron, and bellows)
Agility : 6 (Natural coordination and light footwork)
Vitality : 7 (Lean, healthy, mountain-valley endurance)
Speech : 4 (Village dialect; lacks courtly rhetoric)
[PRACTICAL PROFICIENCIES] Swordsmanship : 4 (Vanyek’s basic forms; lacks battlefield blooding)
Defense : 3 (Knows how to catch a blow; slow against feints)
Lockpicking : 7 (Practiced on Fritz’s locks; understands pin tension)
Stealth : 6 (Poaching habits; soft-footed in the dark)
Blacksmithing : 6 (Martin’s apprentice; knows steel folds and temper)
Herbalism : 3 (Basic forest forage, wound packing, wild garlic) ==================================================
Henry stared at the numbers, a sudden shock running through him.
Wait a minute…
these aren’t standard starter stats for a blacksmith’s boy!
Memory flooded back.
Before the Coke spilled over his PC, he had spent hours in Skalitz grinding stats—chasing sheep, picking dandelions, picking locks, and practicing basic sword drills with Vanyek until he got bored and decided to do the main story .
His gaze flicked back up to his condition indicators.
Health at 60, Energy down to 20, and Nourishment sitting at a pitiful 30.
His thigh still burned from the Cuman arrow graze, his ribs ached from the brutal horse ride, and his stomach felt completely empty.
Hold on…
Henry thought, his heart skipping a beat.
If my Skalitz grinding stats carried over…
what about the mod?
Right before booting up the save, he had opened the developer console and used a simple cheat mod to give himself a modest cash boost.
He had wanted to try a classic meme run: buy the absolute best plate armor in Rattay before ever meeting Sir Radzig, pulling up like a wealthy noble instead of a half-dead peasant.
Henry blinked, his heart taking a hard thump against his ribs.
He immediately backed out of the Status tab.
There, sitting cleanly at the top of the list, was a glowing icon:
5,000x Prague Groschen Weight: 0.0
Henry let out a soft, breathless laugh, covering his mouth to hide his grin from any nearby guards.
“It worked…” he whispered under his breath.
“Thank God I added that mod!”
Five thousand groschen in 1403 Bohemia was a staggering fortune—enough to buy high-grade plate armor, a fine horse with full tack, quality weapons, and still have enough silver left over to live comfortably for years.
Damn it, Henry thought with a grin, shaking his head.
If I knew I was going to get transported into medieval europe , I would’ve added ten million groschen and maxed every attribute to 20!
But 5,000 is a good start.
I’m not a broke blacksmith’s boy anymore.
Curious, Henry navigated over to the Skills tab to check if his perks had carried over.
In the game, he had leveled Herbalism to 10 back in Skalitz and unlocked the Leg Day perk to boost his Strength while picking plants.
He focused his mind on the list—Alchemy, Craftsmanship, Horsemanship, Houndmaster, Reading, Stealth, Survival, Thievery—and tried to click into them to view his unlocked perks.
Nothing happened.
The text stayed dull and locked.
No matter how hard he concentrated, the skill trees refused to open.
Henry blinked, trying again, but the system refused to open the perk trees.
There were no instant perk points to click, no magical skill trees, and no cheat codes that could magically grant him mastery over a blade while he slept.
If he wanted stronger arms, he would have to swing a hammer and carry heavy iron until his muscles tore and rebuilt themselves.
If he wanted to master swordplay, he would have to spend hours getting bruised by Captain Bernard’s wooden practice blades.
The system wasn’t a game engine—it was a biological mirror.
It tracked his real progress, optimizing his body so that every hour of practice yielded the muscle memory and instincts that would normally take an ordinary man months or years to build.
His growth would be exponentially faster, but every ounce of skill still had to be paid for in real sweat, fatigue, and practice.
Slowly, the reality of his situation set in, and the smile faded from his lips into a thoughtful frown.
Henry looked out into the rain toward the gatehouse armor room, his hand settling over the handle of his sword.
5,000 groschen in inventory was a fortune, but silver couldn’t stop an arrow.
To get out of Talmberg, he still needed a guard’s waffenrock, a horse, and a way past the front gate.
An additional detail regarding his carrying capacity hit him as he checked the bottom of his inventory window:
Carrying Capacity: 400.0 kg
Henry raised an eyebrow.
That was far beyond what a normal human—or even a Level 5 Henry—should be able to carry.
The system must have granted me the maximum weight limit right from the start instead of making me unlock strength perks for it, he thought with a quiet smirk.
At least I won’t have to worry about being overencumbered when I start gearing up.
For the next two hours, Henry stood under the wooden overhang, watching the relentless rain hammer down onto the dark courtyard of Talmberg.
Cold wind whipped past the stone battlements, soaking his tunic and making his wounded thigh throb with a dull ache.
Just as his knees were beginning to give out from sheer exhaustion, heavy footsteps squelched along the wet catwalk.
Old John stepped out of the darkness, holding a small wooden bowl covered with a rough cloth.
“Alright, lad, that’s enough for tonight,” John said, handing the bowl over to Henry.
Inside sat a thick chunk of dark, rock-hard rye bread, a slice of sharp yellow cheese, and a small earthenware mug of stale ale.
“Get this down your neck and head back to your room.
Captain’s orders.
You need unbroken sleep if you want those wounds to heal before infection takes hold.”
“Thank you, John,” Henry said, genuinely grateful.
“God be with you.”
“God be with you, kid.
Get some rest.”
Henry carried the meager meal back through the dark stone archway and down into the small wooden room inside the keep.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the straw bed, his stomach rumbling violently.
He tore off a piece of the rye bread and began chewing.
It was tough as leather and practically stale enough to break a tooth, but he forced it down alongside the salty cheese.
He picked up the clay mug and took a long swig of the ale.
It tasted bitter, flat, and sour—nothing like the cold, crisp drinks he was used to back in the 21st century.
But Henry swallowed it without complaint.
He knew enough history to realize that in 1403, unboiled river water was a guaranteed ticket to dysentery or cholera.
Stale ale was far safer than cold water.
After finishing every last crumb, Henry wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, kicked off his muddy boots, and lay back down on the prickly straw bed.
His body was exhausted, his muscles ached, and his thigh burned, but as he pulled the rough woolen blanket over his shoulders, his mind was remarkably clear.
He had 5,000 groschen sitting in his system, 400 kilograms of inventory space, and a oath to fulfill.
Closing his eyes against the dark, Henry let sleep pull him under.
Tomorrow, he would steal the guard armor and break out of Talmberg.