On Earth, I spent every waking hour watching YouTube fingerpicking tutorials, drilling chord transitions until the skin on my fingertips turned raw.
Starting from something simple to Stay Here Forever, it felt nice.
When I crossed back into Brewstrong's tavern, I tested the guitar in the back room.
The six strings vibrated with a clean acoustic tone, showing no signs of magical detonation or glowing runes.
Over the next two days, I performed short sets, pulling from American radio hits, British indie tracks, K-pop melodies, and old Chinese pop ballads my mother used to play on the radio. Mostly easy to play and sing.
Brewstrong and the few regulars went from squinting in confusion to tapping their boots against the wooden floorboards.
Audience numbers remained low, and my pay was still dry bread and a straw bed, but the foundation was forming.
[Brewstrong Affection increased to 5]
By the fourth day, my fingers moved with greater fluidity. I began varying the chord progressions instead of relying on basic four-chord loops.
To improve the performance, I even printed the lyrics and guitar score.
My music skipped past centuries of slow classical evolution, dragging medieval ears straight into contemporary songwriting.
“Who wrote these songs?”
“Me. I wrote all of them.”
"Where did you find that thing?" a local tanner asked, pointing at the soundboard. “Why does it sound so good?”
“Who made that…? Is it spelled?” Questions came one and another.
"A personal invention," I lied with a straight face. "Call it a Leetar."
Word began to spread through the lower districts. Curious travelers and laborers trickled in to witness the strange foreigner playing unfamiliar melodies on a strange wooden box.
A few patrons even connected the rumors to the Master of Flavors from Falkenreach.
"Are you the wanderer who brings miracles from the road?" a merchant asked.
I offered a quiet smile without confirming or denying a thing.
By the sixth day, the tavern was packed to the doors every evening.
With the intense practice, I could whistle while playing a simple version of Andrew Prahlow's Travelers. It felt very fitting for the occasion. Surprisingly, the piece was a hit and drew constant praise.
My living conditions improved.
The dry crusts were replaced by thick cuts of smoked beef, warm porridge, and dark ale.
Brewstrong even offered to sweep the backroom himself. Since carrying the instrument back and forth across realities was cumbersome, I left the guitar on a wall hook in the tavern.
When Brewstrong asked if he could touch the polished wood, I nodded, earning an expression of respect from the hardened dwarf.
[Brewstrong Affection increased to 15]
By the fourteenth day, the performance had turned into a local phenomenon.
People from across the outer districts crowded into the damp tavern just to hear an outlander sing strange but catchy hooks.
Brewstrong’s failing dive had become one of the busiest spots outside the capital walls.
In a world where minstrel ballads were recycled endlessly, I offered a brand-new setlist every single night.
Sitting on the elevated wooden stool under the lantern light, I found my voice, settling into a natural rhythm.
At the end of the night, Brewstrong handed me a small leather pouch filled with silver coins.
“What’s that?”
“You deserve this, outlander.” He said, “Ceresha's bounty upon you.”
Looking at my first real earnings in this realm, hot tears almost welled up.
“Thanks,” I replied.
[Brewstrong Affection increased to 25]
[Reputation increased to 28]
[Reputation in Ordanskrone increased to 10]
[Groschen coins increased to 35]
I began tracking which melodies landed best, adjusting my tempo to match the crowd's energy.
On peak nights, I played for three to four hours straight, singing until my vocal cords burned and my shoulders locked up.
Returning to the modern hotel room, I would rest my voice for an entire day.
Clara grew curious about my routine, making sure I hadn't smuggled another batch of modern items across the rift.
When I explained that I was simply performing with an acoustic instrument, she gave me a thoughtful look.
"What if enchanting the minds of men with strange songs is how the artifact's distortion shows?" she asked.
"Then it's a harmless distortion," I replied.
"Or to others, a dark witchcraft," she warned. "It carries the death penalty."
"I don’t care. If they come for me, they come for both of us anyway." I smiled. “I’ll be counting on you.”
“How feral!”
By the sixteenth day, having accumulated hundreds of hours of focused practice across both dimensions, my chord control and fingerstyle picking had grown remarkably sharp.
The rapid progress felt surreal, even if I was still far from a master musician.
Though the mental fatigue remained, the satisfaction of commanding an entire room through music made the exhaustion worth it.
A squad of Imperial Inquisitors in black cloaks pushed through the crowd, intending to arrest me for disturbing public order and spreading foreign verse.
Yet, as the acoustic chords echoed through the room, even the lead officer paused near the door, his hand resting loosely on his hilt as he listened to the melody.
Sir Richard pushed through the doorway behind them. To my surprise, the old captain stepped in, raising a hand to wave the Inquisitors off, declaring that I was an official guest under the protection of Countess Clara.
Once the patrol moved back outside, Richard leaned against a wooden pillar near the bar, crossing his armored arms.
He didn't offer a word of praise, but he stayed for the entire set without spitting on the floorboards, which, coming from him, was as good as a standing ovation.
“Hah, you’re finally here.”
“I’m here for Whitemane, not you.”
“Oh really?” I asked, “Then why is your Affection toward me increased?”
“What? That’s nonsense.”
“Nah, I’m just joking with you.” I said, “But you do owe me an apology for that hit, and the horse is mine.”
“I don’t owe you anything, boy.”
[Brewstrong Affection increased to 45]
[Richard Affection decreased to -3]
[Reputation increased to 35]
[Reputation in Ordanskrone increased to 20]
The old bastard was truly impossible to please…
But I'm already so popular, how come my charm stat still hasn't gone up? It's really puzzling.
Anyway, the days dragged on with bone-deep exhaustion, yet the weeks flew by in a blur of strumming strings and roaring tavern crowds.
By the time Clara finally sent word that the palace ceremonies were concluding and we could resume our journey, I had built a loyal following outside the capital walls.
Nobody was more grateful than Brewstrong.
On one afternoon, the stocky dwarf cornered me in the empty backroom, slamming a heavy clay jug of dark ale onto the table.
"Outlander, you pulled this old ruin right out of the collapse," Brewstrong said. "Before you walked in, I was buried deeper under debt than a bad mine shaft.
Three long winters I wasted trying to pawn off this rat hole and go on a real adventure in the eastern mountains. But the place was dead. Not a single soul would lay a finger on it."
He leaned across the table, his rough hands gripping the wood. "Now? Oh my Hardstone, I couldn’t believe how much those greedy badgers want to pay me. Once the sale clears, a full tenth of that hoard belongs to you."
I was touched by the gesture, but I shook my head and pushed his hand back.
"Keep the coin, Brewstrong," I said. "I’m grateful you gave me the opportunity. Take the sale money as my thank you, buy the best armor you can find, and go live your adventure."
To me, this realm was a surreal journey I could leave behind each time I closed my eyes. For this dwarf, this was his only life. Taking his travel fund felt wrong.
My words hit the hardened dwarf like a hammer. He wiped his nose and braided beard, and couldn’t believe my words.
"By the great stone..." he muttered, his voice cracking. "I never believed in holy men, but I swear I am looking at one today."
[Brewstrong Affection increased to 55]
[Charisma increased to 14]
Later in the modern world, when Clara and I met in the hotel room, I told her about Brewstrong’s offer and the farewell at the tavern.
She smiled softly, looking at me with warmth in her violet eyes. "I knew my man had a real heart hidden beneath."
"Since when did I become your man?" I scoffed.
"From the very moment our souls were bound together," she said smoothly.
Sweet talk. Her Charisma stat was definitely sitting at ninety or higher. For all I knew, she still considered me her personal pet behind that smile.
"Though I must admit," Clara continued, "every time you arrive in a new town, the common folk adore you within days. I have no idea how you manage it."
"And I have no idea how you became so viral on the internet within forty-eight hours," I countered with a smirk. "As I said before, we are a well-matched pair."
"The road ahead will be far harsher once we leave the capital's protection," she said, her tone turning serious. " Your local popularity will not deflect a bandit's blade in the field."
"Maybe not," I replied. "But coin can buy steel. At least I can purchase proper gear now instead of facing goblin ambushes in a hoodie."
Thinking about gear reminded me of something. "By the way, why didn't you buy me a decent set of armor at all?"
Clara looked slightly embarrassed. "Well... Sir Richard assessed your physical frame that day and… he expressed concern that you lacked the muscle to bear the weight of basic leather pauldrons."
"The old man needs glasses."
"You can visit the armorers in the market square tomorrow and test the weight yourself," she challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Combat conditioning is not as simple as singing ballads for drunks."
"What is so difficult about wearing metal?" I scoffed, crossing my arms. "I'll try on whatever they have."
I would live to regret those words.