Unlike the legends of heroes who slay dragons with a flick of a wrist, Grimgar was a lesson in friction. The air felt heavy. Their borrowed boots rubbed their heels raw. When the group pooled their remaining coins to buy basic gear, they realized they weren't the protagonists of a grand epic; they were the bottom of the food chain.

The goblin’s eyes met Haruhiro’s. In that moment, he didn't see an enemy; he saw a mirror. They were both scavengers fighting for a scrap of existence in a world that didn't care if they saw tomorrow.

"We'll get stronger," Manato said, though his voice wavered.

They remembered names. They remembered the sensation of a world with bright lights and humming machines. But the "why" and "how" of their arrival in this dark, medieval cellar were gone, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

When the struggle finally ended, the silence that followed was louder than the fight. They stood over the body, breathing hard, their clothes stained with dirt and sweat. They had survived their first encounter, but there was no cheering. There was only the realization that in Grimgar, living meant taking life, and every day would be a grueling climb against the gravity of their own weakness.

Manato, the calm priest, took the lead. He guided them to the outskirts of the ruined city of Damrow, where the shadows of broken stone buildings housed the lowliest of monsters: goblins.

The morning fog in the kingdom of Arabakia didn't just obscure the horizon; it seemed to swallow memory itself. Haruhiro awoke on a cold stone floor, his fingers twitching against the grit. He wasn't alone. Around him, a handful of others—Manato, Moguzo, Yume, Shihoru, and the loud-mouthed Ranta—were pushing themselves up, eyes wide with a shared, terrifying vacancy.