Volume One, Chapter One: The Young Fox of the Pirate’s Den

Radiant light drifted, scattering delicate fragments of silver that illuminated a small haze within the endless darkness. The silver light fluttered down like snow, and within this silvery snowfall, a small cluster of blazing yellow fire gradually grew stronger.

No one knew how much time had passed, but the flame eventually swelled to the size of a human head, its color deepening until it resembled molten gold and crimson magma. Suddenly, a strange wind rose from nowhere, and the fire shot away like a meteor, streaking across the darkness and drawing a long trail of light behind it, briefly illuminating the void before vanishing once more into silence and shadow.

...

New Sopig Town, pirate haven.

A boy sat atop the dilapidated roof of the pirate den, legs dangling as he gazed at the setting sun, letting out a heavy sigh.

The Night of the Meteor Shower... the destroyed Sweetwater Town—these terms were all too familiar.

He looked down at his youthful hands. Though still a child, he’d been helping around the pirate den since he could walk, and already his palms bore a layer of hard calluses, rough as coarse sand.

“In my world, when was I ever this industrious?” he muttered bitterly.

This boy had once been a young man—a professional game tester hired by major companies to evaluate game balance and hunt for bugs, known far and wide by the nickname “Poacher.”

Never had he imagined he’d end up in this world—strange yet hauntingly familiar. The world he’d left behind wasn’t perfect, but it held someone he could never forget—a smile that could revive him from the depths of despair.

“Sophie... will I ever see you again?” he whispered softly.

A world of countless races, heroes, and monsters, a land ravaged by war. Surviving here was no easy task.

Young men always have remarkable memories. His moniker, Poacher, came from his keen memory and almost instinctual sensitivity to bugs—he could always spot design flaws at a glance and pick out the most broken combinations.

This talent had allowed him to hold his own among top-tier players, despite only average skills and strategic sense. While his competitive level was merely above average, his research and understanding of games was second to none.

But in this world... would such a memory, such keen perception, be of any use at all?

Since his rebirth, he’d spent ten years observing and learning about this world. By now, he had a basic understanding, though he longed every moment to return home to that familiar, beloved smile.

Born on the Night of the Meteor Shower, with no parents, as if carried into this world by the stars themselves... Raised by the smugglers of the pirate den, he’d survived among these dangerous criminals using his wits, growing up unharmed. Here, his name was Vinigo.

“Little Fox, what are you dawdling for? Get to work!” A fat man’s voice bellowed from below.

Vinigo had no real name in this world; everyone called him Little Fox.

“Tch, Little Fox? Cunning, weak predator—fitting enough for me,” Vinigo mocked himself with a wry smile, then jumped from the rooftop, sliding down a lead pipe to the ground.

“The boss is meeting some guests today, so get ready,” the fat man ordered. “No special instructions, just stick to the usual rules.”

The usual rules? First, give the guests a little show of force, then get an edge when it comes down to business negotiations. Vinigo smiled faintly, brushing off his hands.

Within the pirate den, Vinigo’s position was unique. He was weak, and so people tended to look down on him, but everyone knew he was clever. The leaders valued his intelligence, and even the most vicious smugglers hesitated to cross him. As a result, their scorn was mostly verbal, and Vinigo didn’t mind, so long as his interests weren’t truly threatened.

But if someone did threaten his interests...

They’d swiftly discover that even shut-ins could be as ruthless and dangerous as any wild beast.

Mundane reception duties were nothing to Vinigo. When idle, he pondered how to make life better for himself. He vaguely remembered systematic training methods, but no matter how he practiced, his physical condition never improved.

Swordsmanship, spears, staves, daggers—he could memorize every move, but the moment he tried them, his body wouldn’t cooperate, as though every limb moved clumsily on its own. Magic and divine arts? Out of the question; the pirate den had no such talents.

Thus, Vinigo spent his time on other pursuits, such as cooking and gardening.

Strangely enough, he seemed to excel at these things with ease.

“Is this world rejecting me, preventing me from learning any skills that could make me stronger?” Vinigo wondered, placing the last piece of meat into the roasting pan, expertly lighting it and pouring the oil, his mind working on two tracks at once.

“Honestly, to end up in such a dangerous world with no cheat codes and countless restrictions—was I born to a wicked stepmother?” he grumbled.

“Little Fox, the guests are here,” the fat man called from the doorway.

“I know, I know,” Vinigo replied lazily, spearing the cooked meat with a fork, stacking it onto a wooden platter, and carrying it out.

The pirate den only opened at night—it was a hub for smugglers, a place where skilled hands could solve your problems for a fee, and veteran smugglers would sell you their experience—provided you could pay.

“Those four?” Vinigo nudged the fat man’s ample belly.

“Yes. Heard they’re from Sweetwater Town, well-regarded warriors among the big shots,” the fat man replied, glancing enviously at the four. “A few years ago they came here as novices, paid five hundred silver coins to learn dagger technique and negotiation from the boss. Back then, any skilled hand could have taken them down, but now, these folks are regulars at Ironfist Castle, favorites of the Regent himself.”

“The Regent’s name—is it Wilbur Humphrey?” Vinigo asked.

The fat man started, clapping a hand over Vinigo’s mouth and hissing, “Are you mad, saying a noble’s name so openly?”

Sensing something amiss, the pirate boss and the four armored adventurers looked their way.

“Apologies, sirs, just slipped,” Vinigo said calmly, sauntering over and placing the platter before the guests.

Large chunks of fragrant roast meat on a wooden tray—yet only the boss had a dining knife.

This was the show of force, meant to unsettle the guests.

Vinigo boldly looked the visitors up and down. A wizard, a priest, an archer, and a ranger—almost identical to the starting parties he used to run.

Such a party would typically have two sets of magic or divine skills, making them versatile in both exploration and battle. Outside combat, whether haggling, negotiating, or scouting, they’d perform well enough.

“Little one, have you forgotten something?” the female wizard asked sweetly, smiling at Vinigo. “Or is this the boss’s doing?”

Her voice seemed to soften the mind and sweeten the spirit. Vinigo paused a moment before his head cleared.

Though he couldn’t learn various skills, it seemed he was also less susceptible to their effects.

“I imagine heroes like you have no need for such crude things,” Vinigo replied, glancing enviously at the magical dagger hanging from the wizard’s belt.

Wizards seldom fought with daggers; for them, such weapons were mere tools of last resort. Yet even so, the magical dagger at her waist was a valuable piece—if their least-used gear was so fine, these adventurers must be wealthy indeed.

“You’re quite right,” the female wizard replied with a smile, drawing her dagger and making two swift, graceful motions in the air. Instantly, the meat on the tray was sliced into neat portions.

“What a sharp dagger... and that technique?” Vinigo glanced back at the boss in puzzlement.

The pirate boss, “Ironhook” Hanwell, flushed red. He had taught the wizard her dagger skills himself, but in just two years, the once awkward girl had surpassed him. And she was only a wizard! The archer beside her—the stern beauty with the ponytail—was likely even more skilled with a blade.

Suddenly Hanwell realized his attempt at a show of force was entirely misplaced.

He shot Vinigo a look. Vinigo nodded, turned, and returned with four sets of fine silver cutlery.

At last, the adventurers’ faces relaxed. They sampled Vinigo’s cooking and were pleasantly surprised.

“Young man, a gift for you,” the female wizard said, producing two unknown crystals from her magical pouch and placing them before Vinigo.

Vinigo glanced at the boss, who nodded, so he accepted them. They were clearly not gemstones—their surfaces pressed with artificial silver threads, beautiful but likely not valuable.

“Captain, we happen to need a servant. Why not take this boy?” the wizard suddenly suggested to the middle-aged ranger.

The ranger hesitated. He could see Vinigo had no training—his calluses likely came from hard labor, not combat. In terms of strength, speed, or anything else, the boy could only be called weak.

Should he take this child along?

For the ranger, it was a choice. Perhaps for the world itself, it was a choice—insignificant, yet perhaps the flutter of a butterfly’s wings that could one day stir a storm.

Vinigo’s future now hung upon the captain’s whim.