005 Ash, Ink, and Loyalty
Ron arrived at the edge of his property as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows across the wooden fencing that encircled his home. His hut stood quietly beyond it, sturdy and well-kept despite its rustic design. The fence was tall and reinforced with pointed stakes. It wasn’t just for aesthetics. It was built for defense, a necessity for anyone living this deep in the woods. Moss clung to the lower boards, and wildflowers had begun creeping along the perimeter, giving the rugged setting a hint of softness. Smoke no longer drifted from the chimney, but the scent of pine and soil still marked the air. It was familiar and grounding.
He gave a low whistle, sharp and deliberate.
The forest didn’t answer with birdsong or rustling wind… no, it answered with movement. The underbrush stirred, and the trees shook as something massive bounded forward. Ron barely had time to drop his satchel and brace himself before a large form launched into him, knocking him back a step. A massive wolfdog, her fur a dark blend of charcoal and silver, nearly as tall as his waist, pushed her head into his chest and licked his face with gleeful abandon.
“Alright, alright! I’m back too, Selyn,” Ron laughed, his hands moving through her thick fur with practiced ease. “You’ve been watching the place, haven’t you? Good girl. Damn good girl.”
Selyn let out a low huff, tail wagging wildly behind her, nearly sweeping aside the pile of chopped wood nearby. She circled around him, sniffed his satchel, then nudged it suspiciously, as if ensuring he hadn’t brought anything dangerous into her territory.
Ron crouched and scratched behind her ears, murmuring with genuine affection, “Thanks for guarding the place while I was gone. No broken fences, no tracks… either you scared them off, or you handled it before I even needed to know.” He leaned forward and added, “I owe you.”
They played for a bit, gentle shoves, mock grapples, the kind of quiet wrestling that let Selyn expend her excitement without damaging anything. Eventually, Ron took out the venison and spices he’d bought earlier. He moved with care, grinding the spices into the meat with a smooth stone before cooking it over a small bonfire. The fire crackled gently as the fat sizzled, sending savory smoke curling into the trees. Selyn sat patiently, eyes sharp, tail twitching only slightly in anticipation.
“You’re the only dog I know that acts like a noble when it comes to food,” Ron said, turning the meat slowly so it would char evenly on both sides. “Spoiled, picky, dramatic… and loyal to the bone.”
Once cooked, he placed the meat on a clean bark plate and set it before her. She sniffed, gave him a satisfied look, and began eating with deliberate bites. Watching her, Ron allowed himself a moment of peace, one hand resting on his knee, the other holding the now-empty spice pouch.
Once she was fed and curled up near the hearth, Ron stepped inside the hut. He lit a stub of candle on his work desk, the flickering flame casting long shadows across the walls. Inside, the hut was plain but organized. Wooden shelves held wrapped scrolls, old adventuring gear, ink bottles, and neatly stacked parchment. A cot rested in the corner beside a reinforced chest, and in the center stood a wide wooden table worn smooth by years of use.
Ron sat and got to work.
With quill in hand, he began transcribing the manuscript. The task was far more difficult than he remembered. Writing with a quill was painstaking… every stroke had to be deliberate, and every drop of ink had to be carefully managed. Even with the superhuman stamina and dexterity granted by years of adventuring, even with heightened perception and unwavering grip, beauty required patience. He wanted the calligraphy to sing, not just speak. The lines had to flow, the margins had to be precise, and the binding had to hold.
Three weeks passed.
And in that span, Ron managed only two clean copies of Paladin System: The Hidden Code of Swords. He worked with discipline… waking early, feeding Selyn, writing through daylight, and checking each completed page for any smudge or inconsistency. He didn’t rush, because there was no point rushing something he meant to last. The original manuscript, yellowed from wear but still dear to him, remained untouched in a locked drawer. It would not leave the hut.
When at last the two new books were ready, Ron wrapped them carefully in cloth and set off for Harle once more. The trip was uneventful this time, and the city’s familiar sounds greeted him like an old friend… hammer against anvil, merchants shouting, guards bickering over patrol shifts.
At Beck & Relics, Mr. Beck received the books like a jeweler inspecting uncut gems. His eyes scanned the craftsmanship of the lettering, the spacing, the balance of form and function. After a long pause, he looked up with a satisfied nod.
“Well done. This is something I can show people without them thinking it was scribbled by a back-alley scribe with a shaking hand,” he said dryly. Then, with a glint of excitement he didn’t bother hiding, he added, “I took the liberty of commissioning something.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Commissioning?”
“A painting,” Mr. Beck replied, stepping toward a cloth-covered frame near the rear of the shop. He pulled the cover away with a practiced flourish. “Advertising, my boy. A book with no name is a page in the wind. But a story with an image? That’s what plants it in someone’s mind.”
The painting took Ron’s breath away for a second.
It depicted the scene with haunting clarity of the boy, Lancelot, stretching his trembling hand toward a weathered wooden sword embedded in a cliff wall. His body was bruised, his tunic torn, and yet his eyes shone with a fierce, fragile hope. The cliff loomed like a wall of fate behind him, jagged and cold, while faint light shimmered around the sword’s hilt, hinting at something greater. The brushwork captured the stillness of the moment just before transformation. The verge of becoming.
Ron stared in silence before murmuring, “That’s… exactly how I imagined it.”
Mr. Beck allowed himself a smile. “Then we’re off to a good start.”
Back on Earth and before the isekai fantasy Ron now lived, there had been a time when he was just another faceless user in the vast ocean of the internet. And among the many things he had consumed… films, fan fiction, visual novels, indie comics, anime, music… what truly opened the floodgates of his imagination, shameful as it was to admit, had been a smutty webnovel.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Yes, a smut webnovel. That was his gateway drug into the world of creative writing. What started as curiosity turned into admiration, then fascination. Ron had quickly discovered the internet wasn’t just a place for idle content… it was a wellspring of raw, unfiltered creativity. Some of it was crude, some elegant, but all of it was alive. The fact that ordinary people could craft entire worlds and stories from nothing but words and the desire to share... it had captivated him.
So as he stood now before the painted canvas displayed in Mr. Beck’s shop, Ron felt that same spark again. The artwork was vivid. The strokes of oil were textured with care, the hues both dramatic and tender.
“What do you really think?” asked Bret. “Don’t hold back… I want to hear your opinion.”
Rendered in soft strokes and careful light, the boy's features became clearer the longer one gazed at the canvas. Lancelot’s hair was golden and wind-tousled, falling around his dirt-smudged face like a tangled crown. His eyes were a brilliant blue even through streaks of grime, reflected both innocence and sorrow. His skin, though scratched and scraped from hardship, was unmistakably fair, almost luminous in the artist’s subtle play of contrast. There was fragility in his form, but also a budding strength… the kind that came not from training, but from surviving.
“It’s incredible, really,” Ron murmured, caught in the weight of that moment frozen in paint.
“I know,” Bret replied with a smug smile, clearly pleased with himself. Then his tone shifted, sliding from pride to critique, “Still, there’s a lot to criticize in your work.”
Ron turned to him, half-smiling. “That’s blunt.”
“I’m an art merchant, not a priest,” Bret shrugged. “Let’s start with something basic. Your main character… he has no physical attributes. No hair color, no skin tone, not even a race. He’s just… the boy. Readers can fill in the blanks, sure. That’s not always a bad thing. But that kind of blank slate works better in ancient epics or prophecies. In most fiction, vagueness hurts more than it helps.”
Ron crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby table, replying plainly, “That was intentional. I wanted the illusion that the character could be any twelve-year-old. Humans would assume he’s human. If an elf reads it, they might picture him as an elf. Same for a dwarf. The absence of details was meant to create projection.”
Bret rubbed his chin, humming in thought. “That’s not a bad argument. Clever, even. But I still think it lacks execution. People don’t just empathize with what they imagine, Ron. They connect to what’s there. They want a face, a story, and a voice that stands out in their memory. Canon, continuity, lore… those aren’t just for scholars. They’re anchors. If the world sees your protagonist as too nebulous, they won’t remember him. You’re building a myth with a story, not just a mood.”
Ron couldn’t argue completely. The storytelling he’d grown up with, especially in choose-your-own-adventure books and games, often favored projection over immersion. He’d internalized that too deeply. The result was something emotionally rich, but perhaps not structurally strong. He exhaled slowly and admitted, “Maybe I’ve been too influenced by interactive narratives.”
“Maybe,” Bret said, his voice neutral now. “But listen… don’t get me wrong. You did incredibly well for a debut story. Not naming your protagonist isn’t new, but you might be the first I’ve seen do it well in this region. As for this ‘System’ mechanic…” Bret shook his head slowly. “It’s imaginative. Unique even. But you’ll be facing doubts, not applause. And your critics? They won’t come to guide you. They’ll come to break you.”
Ron’s expression tightened, and he let the weight of those words sink in.
“That’s harsh,” he finally said. “Even if it’s true.”
He thought back to his time online, remembering flame wars and comment threads that spiraled into personal attacks. There was a time when anonymity had made the internet a paradise for creativity, but also a battlefield for cruelty. People hiding behind avatars would tear down anything, even beautiful things, just because they could. He remembered threads filled with bile, accusations, and the slow realization that not all criticism was created equal.
Back in Ron’s old world, criticism came in two forms. The first had killing intent. You could feel it, like someone took joy in hurting you. The second was helpful, even if it stung. The difference was in why it was given.
Bret remarked. “I just want you to remember, patience is a virtue that a wirter must possess, even more than humility.”
“I can take helpful criticism,” Ron said, his voice steady. “But if I’m going to be targeted, if people are going to try and tear down my work just to prove it doesn’t belong… then I’ll need to be tougher. I’ve fought monsters, Bret. I’ve bled. I’ve buried people I knew. But writing?” He glanced at the manuscript resting nearby. “That’s the first thing I’ve ever done that feels more terrifying than any of that.”
Bret laughed, loud and unrestrained. It’s the kind of laughter that filled the whole shop and echoed against glass displays and dusty tomes. “Then you’re doing it right!” he said, still chuckling as he adjusted his sleeves. “It’s good you have fear. That means you haven’t grown arrogant. And that, my boy, might just be the only reason you won’t get devoured out there.”
Ron tilted his head, confused but wary. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” Bret grinned mischievously, patting his belly like some gleeful imp with a secret. “We’re heading to Harle Mansion today. Got a scheduled appointment. We’ll be selling your book directly to someone with a purse fat enough to gamble on art. You’re coming with me for the experience, at least.”
There was a pause. Not dramatic. Not thunderstruck. Just... stunned silence.
“…”
‘Motherfucker,’ Ron thought. ‘That came out of nowhere.’
He stared at Bret, face blank, fingers tightening slightly on his sleeves. There was no warning, and no hint. Not even a casual, ‘hey, by the way,’ to ease him into this bombshell. Bret had dropped the news like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I don’t recall agreeing to that,” Ron said carefully, his tone leveled out to hide the spike of anxiety running through his chest.
“You didn’t,” Bret said, grabbing a folded jacket from the coat rack. “But it’s not like I’m giving you a choice. Think of it as part of the business agreement. Exposure is definitely gonna help you in your career. It can be considered as your education too… An apprenticeship, if you will.”
Ron exhaled through his nose. A dozen retorts spun in his mind, but none were worth voicing. The truth was, a part of him was curious… he just hadn’t expected the stage to come this fast. He’d imagined a slow build-up: quiet days, a few curious customers, maybe a passing noble who picked up his book and said, “Hmm, not bad.” Not being dragged to the seat of power in Harle to stand in front of people who probably ate golden fruit and called it breakfast.
Still, Bret had a point. If he wanted to swim with sharks, he couldn’t just stay in the shallows. Even if his guts twisted at the thought, even if his instinct screamed to retreat, he had to see what kind of people ruled the world of books, art, and money. And if Bret was bringing him, it meant at least one gate had opened.
“When are we leaving?” Ron asked, resigned but steady.
Bret raised an eyebrow at his tone. “In two hours. Bring yourself, your mouth, and just enough humility to not embarrass me. You’re the writer. I’m the merchant. Remember your role.”
Ron nodded and left the shop soon after, the weight of his steps heavier than usual. Harle Mansion. That wasn’t just any mansion…It was the very heart of the fiefdom’s ruling class, a place where adventurers of Upper Rank and nobles with more titles than sense gathered to play at politics. What business did a former D-rank adventurer turned writer have there?
None.
Absolutely none!
And that’s exactly why he needed to go.
‘You wanted to be taken seriously,’ Ron reminded himself as he walked back to fetch his cleanest clothes and rehearse a few answers in his head. ‘Then you better act like it, even if your knees shake.’
He had already faced monsters, bandits, and more than one near-death situation. This was just a different battlefield… one with sharper tongues and subtler weapons.
He sighed aloud, muttering under his breath, “I swear, if this ends with wine being spilled on me, I’m charging Bret interest.”