Time moved differently in ReLife.
Days in the game world lasted forty-eight hours — twice the length of the real world's. Which was why, despite Ezekiel being gone for what felt like an eternity, when he emerged from the dungeon, the morning sun still hung high in the blue expanse above.
It was just approaching noon.
As Ezekiel stood there, surrounded by sixteen gaunt, hollow-eyed figures, the two stationed guards leaped back in alarm at their sudden appearance.
Their hands were on their weapons in an instant.
"Halt!" One barked, voice sharp and edged with fear. "Identify yourself, stranger! State your intent or we will be forced to act!"
Their eyes were fixed on the man that stood in front of the group, looking like the odd one out compared to his companions. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome — yet, he held the presence of someone who had been to many battlefields.
But their focus was quickly pulled to the others. The people behind him looked half-dead, covered in filth, eyes wide and sensitive to the sun, most of them trembling or hunched on the ground. Some were vomiting, clutching their stomachs as if their bodies rejected the very air.
The sight was grotesque. Unnatural in their mundane lives.
Ezekiel stepped forward calmly, raising both hands in a clear gesture of surrender. His voice, low and commanding, cut through the tense air.
"I am Ezekiel," he said. "An Adventurer. I was tasked by Lance, a blacksmith of Fwerah, to locate his missing brother and the others who vanished a decade ago. I found them. These are the victims. They require immediate medical attention."
The words struck like lightning.
The guards stiffened, exchanging looks. Ten years? The missing youths from the village? Impossible. Everyone had given up years ago. Their disappearance had become a whispered story — a tragedy that faded into myth.
The guards locked eyes with Ezekiel again, instinctively scanning him — and then froze.
Recognition struck like a jolt.
This wasn't just another blessed individual — the kind that had been roaming Fwerah since dawn. No, the man before them radiated a presence that set him apart entirely. His aura alone carried the weight of someone on par with their own village chief — steady, potent, undeniable.
What they were sensing wasn't just raw power, but something more tangible.
Ezekiel's Charm stat, a remarkable 25 points, gave him a magnetic pull that even seasoned NPCs found difficult to ignore. Add to that his towering reputation — 800 points within the Klarincè Kingdom — and he stood on the very threshold of nobility, a mere 200 points away from earning the title of Baron.
To the guards, he was a force. On top of that, he was a "blessed individual" — the term NPCs used for players, as players had a limitless growth potential. They understood well that someone like him had absolutely no reason to lie or deceive them.
Their hands dropped from their weapons at once.
How dare they raise their weapons against such a revered person? Especially after he'd done what no one else could? Shame and disdain over their own inability to recognize him immediately filled the two guards as they hurried to bow toward him with deep reverence.
"Sir Ezekiel! Please forgive us," they said in unison.
"We didn't recognize you at first. We'll send for help immediately!"
One of them fumbled for the small violet gemstone pinned to his belt — a magical communication device reserved for emergencies. He pressed his fingers against it and whispered urgently. The gem pulsed once, sending the message to the Village Temple. Another message followed quickly, directed toward the Village Chief's office.
The other guard, now sweating slightly, turned to Ezekiel again. "Do they need shelter? Clothes?"
Ezekiel nodded once. "Blankets. Anything warm. The dungeon didn't have proper clothing. They've been in darkness for ten years."
Both guards froze again at the sheer weight of those words. Ten years in a dungeon. Alive. And this man brought them back.
Without another word, they rushed to the guardhouse. Moments later, they returned with armfuls of woolen blankets, some still stiff from storage. Ezekiel helped them distribute the coverings, wrapping each of the victims one by one.
Some flinched at his touch, eyes wide and glassy. Others clutched the fabric like lifelines, sinking into the soft material as if it were a dream. Several simply collapsed onto their sides, trembling, unable to hold themselves up any longer. Several young men looked at the stone walls of Fwerah and burst into quiet, ragged sobs.
They had come home.
Ezekiel moved among them with practiced gentleness. His movements were slow and measured — not wanting to startle them. Some of the victims couldn't even register his presence, their minds likely still trapped in the endless void of the dungeon's prison.
The guards brought out hand warmers — enchanted stones that radiated low heat — and passed them around. He noted how careful they were now, how deferential their tone had become. It wasn't just about reputation anymore. They could see what he had done.
About ten minutes later, the first sound of boots reached Ezekiel's ears.
He tensed.
He had chosen the North Gate for a reason — to avoid the eyes of other players and sidestep any confrontation during such a delicate moment. The last thing he wanted was for the victims to become some amusing spectacle, paraded before people who didn't even see them as real.
And he couldn't blame the players for that, not entirely. From their perspective, it was all just part of a game. Lines of code. Background detail.
It was Ezekiel who had stepped off that path, perhaps far too easily.
In less than a day, the people of this world had become more than scripted NPCs to him. After seeing Lance's restrained but intense grief, interacting with Somia, and now standing among these broken souls he had pulled from darkness — it was impossible to see them as anything less than living, breathing human beings.
Maybe he was treading dangerous ground, letting the line between reality and game blur like this. But to Ezekiel, it didn't feel wrong.
So, as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed closer, he instinctively shifted forward. The rescued villagers behind him stirred in fear, their expressions tightening with panic. Ezekiel's hand moved to his sheathed dagger, his stance turning protective, the atmosphere taut with rising tension.
Fortunately, no players or other irrelevant strangers appeared before them. Instead, robed figures came into view — three men and four women, all clad in pristine white and gold-trimmed garments. Their insignias identified them as members of the temple.
Priests and priestesses.
Ezekiel relaxed visibly.
The lead priest, a man with short brown hair and a lined face, gave a brief bow. "We received a Code Black. The Village Saint sent us immediately."
Code Black was the highest level of emergency within a temple. Ezekiel was glad that such importance was put into this instance. He moved to the side and gestured to the group behind him.
"These are the patients."
The priest nodded. The moment their eyes fell on the shivering, soiled group of survivors, their expressions grew grim but compassionate.
The women knelt first, whispering prayers under their breath. Then came the incantations.
Green, yellow, and white lights burst into bloom, enveloping the victims one by one. The air filled with the sound of chanting, the glow of healing magic, and the low groans of people beginning to stir, to blink, to breathe easier.
The smell of sickness, dirt, and rot still lingered. Healing spells couldn't scrub away every trace of suffering. But color returned to cheeks. Lungs cleared. Limbs stopped shaking.
One of the younger priestesses stepped toward Ezekiel.
"Adventurer, are you injured?" She asked, her tone gentle. "We can—"
He held up a hand, smiling politely. "Thank you. I'm unharmed. Please focus on them."
She nodded, slightly embarrassed. Inwardly, she assumed he was simply too noble to accept healing before his charges. How admirable.
None of them knew that Ezekiel's refusal was out of caution — the hatchling nestled under his tunic was still hidden, now sleeping. The last thing he needed was a healer's spell brushing against it and triggering an unintended reaction.
As the healing continued, murmurs began to spread among the gathering Temple members.
"Ten years…"
"They look like ghosts…"
"He brought them back. Alone."
Reverent gazes fell on him one after another. Respect and awe unsurprisingly filled the hearts of these villagers.
Ezekiel ignored them. He simply watched as the people he had saved began to look alive again.
He knew recovery would take time. Healing spells could mend bones, purge poison, and mend flesh — but they could not restore years of lost nourishment. Their bodies were still weak. Skin clung too tightly to bone. Some of them didn't even have the strength to weep.
Their mental state wasn't even worth mentioning.
But they were still alive.
And then, another presence approached.
The rhythmic clink of steel boots on stone. A dozen guards filed through the North Gate — and behind them, a figure in indigo robes, walking with a grace that belied her age.
Ezekiel turned slightly.
Roana.
The Chief of Fwerah, and a rare Fourth-Circle Mage.
She moved like the wind parting the trees — calm, steady, and inevitable. Her greying hair was pulled into a long braid, dark brown streaks still strong among the silver. Her eyes were a deep, stormy blue — eyes that had seen decades of war, peace, and everything between. She was tall, slightly stout, but her presence commanded silence.
Every villager respected her. Most feared her. And very few ever saw her.
Yet here she was, at the gates.
She stopped a few paces from Ezekiel and looked him over. Not with the look of a stranger. But with admiration.
"…You are Ezekiel?" she asked, her voice rich, steady.
He inclined his head. "I am."
Her eyes flicked to the shivering forms under blankets. Her gaze lingered on one of them — a boy with brown hair, barely recognizable under grime.
Exhausted and safe, he had long since given in to his desire to sleep.
Her lips parted. A name was whispered.
"Fredrick..."
Roana said nothing more for a long moment, but her eyes depicted an intense mixture of loss and pain, now tempered by relief.
Then she turned to her guards. "Secure the gate. No civilians are to approach. These people are to be quarantined, examined, and cared for under the highest priority. No exceptions."
Her voice brooked no argument.
"Yes, Chief!" The guards echoed.
She turned back to Ezekiel. Her expression had shifted — now carrying the elegance and composure befitting of her status.
"…You've done something no one else could in a decade," she said softly. "You've brought back our lost children."
She bowed — a single, deep bow — from the waist.
Ezekiel blinked.
He hadn't expected that.
"I thank you, on behalf of every family that you have returned hope to. On behalf of Fwerah."
A heavy silence settled over the gathering.
Just as Ezekiel moved, awkward and embarrassed, to help Roana rise, he noticed movements all around him — every guard, every priest and priestess present had followed the Chief's lead. One by one, they bowed low, their gestures filled with overwhelming gratitude and solemn respect.
Ezekiel froze.
He felt helpless beneath the weight of their reverence — undeserving, even.
"Please, rise," he said quietly. "I've only done what any decent person would have in my place."
His humility rang clearly through the quiet air.
If anything, it only deepened the awe in their eyes as they slowly straightened.
And as they looked at him — someone worthy of reverence — Ezekiel felt a flush creep up his neck. Heat touched his cheeks at the sheer sincerity etched across their faces.
Ping—
{+100 Reputation with the natives of Fwerah Earned!}
He sighed. This was going to be a long day.