"Hey, Nathan Crest!"
The voice cut through the hum of morning activity like a sharp note. Ren—no, Nathan—turned instinctively, eyes locking onto the source.
Standing at the entrance of a large timber-framed building was a tall woman with long white hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She wore a long burgundy cloak over traveling leathers, and a lyre was slung across her back.
Lyrien Weaver.
The name leapt into his mind before he could think. The Bard. One of the Hero's Party. Elegant, deadly with words and magic, and sharp enough to spot a lie from a mile away.
Ren plastered on his best calm, Nathan-like smile and raised a hand in greeting.
"Morning, Lyrien."
She smiled and gestured toward the building behind her. "Come on in. Bell's already inside. Said he wanted to talk."
Ren hesitated for just a second—just long enough to feel it—then nodded and followed her up the steps.
The inside was warm, a welcome contrast to the crisp morning air. Lanterns flickered gently along the walls, casting a golden glow over polished wood and worn stone floors. The scent of spiced cider and roasted meat clung to the air. It was cozy, familiar. A tavern, yes—but not the rowdy kind. A respectable, quiet sort of establishment.
They made their way toward a table near the hearth. A tall man with sun-bleached hair and a sword strapped to his back stood as they approached.
Bell Thorne.
The Hero.
The leader of the party.
The one with an appraisal skill.
Ren fought the sudden tightness in his chest. If anyone could see through him, it was Bell. He didn't know exactly how appraisal worked in this world, but it was best to assume it could see right through a person's soul.
He forced himself to keep walking.
Bell stepped forward with a grin and opened his arms. "Nathan! Took you long enough."
Ren braced for the worst—but instead, Bell pulled him into a strong hug, clapping him on the back.
They sat. Lyrien slid into the booth beside Bell, while Ren took the seat across from them. A server came by almost instantly, dropping off a mug filled with dark amber liquid.
"Ale," Bell said, raising his own mug. "The usual."
Ren looked down at the drink, hesitating for only a second. Alcohol wasn't something he ever wanted to drink, but if he was really twenty-two now—and Nathan clearly was—it was better not to look suspicious. He raised it and took a careful sip.
Bitter. Strong. It burned slightly on the way down.
He didn't grimace. Barely.
Bell gave him a knowing look but said nothing.
They chatted for a few minutes—nothing serious. Talk about the weather in Alms, the price of bread, the new recruits in the city guard. Ren nodded along, playing his role, mirroring Nathan's confidence.
Then Bell leaned back and took a long drink from his mug. "So. Dungeon Fifteen."
Ren's heart skipped a beat.
"Tomorrow," Bell continued. "We're finally reaching the last floor."
Ren blinked. "Already?"
"Yup," Bell said, wiping his mouth. "It's been a hell of a run, but we've made it. Lyrien thinks the last guardian is another spirit-type. You up for it?"
Ren hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it."
Bell smiled. "Good. You're still our Mage Swordsman, after all."
Lyrien leaned in. "After we clear the dungeon, we're planning a little... detour."
Bell reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She smiled at him, and something soft passed between them—quiet and intimate.
Ren felt like he was intruding on something private.
"Livia," Bell said.
Ren blinked. "Livia?"
"It's a small kingdom out west," Lyrien explained. "Peaceful. Quiet. No demon incursions. No nobles trying to play war."
Bell nodded. "We've been talking about it for a while now. After all the years we spent chasing down the Demon Lord and mopping up the aftermath... it's time to settle down."
Ren stared at them. "You're settling down." He said, mirroring his words.
Bell's smile turned wistful. "Yeah. I'm tired, Nathan. I've spent most of my life swinging a sword and sleeping on cold ground. I think I've earned a bed that doesn't try to kill me in my sleep."
"And... Livia?" Ren asked.
"It's the safest place so says travelers." Lyrien said. "The worst crime in the last five years was someone stealing a chicken. And that was a misunderstanding."
Ren laughed, though it came out a little hollow.
Bell looked him over. "You're still young. Twenty-two. You've got time to figure out what you want next. Me? I'm a thirty two year old virgin."
Lyrien snorted and jabbed him with her elbow. "Don't let him fool you. He's just dramatic."
Ren chuckled, but his mind was racing.
So they were really leaving. His party. Nathan's party. After tomorrow, they'd clear one last dungeon and then walk away from it all.
It felt too fast. Like he'd stepped into the last chapter of a story he hadn't even started reading.
"What about me?" Ren asked suddenly, the words out before he could stop them.
Bell raised an eyebrow. "What about you?"
"I mean, what if I... don't want to go to Livia? Not yet, anyway."
Bell leaned back, considering. "Then don't. No one's forcing you. But we figured you might want a break. You've been through as much as any of us. Maybe more."
Ren stared at his drink. He was Nathan. But not really. And they were trusting him like nothing had changed.
Bell clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. No pressure. Pack whatever you want. Or don't pack at all."
Ren nodded slowly. "Right. I'll think about it."
"You always overthink," Lyrien said, sipping her drink.
That line hit harder than it should have.
For a while, they just sat there—three friends, or at least pretending to be. Lyrien began humming a quiet tune. Bell looked relaxed for the first time since Ren had arrived. And Ren?
Ren felt like he was standing on the edge of two lives, not sure which one to jump into.
He raised his mug and took another drink.
Tomorrow, a dungeon.
Then... Livia.
Then what?
He didn't know.
But he was here now.
...
..
.
Thanks to Nathan's memories, Ren had no trouble keeping the conversation going. Every time Bell brought up some past campaign, or Lyrien teased him about a tavern incident in Eastwell, his brain offered up the details like a well-organized filing cabinet. Names, places, dates—he remembered them all. Or rather, Nathan did.
Still, it was easy to lose himself in it. The warmth. The familiarity. The strange comfort of being among people who knew him—even if they didn't know him.
Time blurred. Between half-finished drinks, retold battle stories, and the occasional shared silence, the morning slipped away. Before he knew it, a clock on the far wall chimed softly. Noon.
Ren stood, brushing nonexistent dust off his tunic. "I should head out," he said.
Bell looked up from his tankard. "Already?"
Ren nodded. "Yeah. I need some air."
Bell watched him for a beat, then gave a quiet hum. "Think about it, okay?"
Ren offered a noncommittal shrug, but Bell didn't push. Instead, he gave a small nod, like he understood something Ren hadn't said aloud.
He stepped outside.
The moment the tavern door shut behind him, the quiet hit harder than expected. The warmth of the inn, the laughter, the clinking mugs—all of it muffled instantly, like someone had thrown a blanket over the world.
Ren paused on the step, letting the breeze hit his face.
And that's when it finally sank in.
Really sank in.
He'd been isekai'd.
Actually isekai'd.
The wish he'd tossed out a hundred times—half-serious, half-desperate—had come true.
He had died. Or something close to it. A truck, a honk, a blinding light. And now here he was.
In another world.
A better world.
And yet...
There was no Demon Lord to fight. No tyrant king. No magical prophecy.
The Hero's Party had already saved the world. Years ago. The monster-slaying, the kingdom-liberating, the desperate final battles—they were over. Done. History.
He hadn't landed in the beginning of an epic.
He'd landed in the epilogue.
The story was wrapping up. The cast was retiring. The world was... fine. Peaceful. Quiet.
Boring.
Ren stepped into the street, the weight of it all settling heavy on his shoulders. The cobblestones were warm beneath his boots. Merchants hawked fresh bread. Children laughed and chased each other with sticks. The sky was blue. The clouds perfect.
It was everything he thought he wanted.
But not how he wanted it.
No leveling system to grind. No adventure to stumble into. No sudden quest window hovering in front of his eyes. Just... calm. Mundane, idyllic calm.
He hadn't been summoned to save the world.
He'd been dropped into a world that had already been saved.
"Great," he muttered. "I got isekai'd into the credits."
He kept walking, but slower now, hands shoved deep into his pockets. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A pair of girls walked past him, giggling, carrying baskets of herbs. The wind smelled like flowers and fresh bread.
And maybe that should have been enough.
Maybe it still could be.
But it wasn't what he'd imagined—not the grand adventure, not the thrill, not the danger or the stakes.
He'd wished for a beginning.
Instead, he got the aftermath.