Chapter Text
It’s gotten hard to see, and my thoughts are leaving me. I’m not particularly sad, nor do I have any regrets; though, it is a shame I will not see live to see the end of this war. I can feel my clothes get heavier as the blood stains and soaks my once neat and tidy uniform. However, my senses have not yet left me, for I can still smell the light essence of smoke from the machine gun, which I was manning only moments ago. I sent seven of them to the afterlife, but an eighth did me in like this. Well, I suppose seven isn’t too bad.
I hear many voices- some English, some German. I think we’re winning, but I’m not too sure. My grip on the machine gun loosens as my remaining life force drains with the blood from the many holes in my body. With my final ounces of strength, I try to take off my service cap. Alas, my fingers are too numb, and I merely knock the cap off my head. The frustration sets in, and I want to scream until my lungs pop- yet, only a light croak manages to escape my mouth. Dizzy, and out of breath, I fall off the machine gun mount, right next to the service cap. It was here where I, Lieutenant and Combat Engineer William Garrett Morris, died defending my trench from a German advance on the Thursday of the 22nd of March, 1918.
Or, at least, I was supposed to die. And yet, I wake up in some wooden building; perhaps a barn or stable. Laying flat up, I look to my right to see nothing, I look to my left and see my service cap. I groan- I groan! Shocked with surprise that my voice has returned to me, I sit up immediately and inspect myself. The bullet holes that tore through my uniform stubbornly remain, but after careful poking and prodding, I conclude that there are no bullet holes in my flesh. I put the service cap on my head with slight difficulty- it appears the numbness has followed me to the heavens… but are the heavens really just a measly shed?
Upon standing up and further inspecting myself, I find that all my belongings on and around me still exist, including my service-issued Webley revolver and handful of rounds with it, along with my service tag and knife. More or less satisfied, I begin to inspect around the still-unidentified wooden shelter with revolver cocked and in hand. It’s very dark, but my lighter is nowhere to be found on my person. Perhaps it got lost in the chaos of the battle. With very minimal natural light pouring through the cracks and crevices of the walls, I carefully wade through the building to what I assume is a pair of doors. After some struggling and kicking, the doors make way, and open up to the blinding light of high noon. It takes a minute to adjust, but once the light dies down and I can see, a wonderful sight fills my view: Rolling hills and mountains trek far off into the distance, rich and teeming with plant life. A little to the right, and a village is apparent. Farms paint much of the immediate field around me, and I can even spot a few people moving about in the village from here. All so beautiful, and all unplagued by the shells of artillery, and all safe from the rage of war. Not a single trench is cropped up at all, not even an outpost. Perhaps this is somewhere in the neutral region… Switzerland? Nevertheless, whilst still wary, I holster my handgun away for now, moderately convinced there is no immediate threat.
Further inspection shows nothing else of interest, except a few simple paved roads leading into and out of the village. I sit for a minute, hesitant to approach the village. This place may very well seem like a humble and safe settlement, but something just doesn’t feel right.
Grrrmmbl…
A sound erupts from my stomach, and the magnitude of my hunger sets in. I am absolutely famished. With hunger overtaking my rationale, I move towards the village for reconnaissance. I move very carefully and slowly through the stalks of wheat as to not alert suspicion or attention- I’m not an officer for nothing. Slowly and carefully, I approach the final field of wheat before I reach the village. At this point, I can hear words… I think? I can clearly hear human noise and can clearly see the movement of lips and mouths, but it’s all nonsensical gibberish. It isn’t French, English, German, or even Romansh. It could perhaps be Serbian or potentially even some language of Scandinavia, but even then I would be able to at least somewhat identify it. This language is unlike anything I’ve ever heard of.
Grrmmmbl…
”Now is not the time to be a linguist, William! ,” I think to myself. When I’m certain nobody is looking, I quickly dash to the cover of the wall of a nearby house. On this wall is a nearby window; and from it, the scent of fresh bread. I scale my way over to the window, and carefully poke the slightest fraction of my head through the window, just barely able to see. Sure enough, a plump and fresh loaf of bread sits on a rustic looking table, begging to be eaten. But there is a problem; a housewife is within the house, tending to what appears to be a ridiculously old kitchen. I could silence her with the service knife, but I’m not so desperate for some bread that I would end the life of a random, innocent villager.
As I sit and plot how to nick the steamy loaf off the table without being caught, the pleasant tone of the nonsense-ese turns to shouting and panic. A bell is tolling through the village, and the housewife disappears out of the house and into the streets. While I am curious, I won’t let this opportunity go by me. I leap through the window and begin scarfing fistfuls of the bread down my throat. While it has a pleasant look to it, it mildly tastes that of sawdust. Have these people never heard of fucking milk or yeast?! Despite all complaints and concerns, however, the bread vanishes in less than a few minutes. Now satisfied, I jump back through the window I came from, and make my way to the edge of the wall. I peer over, and see a mix of what I can only assume to be thieves, or perhaps enemy soldiers begin to make their way into town. This ragtag group of invaders are mismatched in uniform; some wear some simple clothing, some wear pieces of medieval armour, and one man in the middle is enveloped in a cliché black robe, his hands put together in front of him. With exception to the weird black robed man, they are all armed with swords or spears. Is something like this normal in Switzerland?
The villagers hoist their own weapons; a small stock of bows, swords, a shield or two, and even a battle axe held by a very burly man. Immediately the simple clothed bandits charge forward, the armoured ones tailing amongst and behind them. Arrows immediately begin to fly, swords clash, and even a spear flies through the air. I want to help, as an apology for scarfing the innocent loaf of awful bread, but the villagers are doing surprisingly well. A few are injured, one or two dead, but they’re really driving off those bad looking men. The armoured units prove to be difficult to deal with, but the burly man turns many of them into past tense with a bizarre speed. After about a half hour more of fighting, and the invading force is either killed or arrested. Some more villagers wounded, but no more deaths thanks to the burly man. All that remains is the man in mysterious robes. Immediately the burly man charges him, but the robed man reveals his hands to uncover a short stick, and after saying some kind of chant, the burly man is sent flying from some weird, purple-pink circle. Arrows are fired at the robed man, but they all bounce off some form of unseeable barrier. The robed man summons some form of sharp object from the earth, skewering a man through the abdomen. At this point, many of the villagers begin to retreat.
”I should also get out of here, if I know what’s best for me,” I think to myself. But, I see the look of fear on these men and women, and I know I can’t leave these people behind. This is why I became a soldier in the first place; to protect the innocent back home. And, while I have no idea what the Germans or whoever did to this guy to make him so strong, I know I have to do this. I couldn’t live with myself if I fled here.
The robed man begins a chant, and a ball of fire grows above his head, he points his wand at the town, but just before he can ruin the settlement, an English voice interrupts the scene.
”Stop right there, you scumbag witch! ,” calls out from the centre of the town. I stand there, clothing riddled with bullet holes, revolver unholstered and pointed at the soothsayer-looking fellow. His attention shifts to me, and I can see the wand being pointed directly at my being. He begins to chant some more meaningless garbage at me, but despite the language barrier, I can see the fireball begin to once again blaze and grow. Not wanting to find out what he’s going to do with that bite-sized sun, I fire a round at his head. The bullet shatters some invisible wall, and goes right through his skull. And, in an anticlimactic fashion, the robed criminal drops dead, the fireball quickly dying and evaporating. My hand is trembling. I could’ve been killed all over again. I’ve only heard of magic in folklore. Just what the hell was that?
The villagers begin to cheer, and immediately rush towards me, their sense of fear of death and suspicion of me evaporating with the fireball. A lot of things are said, and I have no idea what to do. A grizzly voice interrupts the barrage of unknown talk and cheer, and the burly man from earlier limps over to me.
“Atyri bo rodamzi vand kir vœzin? ,” I think he asks.
”I’ven’t the slightest clue what the hell you’re asking me. ,” I promptly respond.
”Ah, forgive me. Are you familiar with Kanaeten?”
”Kanaeten? You mean English?”
”English…?”
”Err… nevermind. I do. I understand you,” I say, happy to finally meet somebody I can converse with. I have no idea what on Earth “Kanaeten” is, but I’ll figure that out later.
”What was that wand you used to defeat that mage?”
”Er, the revolver? Like, this thing? ,” I ask, slowly withdrawing my revolver.
”Yes, yes! That “revolver” you speak of, how were you able to use such a thing to defeat him?”
”It’s a service revolver. It was made to kill.”
The burly man looks at me with a smile, confused.
”Nevermind it,” I say. “Who might you be?”
”I am Djzord, Chief of this village. You must be…?”
”William, Officer and Combat engineer under the Royal Army for The Great War.”
”Ahh, you’re a soldier! But, if you are serving in war, why are you here?”
”I don’t exactly know either…” I scratch my head, trying to rack up exactly what led up to my visit here. “I could’ve sworn I was killed, but I was nursed back to health here, in your country. Anyhow, I need to get back to the front lines immediately.”
”I see,” says Djzord, stroking his goatee. “As thanks for saving our humble village, may I provide you with a ride to the nearest city?”
”Please.” I’ve no idea which city he might be referring to, but I must get back to the front lines as soon as possible.
…
It’s likely late evening, maybe 9:00 in the afternoon. Normally, I would asked some questions to find out where exactly am I, or who those men were, but I passed out on the horse’s cargo carriage almost immediately. I’m surprised there are no automobiles, or even a steam train in the area. But, everything here is so very peculiar; the lack of war or even distant sound of war, the knights armour, the medieval weapons, the locals never hearing of a revolver, and the mage. It’s like this place isn’t just somewhere neutral like Switzerland. It’s like this place is a completely different world. But, that’s just not possible, is it? It can’t be.
I sit up and examine the surrounding area. It’s dark, but the moonlight is ample enough to be able to see. We’re making good time by horse, but I have no idea when we’ll make it there. The village chief- Djzord, I think his name was, is also asleep. Only the coachman is awake. The cargo carriage itself contained an assortment of things; some trophies, weapons and armour stripped from the defeated thieves from earlier, and even the few arrested scoundrels in a cage. A little barbaric, but this is indeed a cargo carriage, after all. It really is all so strange. Am I really dead? Where exactly am I? Why am I here? Where do I go? Can I go back? Do I want to go back? All of these are burning questions that I have no answer to. Though, I’ll probably figure it out in the morning. The hunger is slowly creeping up on me again, so I try to go back to rest. It’s no use- I’m not sleepy any longer. So, I lay back down, cross my arms behind my head, and watch the stars. I peacefully drift off some few hours later.
…
The morning sun creeps up on my worn and riddled clothing, giving me a pleasant feeling of warmth. Groggy, I get up and stretch. A river lays still next to the road. I ask the coachman to pull over, and I lazily make my way over to the river. I thoroughly wash my face with some water to wake and clean myself. For lack of a proper toothbrush, I take a cupped hand of water and swish it around in my mouth before spitting it out. Looking into my reflection in the water, I see a little bit of bedhead from the service cap. I begin to comb my hands through my blonde hair until I see movement in the river from the corner of my eye. Sure enough, some fish are equally enjoying their morning near the riverbank. Unlike many things here, this fish is a familiar sight- trout. I’ve always been more of a fan of salmon, but fish is fish, and I am yet again starved. Regardless of the lack of fishing equipment, I manage to catch 2 fish with my hands like I used to when I was a boy. The fish would always be near the bank, and if you thrust your hands just under where the fish looked like it was, you could catch or spear it if you were quick enough.
I gut and scale the fish and toss the innards into the river, attracting more fish. I try to grab another, no luck. A fire gets going, and in minutes, two beautifully roasted fish lie in front of me. I manage to more or less distribute an equal amount between me, the chief, and the coachman, but if you honestly ask me, I might’ve given myself a morsel more than the others. The coachman finishes, and leaves to tend to the horses. The chief and I eat with a little bit of idle chat:
”So, what’s the name of this city we’re off to? ,” I ask, ready to begin my interrogation.
”Lirei. It’s a small city, but it’s very well known for it’s fish and seafood.”
”How nice, how nice! ,” I chirp. And then it hits me.
Seafood? In Switzerland?! Impossible!
I begin to dig for answers.
”So, would you be so kind to tell me a little bit about this country? ,” I prod.
”So sorry, but I do not know too much of my kingdom. Education in villages only goes into brief addition, religion, and agriculture and other trades are taught by family. I can tell you, however, that both my village and Lirei are under the rule of the Kingdom of Hohen.”
“I see.”
The coachman calls the chief over to inspect the goods before taking to the road again.
”Please excuse me. Thank you for the fish.”
”Of course.”
The Kingdom of Hohen does not exist in Europe or Asia or any known continent on Earth. The Kingdom of Hohen simply does not exist on Earth. I really did leave Earth, I truly did die.
Everything starts to become blurry again, like before I died. This time, however, I am certain I am not bleeding. From the death of the mage, I am certain this is no afterlife; no heaven, no hell. This is simply just an entirely different world of men.
Where the fuck am I?!
Suddenly, everything else starts falling into place. The magic, the historical weapons, tools, and clothing, the lack of understanding of modern amenities, the different languages and names for English, and above all, the complete inexistence of The Great War or any evidence of it. In fact, there is a complete inexistence of anything modern at all. But, why would there be any advancement in science, with the existence of magic?
I fully understand, now, but I still refuse to accept it. There must be a way back to Earth, I must find a way to make it back to Great Britain or France or Portugal or America or Canada so I can make my way back to my post in The Great War… The Great War…
Doesn’t exist, here.
Like the shell of a tank, the truth hit me fast and hard. Without the existence of The Great war, there is no need to fight, there is no need to go rot in a trench. I am no longer a soldier.
I’m free.
But, what does that freedom mean? It’s not like I hated being a soldier. I could, theoretically, do whatever I dream of in this world. Yet, I know nothing about this world at all! How could I make a life for myself here without any knowledge of how to live?
I hear my name being called, I hear we’re about to leave. I’ll figure this out on the way to Lirei. Perhaps I could even find more information there. I return to my spot on the cargo carriage, still pondering about what to do. There is so much to put in order. 2 hours pass by in the carriage, and I have yet to come to any conclusion. The road, in nearly instant fashion, goes from uneven gravel and dirt to neatly paved cobblestone. The city of Lirei can be seen- or, the walls of the city, at least. We approach a toll, where a guard stands ready to inspect us. The guard is properly armed and armoured with matching pieces, although his armour definitely seems light. The coachman brings the horses to a slow stop, and the guard begins to discuss something with him. The coachman sticks out his hand, and the guard pulls some sort of identification card out of his hand, even though his hand was empty. My eyes widen in awe to this unseen before practice, but when the guard does the same for the chief, my pupils shrink in fear, knowing I will have to also do this. What if my card proves I’m not from here? What if I don’t have a card at all?
The guard approaches my side of the carriage, and I can see the sharpness of his holstered halberd on his back. Am I going to have to fight and potentially kill this man?
”Name plate, please,” asks the guard with complete coldness. Hesitantly, my left arm goes up, my palm open. He puts his hand on mine, and I hear a chant:
”Attrius enen toktei!”
And, like that, a flat square of unknown material rises from my hand, and it’s there I can see the words “William Garrett Morris” at the top of the box. Under it reads a number of statistics:
Sex - Male
Age - 23
Nationality - Unrecorded
Job Class - Unrecorded
Skills list - Civilian, Level 1; Engineer, Level 3; Soldier, Level 3
Wanted Status - Not wanted
Educated Civilian
Free Civilian
The guard skims over, and I can see his eyes stop and hold at the nationality statistic for an uncomfortably long while. What feels like hours passes, he opens his mouth and says
“Thank you. Enjoy your stay in Lirei.”
The gates open, the flat box disappears, and the carriage enters the city without any further issues. I hardly dare move, in fear the guard might change his mind or realize and stop us. And yet, the gates close, and the city teems with life. I can feel my lungs expand as I breathe again.
”He didn’t say anything about my nationality,” I mumble to myself. The chief, however, picks up on this and replies,
”That’s because he assumed you’re here to change your nationality. Anybody who has the title of Free Civillian or higher has that right. Seeing that you’re both an Educated civilian and someone with the right to carry weapons, it’s no surprise you can change your nationality.”
Pointing to a strong looking building, he continues,
“I suggest you do so here in Lirei, if you’re looking for Hohenian citizenship. You’ll need to have at least one nationality if you’re to visit any regal sites, like the capital. Furthermore, it only costs a few zinc coins to edit nationality, so it’s definitely worthwhile.”
”I see, thank you.” I’m grateful for the information, but now an entirely new issue arises: How am I going to make any money at all?
Fortunately, this town has legible symbols and letters, and I can hear much use of Kanaeten/English, and even some French, so I think I can manage. Resolved, I push myself up from sitting, thank the coachman and the chief, and depart without much more somber sentiment. I begin to walk down the main road, and immediately feel many stares on not me in particular, but my clothes. Not only are they visibly damaged, but they’re also visibly different from the general fashion standard here. But, there isn’t much I can do about it yet, seeing I have no money.
The sign “Adventurer’s Guild of Lirei” catches my eye. I’m no adventurer, but maybe I can make a dollar from it with my skills and knowledge- I’m not an officer for nothing. I walk in, and even a blind man would see all the heads in the room turn to me. Sweat dribbles down the side of my temple, half-expecting someone to try and cut me up with a broadsword, or something. Though, my fears are for naught, as the heads turn away and the guild resumes activity. A messy billboard makes itself apparent to me, and I make my way over to find just what kind of mercenary-like activity I’ll be doing. There are some simple ones such as “Escort merchants to the capital; Reward of 150 Zinc coins,” some ridiculously outlandish ones such as “Defeat the God of Strength; Reward of 400 Gold coins,” and some confusing ones such as “Collect 720,000 lysine shards, Reward of one opal stone.” Above all of these, though, one task appeals itself the most- “Defeat and kill an ogre; Reward of 200 Silver coins.” I’ve heard of ogres before in myth, and I want to see one in the flesh. I rip the paper from it’s pin, and take it to a counter.
”This one, please.” The clerk is a pretty lady, who looks to be maybe just somewhat older than me.
”Name plate, please.”
Again, I hold my left hand out, and hear the “attrius enen toktei” chant; I wonder if I can do it, too?
“Good sir, you are not a member of our guild. Registration fee is 10 Silver coins.”
I’m not exactly sure what to do. I have no money, but if I can’t make money here without money, how do I make money? Perhaps I should go work a job.
The clerk recognizes my dilemma, and adds:
”If that is unsatisfactory for good sir, we can put you on a loan with interest and we can deduct from your rewards payout.”
”I’d like that.” How frighteningly similar to modern banks on Earth.
She touches the name plate with her finger, and I can see that the skill “Adventurer, Level 1 (Rank F)” is added to my skills list. Come to think of it, both my Engineer and Soldier skills were at Level 3- was that because of my experience on Earth?
”Now, good sir, the task you have chosen is for Rank C adventurers, who are usually between levels of 30 - 45. You are Rank F which is, consequently, between levels of 1 - 5. This is very dangerous for your level, are you sure you want to take this?”
”I’m certain.” I’ve no doubt that fighting an ogre will be a dangerous feat, but is it really any more dangerous than going over the top?
”Then, please know we are not responsible for severe harm or death in a worst case scenario event. Please take care, and good luck.” With a small bow, the pretty lady calls to the next in line. I leave the guild, and scan the contents of the task.
I’m to kill an ogre and bring back its heart to receive the reward. The note recommends to search for ogres in swamps or forests, but where am I going to find that here? I leave the city walls and, now less nervous of the guard, ask for any useful directions. He points me southeast, and I make my way there. After some 70 minutes of walking, I find myself at the outskirts of a forest. I instinctively reach for my revolver, but I stop myself. Until I can find somewhere to purchase or make more rounds of ammunition, whatever I have left is precious. Unless it’s an absolute emergency, everything else will be carried out with my service knife until I can find a way home. Now, with knife in hand, and service tag ‘round my neck, I’m ready to go beat some green ass. I march into the forest, ready to fight!
…
3 hours pass of wading in a more or less straight line through the forest. I’ve been leaving trail markers every so often or so, so there is no concern of getting lost. However, there is concern of me even finding one of these bastards. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, but at least then I know the needle is actually somewhere in the haystack. I’m going to give up for the night. I have no home here, so I’ll set up something in the forest here. With a few of these branches over here, some bramble over there, and with some impromptu tools, I have a pretty decent lean-to shelter set up within a few minutes. Not too spacious, but still a shelter nonetheless. I would like to eat something, but there isn’t even so much as a squirrel in sight. I settle with lighting a small fire to provide some warmth and smoke to keep bugs away. Soothed by the occasional pop and crackle of the fire, I drift away.
…
The whistles comes quick and loud. After a small wave of privates and corporals go up, I follow in suit, pushing myself up the ladder, knowing my head could be taken off in less than a second. Miraculously, I’m up on No Man’s Land and running, not yet shot. This particular stretch is maybe 750 metres across, but that’s still 750 too many to risk your life on. Somebody a little ahead of me gets his torso blown to the ground from a defending machine gun post. I hit the deck, hoping to be spared from the bullets likely coming my way. In the haze and confusion, I’m successfully overlooked by the gunner, and I get up to continue the sprint. Another soldier, who was equally clever enough to get to the ground, gets a bullet sent through his head as he tries to get up. Less than 100 metres separate what remains of our wave and the trench, and I can begin to feel that I’m getting the attention of some German gunners. I leap into a ditch, and get a grenade ready. Above my head it goes, and lands a foot away from the pesky machine gun. A cloud of smoke, sparks, and shrapnel entrenches the machine gun and what remains of the poor gunner. Not wanting to waste this opportunity, I spring up and run toward the trench, only somewhat more safe. I pull out my knife, and jump into the trench…
I awaken with a jolt. My head goes through the flimsy roof of the lean-to, completely trashing the shelter. A bad memory has followed me into the dream realm, as it sometimes does. But, I remember I’m here, now. No longer in the rotting hell of the trenches. I wonder if my family has already received the news of my death back in Canada? I guess it doesn’t matter. I prop myself up, and exhale a little. I’m not fighting the Kaiser’s men, any longer. Now I’m having some beef with ogres. As my senses adjust to being awake, a foul stench begins to attack my nostrils. I bring my arm to my nose to smell just in case, but it isn’t my clothing. Rather, it’s coming from deeper into the forest. It might be a bear, but considering the fact that this isn’t Earth, it might also be the ogre I’m hunting for. Willing to take a risk, I take my belongings and follow the rancid smell. I follow and follow, breaking a branch or clawing something into a tree every few metres. After a while, however, the smell seems to lead to nothing, and I sigh. Perhaps it really is just a bear, or something. I turn around to go set up some snares around camp, but a giant greenish-brown mass obstructs me. I size it up, until I make eye contact with 2 white and beady stones for eyes. Lo, and behold, an eight-foot ogre stands in my way. I said to conserve ammo unless in an emergency, but I’m pretty sure this is a fucking emergency.
I move to unholster my pistol, but there’s no time. A giant, sloppily made club from a log is coming down onto me. I roll out of the way, and at manage to grab my knife. But, the ogre is already prepared and ready for swing two. I dive between his legs as the log comes down, and while the ogre readies to lift the log out of the crater he has made, I use this opportunity to stab him in the back of his calf. He snarls, and with a moderate amount of force I drag the embedded knife horizontally across his calf until the knife cuts out of the calf, leaving a pretty nasty gash on his calf. He falls to his knee on that leg, and delivers an awkward swing behind him, hoping to get lucky and hit me. I duck, and stab him in the bottom of the back. I try again to slit the knife across to lacerate his abdomen, but he shakes me off- but not before I can take my knife from his back. At this point, he’s managed to turn around and face me, and plants his club between his legs, preventing me from getting behind him. He brings his fist down, and I narrowly dodge it. I cut one of his fingers off, and the ogre groans in pain, holding his hand and staring at the spot his left ring finger used to be. Capitalizing on this moment, I send the knife into the thigh of the kneeled leg, and hack off a small portion of skin from it. The ogre falls over in pain, and at this point is too disoriented to properly fight. It begins to trash, which makes it a bit harder to get to his head, but not impossible. After a duck here or roll there, I’m at his head, at which point I drive the knife into his neck and cut his head off with much struggle. The body goes limp, and I immediately get to work and cut the chair-sized heart from his torso. I did it, I killed an entire ogre! With a knife, no less!
While the requirement was just the heart of the ogre, I’ll bring the head too, seeing that it’s already off- maybe I can sell it for extra. I wish I could use some of that super cool magic to carry such heavy decorations, but I’ll have to do with my own strength. Four and a half hours of walking with the occasional break results in my return to Lirei. The guard, still the same in what appears to be light boredom looks up and drops his jaw when he sees the trophies I’m carrying.
”Good morning,” I greet him, trying to be as inconspicuous as I can possibly be in this moment. He doesn’t respond, and he even forgets to identify me.
As I walk down the main street, I can easily see the hundreds, potentially thousands of gazes turned to me and my ogre (parts). The reaction is the same on the faces of all- complete and utter bewilderment. I don’t really understand. I’m certain ogres have been killed before, considering the difficulty of the level, and it’s not that heavy. Regardless, I carry on, and the reaction inside the guild is an exact replica of outside. The clerk stands stupefied.
“Good morning. Here’s the heart, and I was wondering if I could sell this head here?”
”Cer… certainly, good sir. It goes for 12 silver coins.”
”Perfect.” 12 silver isn’t bad for a head, honestly.
”As for the completion of your rank C mission, here is the agreed upon and taxed amount of 180 silver coins. We have already deducted your required fee of 10 silver coins.”
The clerk hands me a small bag of the total sum of 192 coins. I can feel a small hole in my heart fill when I hear the sound of the coins hitting each other. The clerk makes me reveal my name plate, when her eyes widen in surprise for a brief moment.
”Congratulations, good sir. You are now a level 12 Adventurer, of which is now Rank D.” I personally can’t believe my adventurer level is higher than my engineer, despite everything.
”And, good sir, I personally apologize.” The clerk apologetically bows her head.
”For what?” I’m a little perplexed. Did I do something wrong?
”I thought good sir certainly would have died trying to do this mission. I was wrong to doubt you.”
”Ah, no. It’s okay, really.” It didn’t even cross my mind, but I really must’ve looked like I was publicly playing ball way out of my league.
The clerk raises her head.
”Well, good sir, may I ask what you thought of the experience of being in a guild?”
I sit and think for a moment. It was fucking horrifying. I could’ve become a paste like that. And yet, I still can’t say I hate it. Back home, my life was always at stake over mere metres of land that don’t affect the war at all. I always lived in fear back home, but I feel strangely alive, here. There is much to see and learn here. Though, technology is in dire need. But, I’m not an engineer for nothing. But, how is it I really felt about all of it? I smile to myself a little.
”I’m beginning to feel at home.”