An unbound family portrait slip out from the wallet when we collided.


    Surprisingly, John Titor, who is probably is not in self-content, as I should call him by the nickname to avoid his dying pain ministered by awful and dreaded parent, was the only sibling to be wearing stylish ronin-like clothing.


    First was the handmade rain cover in the arm posing ridiculously from his other siblings. Natural color scheme of his clothes is of purple, black, white, gray, and green. His dress is consist of a belt-like sash, a custom outer kimono cape with plenty of room under the arm pit to arms length with detailed circle patterns throughout; and a loose pant known as a tattsuke-bakama but non-traditional, that cuffed right below the knee garnished with pill pattern design allocated in the center to resemble old traditional coins. Very light leg guards and covering of the foot and calves. Shoes are made of straws or mayhaps weaved from sturdy plants and cultured tree barks, finished with many straps between the toes and up above the ankles.


    “Now, this is an isekai man. The description I gave thee, will it not satisfy your anger?” I beseeched.


    Being summoned by an elvfyn girl would not help either way. The dragon boat found my logic to be false. My determination to proof I was not of their ilk in some ways is unsatisfying. A blurb of information the boat releases concerning that I was the second man who this Titor boy was talking about through his travels. Someone who was in chase of him for owning some coins from an inn from a deal they played. The good cop, bad cop scenario.


    I don’t believe one bit of this ploy. It made no sense. John Titor is a fictitious code to be chosen that did me no justice to prove my innocent from the dragon’s yapping.


    The dragon boat’s third excuse was sure we both were in cahoot because our names were very different from the realm accusing us as aliens of one kind. The knowledge it professed told I that the boat is well learned of isekai men and a fair history lesson of wonders. It baffles me of what is really going on in the fantasy world.


    “Enough of him!” the magic boat telling me to end the charade. Deep thinking tends to drive people nuts. I did not expect an animated object would care lest the possessed boat was once a human. The fire is fading but soon there will be a storm to quench.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Far from the distant, a rain storm was in session along a certain horizon heading into some greenery. At least that is what we expect it to be, hoping it wasn’t some form of illusion, looking from the pinnacle top of the highest hill of sand in our proximity, til the curious sand whale pop out partially nearby gushing out steam and it rescind, creating low cooling clouds gliding in the direction of the whimsical winds. It would be problematic crossing the wet sand though a bit of fair rain is wanted.


    “I’ll be leaving. Hope you do well in your travels stranger.” The boat left me not doubting that I’m guilty from our earlier conversation. It shook gradually of itself to start off descending from the one-edge hill. I watch the boat and when the land was even within the valley of sands, it was stuck doing its best to move squinting the eyes and tightening the wooden muscles to the point it is playing charade in the bathroom.


    The boat is having trouble releasing a large dried piece stuck between the two muscular sphincter complexes indeed. It’s face had sour. A moment of quietness registered before turning around to ask me for a favor the third time.


    It didn’t took long for the magic boat to realize it’s sail is lost. A symbiotic deal is made within the barren valley that I would find/make a sail in return for the greatest service to mankind. The sail is the key component to magically swim the no man’s land. The boat insisted. I have no choice but to heed to the instruction of an animated object since two feet will only carry so far.


    I made a sail out of a make-shift pole grafted with scraps and dirty yet durable linens, inserted the creation onto the dragon’s back. The linen arisen in majesty and sweat sparkles in contact.


    We took off into no men’s playground, swimming pass the sand manatees and the killer seaweeds, made troubles with the overpowered alien parasite princess Chagas within her territory, and more within the uncharted sand sea randomly locating a settlement sojourned in the middle of the desert basin. And when the both of us thought all is good from the “abusement,” the settlement reveals to be a hideout of goblin biker bandits.


    “These goblins are cannibals.” said the dragon boat, “Take my advice once more, they’re over-leveled. We must escape.” Our mischievous arrival alerted the pack instantaneously.


    The goblins brandish their spoiled weapons of war stolen from adventurers and rouge army platoons. We are in hot troubles surviving the onslaught of bombardments and physical killer instinct showdown where our sand gliding brought us close to be abuse missing the full power hand club of a gigantic hob. Some of the monsters were overweight and there is nothing I could do about it if they plow the dragon boat.


    The only weapon to match the bandits was a cannon the dragon boat had set. With less than three ammunition conserved since the battle with Chagas and her sandpool fortress. The decision was made to finish all the rounds. I have to rely on the sprites for help throughout the duration of time I made for an escape. There was a limit to how much the boat can do on its own.