The morning sunlight greets me. With a warm and gentle touch, it filters through the cracks in the temple walls, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. Along with the breeze that drifts in like a fresh sheet being shaken out, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wildflowers. This is my new reality. I have to accept the fact; this is not a dream. Moreover, I’ve tasted death—or rather, almost died. But a new day still greets me. Again. And again.


    It’s not life if we don’t get caught up in the wheel of life. A wheel that spins uncertainly, erratically. And no one knows where it will turn.


    A few days have passed. My body is feeling better. Unfortunately, Poma had to take a long rest. It seems she used up a lot of power to help me. I’m grateful. I never thought I’d be happy to stay alive. Even though life is painful. Where we will continue to be hurt as long as we live. Like a curse. One that doesn’t come off. Bound forever.


    Back to the present reality. I’ve owed Poma a lot of debt, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to repay it or not. She has saved me so many times. For no reason. Nor purpose. This keeps bothering me. But what could I do? Other than accepting her help?


    One thing that disappoints me about her: she never mentioned the language issue. So, I only just realized that the languages here are different. They don’t speak English. Surprising? Not really. It actually makes sense. Still, it makes me wonder how Poma has been able to talk to me this whole time. Does she have some kind of automatic translation ability?


    Then because of this, I never thought of this language problem as one of the things I need to pay attention to. After all, it’s not something that’s commonly found in Isekai stories in general. It’s only natural that I missed it. Those writers need to be more creative and sensitive about basic issues like this.


    What can I do? I’m just a character in the story, right? I just have to accept this terrible reality.


    This makes the world seem to be against me. But Poma said to hold back my negative thoughts, so I try to take it easy and just accept the situation at hand. But language isn’t the only problem. There’s the matter of food. That’s right, food. I hadn’t thought about this either. Who would have thought that this foreign world would have evolved in a different way from what’s on Earth?


    It means basic things like taste preferences and food types are completely different. Surprising? Of course. While Earth has many cultures with their own foods, here they’ve taken it to a whole new level.


    I was thinking about bread at first. Yes, because of the appearance of the people who helped me. They seemed to be wearing simple and modest medieval European clothes. So, I thought there wouldn’t be much difference. But in fact, there is no bread here. Or maybe it hasn’t been found yet? I don’t know. They’ve only been making various kinds of soup or porridge for the past few days.


    One of the porridges is incredibly bland. It seems to be made from mashed roots, cooked down to a mushy consistency that sticks to the roof of my mouth. The texture is gritty, like sand mixed with glue. They also add some kind of beans to almost every dish. The problem? These beans are extremely sour! When you chew them, the sourness explodes in your mouth. Sharp and overwhelming, making it hard to keep eating. To balance it out, they serve a kind of white liquid that tastes like mint, cool and slightly numbing. The combination is strange. Beyond anything my Earthling brain can understand.


    I wonder what Gordon Ramsay would say if he tried it.


    Maybe he will feel like he ate poison or something.


    I wouldn’t blame him. I felt the same way. Honestly, I thought they were trying to kill me with their abstract cooking. I couldn’t eat it. But there was no other food. And it forced me to eat it. Now I regret it. Because I had diarrhea afterwards. My stomach wasn’t born to eat these otherworldly foods. The cramps hit hard, twisting my insides like someone wringing out a wet cloth. I spend hours hunched over, clutching my abdomen, wishing I could crawl into a hole and disappear.


    Whatever it is, the dice have been rolled. And this is what I got. I have to adapt quickly, and thankfully, I’m not doing this alone.


    It feels strange. I used to talk to Poma so casually, but now I see others worshipping her—making offerings, singing, and dancing for her. Their voices rise in harmony, soft chants filling the air like a low hum that vibrates through the stone walls. The scent of burning herbs lingers heavily, earthy and sharp. Making my nose twitch. I’ve witnessed these rituals several times, and it still doesn’t feel real that I’ve been helped by a goddess these people revere.


    Not once. But many times. Even Enyeka is treated with reverence. Last night, these people gave her food and smeared a kind of oil on her head. The oil smells rich and floral, like crushed jasmine mixed with something spicy, and they also applied it to parts of the temple itself, leaving the air thick with its fragrance.


    Among the five people who helped me and came to this temple, one of them is the priestess, Aliyah. She’s a woman with long brown hair wearing a simple white robe that folds loosely over her body. It seems to be a ceremonial garment because she only wears this when entering the temple, and she stays at the altar for most of the day. I don’t know what she’s doing there, exactly.


    What I do know is that Aliyah can communicate with me. Not because she understands English, but through some kind of spirit language. It seems similar to telepathy, allowing her to speak directly to my mind without words. Poma uses something like this too. The catch? I have to wear the necklace Poma gave me, and I can’t stray too far from Aliyah. It affects how well this spirit language works.


    One other interesting thing: Aliyah is blind. I don’t know what happened to her, but she can’t see. Because of this, I’m staying with her at the shrine while the other four are out foraging in the forest. I’m here not just to keep her company but also to help if she needs anything after finishing her duties at the altar.


    It’s a bit boring, but what can I do? I just wait, sitting in the corner of the room. The fragrance near the altar is overpowering, cloyingly sweet and sharp. Stinging my nose until it feels raw. My eyes water slightly as I try to breathe through my mouth instead.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Then I see Aliyah stand up. She had been sitting in front of the altar for a while, her hands resting gently on her lap. I quickly walk over to her. I just want to help her walk. The temple’s uneven, half-destroyed floor makes it hard for her to move on her own. Her bare feet shuffle cautiously over the cracked stones, each step hesitant.


    I stand beside her, offering my arm for support. Her hands are soft and smooth, cool against my skin, and I can smell a strong, pungent fragrance clinging to her clothes, almost medicinal in its intensity. After guiding her carefully, we reach the outer area of the temple. We both slowly sit down on the steps, the cold stone pressing into my thighs.


    The breeze picks up outside, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. It feels refreshing compared to the heavy atmosphere inside the temple. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the wind brush against my face, cool and soothing.


    Now we just have to wait for the other four to return from the forest. Today is the day I can finally leave the forest and these ruins behind and head back to civilization. Though I feel a bit pessimistic about what might await me, curiosity still lingers in the back of my mind. I imagine adventures in this strange world, but deep down, I know I won’t do anything reckless. All I really want is to live a normal life.


    “My lady seems exhausted. It seems like helping you made her pay quite a price,” Aliyah says, her voice soft but carrying an edge of concern. She looks at me with her strange gaze. Her blind eyes somehow piercing through me, as if she sees more than sight alone allows.


    Although she may not be as beautiful as Poma in the sense of having pale white and smooth facial skin, Aliyah is still quite an attractive woman. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the sunlight that filters through the cracks in the temple walls. Somehow, like Poma, her words often feel sharp and unexpected, cutting straight to the heart of things.


    “I had no intention of doing that. But you’re right, I do owe her a lot,” I reply to Aliyah.


    Then she smiles at me and, with a chuckle, says, “You are lucky. Not everyone can get a blessing from a being like her. Ordinary people can only accept the fate we receive.”


    An ordinary person? Did she not see me as a normal human being? Did Poma tell her about the mysterious card I had and my status as a chosen one?


    Before I can ask her, she adds, “I know you have many secrets. Rest assured, I won’t tell anyone even if I know something. That was one of the promises I made to my lady.”


    I don’t know why, but… Poma and Aliyah both seem to have something in common when it comes to speaking. Often leaving only half-information and giving a very mysterious impression. But I shouldn’t worry, because Poma herself arranged all this. So, it should all be fine, right?


    “Looks like I scared you a little there. You don’t talk too much. And I don’t know anything about you either. Maybe while waiting for the others, could you tell me what your home place is like?” Aliyah changes the subject while smiling at me. Her brown eyelids flutter slightly, her expression warm despite her blindness.


    But speaking of home... do I even have one? After my father’s death, everything changed. It’s hard to think of home as the same place it used to be. Explaining the details of modern life wouldn’t help Aliyah understand anyway—our worlds are just too different. So, what I can say is very limited. Or maybe I never had a home again after my father was gone. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.


    “It’s a very different world. Hard to explain. But compared to this world, my place feels like a sick and dying one. It’s only a matter of time before it all ends,” I say to her, staring at the bright sunlight streaming through the broken windows. A sun that isn’t quite like the one I remember.


    Because I realize something. This place. This world. It’s going to be my home from now on. I need to accept that. There’s regret, sure, and maybe even a longing to go back to Earth. But is that really possible? How many people in isekai stories actually return? Almost none, I think.


    Aliyah hums softly, considering my words. “A dying world? That doesn’t sound too different from this one. Maybe you won’t have a hard time adapting because of that. In the end, you’re just changing places. Life, I think, is the same everywhere.” She chuckles, a warmth in her voice that oddly soothes me.


    Her words hit the mark. Whether it’s Earth or this foreign world, life remains the same. The same struggles, just in different places. The realization settles something in me. If there were no unknown entities or lurking Lovecraftian horrors, this could almost be the perfect world for me.


    “You’re right,” I admit. “But aren’t there gods here? I don’t know much about them, but don’t they have a strong influence on this world?” Even Poma had avoided discussing them in detail, only ever giving me vague warnings.


    Aliyah exhales, her expression shifting, something weary creeping into her features. “The gods? Your life will be fine as long as you accept your fate.” There’s a pause, her fingers absently tracing the fabric of her robe. “Though I hate to admit it, the teachings of the West may have a point. Humans are mortal beings bound by fate.” Her expression wilts. Like a flower left too long in the sun. The smile on her lips fades, and for a moment. She seems lost in thought.


    Then she turns to me, leaning in slightly, her presence close enough that the scent of temple oils and faint herbs fills my nose. “But I think you’re different,” she murmurs. “Two humans won’t see things the same way, even if they look at the same place. What do you think? Do you believe fate binds us all?”


    Fate? More like a curse to me. Maybe there’s some truth to it. That my dreams can’t be achieved could be because it’s my fate. But if that’s true, why should I bother dreaming of becoming a writer in the first place? What’s the point of living if everything is predetermined?


    Hah! This reminds me of Oedipus’ tragic story. I hope I don’t end up with the same ill-fated life.


    “You don’t seem to be able to answer yet? What’s bothering you?” asks Aliyah, who again returns with a faint smile on her face.


    “I guess you’re right, and I couldn’t find any other answers either. Then I remembered a tragic story from where I come from. A story about how strongly fate can bind us,” I reply while looking down at my hands. They’re calloused now, rough from days of gripping tree branches and stumbling over roots in the forest.


    Ironically, there’s also the saying: destiny is in our hands.


    It’s just that. I don’t think this expression means anything. Especially if we never had the power to change it in the first place? What can humans do against fate and the cycles of this world? Other than hope for mercy or miracles?


    As I sink deeper into my thoughts, Aliyah suddenly perks up. Though I know she is blind, something in her dark eyes seems to glimmer with interest.


    “I’m interested in hearing the story of where you came from. Maybe when the others come, you can share them with the rest of us?” Aliyah replies with an eager expression. I don’t know what makes her so interested in me or the things from Earth.


    We hardly even spoke before except in times of need. This was the first time she’s been so active like this.


    But it’s not bad. I should also start getting to know Aliyah and the others as well. “That’s fine. I’ll tell you about it. You can tell the others later,” I reply briefly.


    Aliyah then takes my hand and says, “Thank you. I will be very happy to hear it.” Her grip is gentle but firm, her fingers cool against my skin.


    But then I remember. I’m a terrible writer. Will I even be able to tell the Oedipus story properly? I hope my storytelling skills aren’t as poor as my writing. If they are, I might have to question the point of my existence.