《To the End》


 "Birth"

    Dear reader,


    Let me ask you a question. How did you get your hands on this book? I''m not a person to let others judge my work so easily. I wouldn''t give this to my most trusted friends. I wouldn''t even share this with my parents. The thing is, you reading this book could mean anything. If you''ve found this by coincidence, I''d like you to keep quiet about this, or at least throw it away, because I want nothing to do with it. This book will live on in my heart.


    But maybe not. Probably not. Really, anyone can get their hands on this notebook, after all. Are you a thief? Good for you. I hope you get caught. Perhaps you''ve also taken the liberty of killing me. If that''s the case, know that I probably don''t have anything against you, but also know that I will be haunting your memories and driving you to the very edge of sanity.


    Honestly, whatever. Most likely I''ll end up losing this book some way. They''re a pretty valuable commodity here, so I might end up selling this for bread.


    - T.G.


    --------_______--------- ~don''t mind me, just drawing some fancy page breaks~


    The name''s Terry. Legally, it''s Terrezia, but I don''t like it. I can''t say with confidence I like Terry either, but I think it''s still a step above.


    "In an urban town there was the insignificant existence known as Terry(ezia). He was born to a decent middle class family-- desiring nothing and lacking nothing. He had decent parents whom he neither loved overtly nor hated overtly. In school, Terry rarely interacted with other children of his age, with average grades to pass. He also never had a girlfriend. It wasn''t that he was ugly or antisocial, but rather because he felt it was unnecessary. He could never get along with them because he was simply more mature. One day--


    Oh, no. I jest. No worries, the paragraph above is comprised of completely lies, except for one or two parts. As a protagonist, I''m proud to announce that I''m neither an edgelord (I don''t think existence is pain) nor a Mary Sue (I don''t have a harem), nor a self-insert, as I am recording these events in the live with no exaggerations to my line of thought, the perception of others, or my own abilities.


    I will also refrain from referring to myself as a "normal" high school student, like countless writers in our time have done. This, of course, continues under the assumption that I am somehow a protagonist. A figure which the world revolves around, which is a childish misconception at best, and outright narcissisticat worst.


    But as astronomers have noted, any point in space is technically the centre of the universe, given its nature to expand forever. Therefore, knowing that everything that I perceive is ultimately insignificant and could be the work of an illusion, and that everything is both true and false, I declare myself my own protagonist.


    Are you?


    I must detract from this pretentious faux-essay which has run for far too long. You see, in contemporary fiction, authors make a point of beginning their books (if you can even call it that) with a few poorly formed ideas on the nature of society and humans, like "Oh, so and so are not fair, there are two types of people in the world, justice is this and evil is that" and oh my god the list goes on and on and on and I would love to give you some examples but unfortunately I don''t have any material with me to quote and the circumstances behind that are very specific and potentially interesting so I''ll get around to explaining that and woah look this istrippyI''vebeendraggingthis sentenceonforeverandlookIcancontinuedraggingthissinglesentencealongforaslongasIwantandit


    willnevereverendhahahahaha


    --------_______---------


    Listen (read) very closely, because I have something to tell you. It is of utmost importance, at least to me.


    I think I''m in another world.


    While this may first appear to be a panicked assumption made by a delusional teen, you can be assured that I have followed a trail of empirical evidence and logical reasoning to arrive at such a ridiculous thought. Surely this effort will grant me a major in science and philosophy. I''m truly a man beyond my years.


    Before that, let me tell you more about myself. I''m nearly 15. I''m male. I''m insecure about my developing facial hair. But wait! It says here that information about the main character can be withheld and revealed slowly to introduce mystery to a story and avoid long-winding explanations.


    Sounds good to me.


    But really, if you believe that I''m taking this whole "other world" business calmly, you would be seriously overestimating my rational capabilities as a human being. As one of my good friends have said, I am actually "freaking the fuck out" right now.


    However, you are not here to listen to my emotional pleas, are you? You''re here for the "plot", you ungrateful fucks who don''t give two shits about character, you filthy degenerates who complain about balance between story and character when you have none of it yourself¡ªReading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Excuse me.


    I apologize. Let us forgive the past and allow ourselves to gather once again with harmonious intent.


    ¡­


    Ok, now that I''ve vented myself sufficiently, I can tell you about the set of evidence I used to come to the conclusion that I, Terry Guls, am in another world, world being defined by the collective consciousness of humanity as "our home, the root of civilization", and "other world" subsequently referring to "a planet, or world", located at an unknown point in space time with capabilities of sustaining our definition of life via complex ecosystems.


    Empirical Evidence:


    I look around myself, and observe:


    ?Short grass up to ~my ankles


    ?Sparse low plants and shrubbery


    ?Some patches of grass are red, like splatters of blood


    ?Rocks and boulders scattered around me


    ?The sky, blue (it''s now more grey, as some time has passed since I''ve landed here)


    ?Fresh air, feels different comp w/ home


    ?Big grey mountains in front (North?)


    ?Ooh is that a berry


    ?Yes that is a berry it looks big and good


    Ok, don''t eat the red berries. Oh god, they taste bad. Fuck.


    I regret snapping that cord.


    Excuse me.


    At this point, I''d be surprised if I wasn''t in another world. We don''t need protagonists who "rationally" analyze the ridiculousness of their situation unless it''s centre to his character. It''s like rejecting reality. Heroes who are stuck on "The refusal of the journey" are stubborn bitches (summarizes me pretty well, I''d say).


    Look, all I''m saying is that if you''ve woken up in the middle of nowhere with no idea how you got there, it''s good to prepare yourself for the adventure of a lifetime.


    Back to reality. I now realize that eating the berry was probably a bad decision, but come on, I only have a day''s worth of food left. Considering my location, I should probably get around to locating civilization. I''m not going to speculate as to the type of civilization I''ll encounter (supposing there is one), but I do hope it''ll be some place I can fit into without trouble.


    As much as I would like to see a high fantasy world, I sincerely understand that typical feudal societies in fantasy and the like are vastly inferior to our civilizations in just about every way. Say, have you ever been enslaved in your life? Have you ever been forced to eat the exact same bread or pie or bun, every single meal of the day, for an entire week? Have you ever not eaten, against your will, for an entire week? Have ever been so cold that the skin and flesh around your knuckles fall off, revealing bone?


    Exactly.


    That''s why it''s better for me to encounter some kind of modern or near-future era nation with decent childcare programs, so they can at least send me to an orphanage. And if it''s not too much to ask for, perhaps some urban fantasy elements in this world as well. Not the post-apocalyptic type where humanity is walled up in a single city to defend itself from hordes of demons, but the type where magic and reality are one, and there''s an academy where talented children are sent to train their special abilities to serve as mercenaries or protect the state¡­


    Seriously, what is it with our society''s fascination with high schools? Must you have a story of a school for every fantasy element? School for magic users, school for monsters, school for mech pilots¡­


    Currently, I''m walking and writing. At the same time, which is a unique skill of mine. I''ve had a habit of writing film and book reviews on my way to school ever since I picked up a notebook, hence why I''m able to keep a good pace. I actually didn''t know this was irregular until my friend commented on it during my first year of high school. I''ll tell you more about him later, as I think my survival is more important, no?


    First things first, I chose to walk towards the mountains I mentioned earlier, seeing that I was stuck on what was definitely a plain. A very wild and northern plain, devoid of serious vegetation but nonetheless humid and vast in size. The green of moss and grass is light and the grey mountains might have some snow at the peak. However, these mountains feel warm for some reason. I face directly towards the valley drawn in-between two of the rocky hills.


    It draws me forward, like a reassuring embrace, yet it is cold and unmoving and impossibly tall.


    I gulp.


    I can tell this particular mountain range is to the North, although I have no idea what that means geographically. Perhaps a city lies beyond here, protected by the range. Perhaps a motherfucking dragon is there and I''m walking towards my death. Either way, since there''s no water source near me to follow, I''ll at least get a vantage point from there.


    I''m writing about this while walking because it somehow calms me instead of making me nauseous. Here, I can ignore the fact that I can''t remember most of my survival skills and also the existential dread that I may not encounter civilization at all within the foreseeable future. It''s the worst walk of my life.


    By the way, I don''t have an eraser. I only keep some pens and a sharpener in my bag, which is a one-shoulder that I take with me. Inside are some basic supplies, including a day''s worth of snacks and emergency rations, a bottle of water (thankfully reusable) and some other necessities. These necessities may or may not be of immense value, determined by the world I''m in. I imagine the petty nobles of old will enjoy sunscreen, as it is superior to products like silver dust for treating the skin.


    But if there''s a true negative to this, my phone (I prefer calling it a PD, but my friend made fun of me for that) is dead.


    Reaction:


    FUCK FUCK FUCK


    FUCK FUCK FUCK


    FUCK FUCK FUCK


    -End of Reaction-


    Hear me out. Just imagine never using your phone for the rest of your pitiful life. Come on, this thing is a part of you. It''s a part of our identity as a human being. Whenever you read a web novel, don''t you feel the character talking to you through this device as a medium? All it takes is a breath and the phone will have a soul.


    I suppose I''ll sell it, then. If this place is a fantasy world and it manages to jumpstart a technological revolution, I''ll feel pretty good about myself.


    Guls here, logging the fuck off. I propose we meet before the ''morrow, and hopefully by then I''ll have acquired a harem and a cheat skill.


    --------_______---------


    Authors Note:


    This is my first webnovel. The plot progression may unfortunately be slow at the beginning due to my abilities as a writer, but the pacing will be set to my liking as I explore what makes a good character and how to breathe life into a fantasy world. I also promise a decent dose of action and death, and the MC will not be useless. Updates have no gurantee of occuring regularly, but I will attempt to do write as much as possible, as I''ve put down many other project ideas for this.


    Finally, I''d like to thank the artist Mindsiphon on DeviantArt, who I did not contact, for creating the cover art. If you''re wondering about the title in the cover, I simply stuck a few words on it in PS.

 "What Could Be"

    Looking at my progress, I was gradually treated with the awe-inspiring size of the mountains. Simply fucking grand. I may have been too arrogant in assuming that I could climb such a thing. This beauty of geological formations was much more barren in its forestry compared to the ones I hiked during camp and extracurriculars.


    If you ignore certain aspects of this world, like the crippling loneliness, this place has a charm to it. There''s no human in view, rarely an animal, only nature''s flat¡­ plains. Yeah, plains. I swear on my Ah Mah I had no desire to write "chest".


    I''ve sometimes thought of what it would be like to grow up in a less developed area; to have the freedom of exploring vast untouched plains and forestry. The idea is surreal to me and sure, you''re alone, but loneliness is a companion herself.


    Did the Gods send me here to acquaint me with nature? If that''s the case, I''m fully persuaded. Screw humans, they don''t deserve to pollute and tarnish this world, let alone live on it. They can all die if I have this place to myself.


    My controversial views aside, out of the corner of my eyes I noticed small shapes blurring, shooting through grass and leaving light flutters. I immediately assumed it was some kind of hole digging mole rat thing. The critter quickly went out of view and I followed its aftershadow. To no surprise, there was a hole in the ground. I squatted there for a moment, contemplating my next move. To dig or to not dig?


    Because, you know, dear reader, what if burrowing rats are the dominant and sentient species here, and I need to establish first contact between man and mole rat? Gathering my courage, I began digging.


    --------_______---------


    Here''s an interesting story: I just wasted 15 minutes of my life


    --------_______---------


    In accordance with the ending of the last chapter, It appears we will indeed meet before the ''morrow, as I grew bored and began writing immediately after the first entry. For the topic of this chapter, I suppose it will be rather unconventional that I''ll discuss what happened chronologically before the first chapter, but you will have to cope with that, my imaginary audience.


    My purpose here is to consider "how" I got here and "why" I was sent here. I actually meant to write those two words in italics for emphasis, but you can''t really tell on paper, so you will have to deal with quotation signs for the time being. If there is magic in this world, perhaps I will be able to acquire an enchanted pen that can write in italics. Until I obtain such a commodity, you will have to bear with "these" signs.


    Now, when I came about in this world, it was as if I was opening my eyes for the first time from a long darkness. There, I felt all traces of fatigue leave me unnaturally. I initally thought I was laid down on my bed, but the oddly cool and ticklish grass pressed beneath me told me otherwise.


    I was frozen still on the ground for a long moment as the sky stared upon me without reaction. Naturally, I was very confused. As I finally began to sluggishly lift my head forward, the first sight I was greeted to were the mountains. After that, there was a short period of bewilderment before I had a good idea of what was going on.


    The confusion was because, as you may remember, caused by the fact that I have no knowledge of how I arrived here. The obvious conclusion is that I somehow lost my memories during my transition to this area. More likely than not, it has been suppressed either by drugs or some kind of magic, because despite my lack of medical knowledge, I do not believe amnesia can work so precisely and conveniently. A good portion of my memories are certainly hazy, which makes this conclusion more likely.


    That also suggests a group or person is actively interfering with me, which is concerning but will be addressed later.


    As for what I can recall from my past, I believe it was around when the month was coming to an end that my memories began to waver and fog. I have faint visions of visiting some old antique store to browse around, presumably to buy this old hardcover book that I''m holding now. Beyond that, I couldn''t remember any more details. The human brain has a knack for recognizing faces, but I couldn''t seem to recall any of the ones that I had seen around that time. The men and women were colourless and formless shapes, shadowing over me and their voices a hypnotic buzz.


    In fact, I don''t even remember seeing my parents. Not even school. Not even friends. Just a fog of unclear emotions.


    Depending on your preferences in fictional works, this may lead you to the conclusion that I have been drugged and thrown into a death game or something as a social experiment or (I twisted my ankle, ouch) as amusement for the powerful.


    But that doesn''t make sense. Why choose me for the death game? Because I''m interesting? Because a certain [Evil Organization] wants to research human psychology?


    Both are ridiculous at best. I will admit, I am situated quite decently on the ladder of society, and touching me could very well mean poking at some particular people with a lot of strings to pull. At the very least, my dissapearance will provoke a lot of outrage in my city, if only because a student went missing, something which, as you know, has next to zero chances of occurring. This is not something a concealed [Evil Organization] wants if they don''t want to drain their pockets trying to clean it up.


    Of course, since I know nothing of my situation, I can''t really tell anyways. I will be honest and admit that I discarded this possibility simply because I dislike it. The "Battle Royale" and "Death Game" fervor has outgrown its originality as a theme. There is no way you can improve such a bland genre. I will now cease to comment on this subject, as I fear to provoke the sleeping tiger known as the "fandom".Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Those fucking pigs...


    Otherwise, I would prefer what''s known as an "Isekai" or "travel to another world" themed adventure. I will now bring up some critique and say that in these stories, the protagonist who finds himself in another world is occasionally an "otaku" who has extensive knowledge of the genre he''s stuck in. However, I can count on less than half a hand the times where a MC will comment on the excessive number of tropes he encounters.


    In this case, it makes me, the protagonist, discussing the genre he''s in rather ironic (or is it meta?), but also a unique type of flower. Yes, I am a precious little snowflake.


    Anyways, isekai stories usually tend to go very well for the protagonist, who finds new joy by using his powers for vague motivations, earning the adoration of female slaves everywhere while grandly pissing off the poorly written nobility and religious orders. If not, it will usually turn out to be an edgy clusterfuck of poorly formed ideas and recycled tropes. Not that your standard isekais are any better, of course.


    If you''ve never viewed such an inferior selection of fictional works, perhaps you''ve only been acquainted with its even more retarded cousins: transmigration, reincarnation, and OP system in another world novels. The part about retardation may be an overstatement, seeing that transmigration stories have more history than any of the genres I just mentioned, but "travel to another world" was the theme of the first web novel I''ve read. Thus, it will always have precedence in my head.


    And no, I will not tell you the title of the novel. I will never quote or mention the title of any of these insignificantly bad works for fear it may ruin all my credibility as a scholar and a human being. You''re seriously telling me to quote a fucking webnovel?


    The common factor with all of these genres, however, is their liberal use of power fantasy and appealing to males of the... lower social class. And these are granted in the form of horribly designed and even more horribly inconsistent cheat systems.


    If I had such a thing... By having OP self-evolving abilities, I will essentially receive the "you''re good, man" insurance ticket from God, giving me the choice of either destroying the world or hiding in a man cave for the rest of eternity, both of which sound very appealing. It must be wonderful to dwell in such safety.


    Although, the color of the sky is giving me some chills. What''s with the grey color? Don''t you know it''s very unsettling? The sky''s supposed to be bright blue to emphasize the beauty of the [New World]!


    I''m scared.


    I want my OP system.


    "Status?"


    Come on, Gods who sent me here.


    "Show Status"


    Give it to me.


    "Open Status"


    You know you want to.


    "Well, shit."


    Nothing happened.


    It looks like this journey will be interesting after all, if possibly very dangerous without supernatural powers at the beginning.


    That might be a problem for our typical heroic protagonist, but I, great lord Tereszia, possesses a rare and powerful [Skill] known as [Self-Preservation]. You can be assured I won''t be stepping in to fight bandits attacking a caravan.


    In addition, not having abilities adds suspense and risk to a genre filled with overpowered and obnoxious protagonists.


    At least, that''s what I''ll keep telling myself, because I''m pissing my pants right now.


    --------_______---------


    Around ten minutes after I added some finishing touches to the first chapter, I noticed with more and more attention a growing itch around my legs. How preposterous, this world dares to touch my delicate and masculine self...


    The immediate suspect source for this annoyance was the grass, but a quick search revealed small red bumps across my legs. This is the moment where I realized my first opponent in this new world: insects.


    I drew the meagre combat knife from my jacket. While I''d like to write that "its impressive size compared to my hands embellished a sharp curve of death", It was really just a typical civilian model: not the cream of the crop, but rather the sour sugar that failed to dissolve at the bottom of the cup.


    I have no special background. No grand motivation. No tragedy. No oddparents from a bloodline of vampire killers, and no demon seal. Nothing. The only weapon I possess, the bloody work of man, is hissteel. So, I charged into the fray with every intent to win.


    I failed.


    --------_______---------


    New World: 2


    Terrezia: 0


    So far, I''ve lost twice: first against the burrowers and now the insects. Both times I barely managed to escape with my life and limb intact¡­ truly a dangerous world I''ve arrived in, and this is only in the span of one chapter, too.


    And I haven''t even encountered a single intelligent being yet.


    I suppose this is what they call "loneliness". But nonetheless, I must persevere. After all, it''s only been an hou


    Oh, that''s a bird. I just saw a bird. Nice.


    Anyways, if my internal clock is to be trusted, I''ve spent nearly an hour and a half walking. I can''t measure the exact distance I''ve traversed, as I have no instruments of measurement. I do have a compass on hand, so if you''re a special snowflake who knows some math tricks, you might be able to figure something out.


    However, I do not count myself among the mathematical snowflakes. The only way to assess distance is therefore by using statistics. It''s said that the average human can travel at 6.4 kilometres per hour by taking a brisk walking pace. But there are certain factors that need to be taken into account for lower error magins; the body composition plays a large role in walking speed. Take for example: my grandmother, a fairly average and fit woman. She will not be able to walk at 6.4 kilometres per second. I''m not sure she can even walk for one mile in ten hours.


    Of course, this is given that my grandmother is dead.


    I myself am decently built (last measured, 30th percentile out of the average teenage male), with average proportions and a height of nearly 170cm. I suppose I don''t have to remind you that this is absolutely the ideal male form: there are no limits to surpass from here. Human evolution has truly reached its peak.


    And yet, I lost to mere insects. Is this the limit of human ability?


    It appears that the Gods are cruel.


    It also appears that I''ve reached my desired ~2k word count (I counted myself, Dad are you proud of me). I would like to keep you entertained for longer, but I''m afraid I''ll bore you to death with my long essay on the nature of reality that I planned, or perhaps a discussion of otherwise completely meaningless topics. One topic such as the complete list of people I have and ever had sexual attraction towards, including my fifth grade homeroom and math teacher, Ms. Page.


    Ok... I didn''t mean to write that. But I''ll leave it there as our little secret. Of course, you can''t tell anyone about this, or uncle Terry will do bad things to you when you drop your soap in the showers.


    And you don''t want uncle Terry to do bad things to you in the showers.

 "Mountain/Boredom"

    I managed to make it to the foot of the mountain just before night broke, allowing me some brief view over the plains using the height advantage. Unfortunately, these glimpses proved insignificant, coupled with the fact that the darkness held back my vision. I was beginning to feel that this was a waste of my efforts.


    Looking left and right from my temporary foothold, two mountains sandwiched me between themselves, as if they were¡­ arms, welcoming me into the fold between. However, it didn¡¯t put me at ease in any way. If anything, I found this embrace to be cold, disregardful and indifferent to my plight. It was there for me, and yet it wasn¡¯t.


    As I grew more and more uncomfortable with the darkness obscuring my ability to climb, I found myself nearly losing my footing on several locations. At this point I decide to end this little expedition of mine and head down for the time being, as I don¡¯t intend to fall to my death in such an¡­ amateurish way.


    I stand at the break between mountain and plain, squatting down and feeling the queer formations of granite and rock scratching against my skin. I recall with some amusement from science class that all stones are made of crystals¡­ mostly silicon, I believe.


    Crystals, I wonder. How can you say that when there¡¯s no light to these dead things?


    Looking up once again, I finally realize that this whole time, there was no sign of life or vegetation on this mountain, not even a speck of dirt or dust.


    This valley is dead. These mountains are dead. The entirety of this mountain range is dead.


    Speaking from what I know of the earth sciences, this is rather peculiar. For there to be such a sudden disconnect between the living and the dead¡ª I¡¯m confident there are, or at least were forces at work here. Even if you were to vaporise the surface of a mountain entirely, let¡¯s assume with an explosive, there would still be a significant deposit of dirt remaining, meaning plenty of chances for life to reveal itself once again.


    However, that simply isn¡¯t true here.


    There is not even the slightest touch of nature here.


    Of course, I can¡¯t credit myself as being knowledgeable in how mountains are formed in the first place. I will suspend this line of thought for now.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Otherwise, I find it appropriate to seek shelter, or at least a resting ground at which to spend the night. I begin drafting ideas, thinking of ways to deter potential trouble. First of all, I was fortunate to have not run into any large animals on my way here. The presence of burrowing rats certainly confirms the existence of predators at least on par with hyenas or wild dogs.


    Naturally, being a human, I cannot stand against a pack of such rabid animals with a knife alone. The cavemen of old utilised spears as their main defense when faced with theses threats, but I don¡¯t have the materials on hand to make such a thing.


    The natural deterrent is logically fire. At this stage I can pride myself for the ability to make one, coupled with the fact that I have a lighter with me. However, I don¡¯t have a branch to effectively extend my range, so I should make it my priority to secure one before our nocturnal friends decide on exotic human flesh.


    And¡­ I¡¯m back at where the first humans started. A stick. Brilliant.


    Since there are no forests in sight, is it better to simply stay put or be on the move?


    The answer is unfortunately that I have no clue. But if there was a scent to be caught by my walk here earlier, then maybe I should get a fucking move on.


    In fact, let¡¯s start fucking running. If anything, this will warm me up in preparation for any potential escapades against wild animals. You see, one of the prime evolutionary advantages to being human is having an extraordinary stamina for running while keeping a decent speed. Being the domesticated human that I am, perhaps this is time to utilise our talents.


    You¡¯ll surely have noticed me writing with a strangely polite and perhaps fakely elegant style until now. You can be assured it is not because that I have any respect for you, dear reader. I shudder to imagine anyone respecting you at all. My current writing style is simply because I find it a waste of energy to devote any of my precious energy to criticise your pathetic self.


    As I prepare to fight (and run) for my life, I ask you to please restrain the urge to project your fantasies onto me, to please not turn me into your self-insert to live out your boring and meaningless lives. Any and all future scenes involving ¡°battle¡± and ¡°killing¡± are not to be experienced for your pleasure. It is unlikely in your existence that you will ever encounter such a life-and-death scenario, and you should count yourself lucky for not being in such a situation instead of thinking it to be ¡°awesome¡± or ¡°exciting¡±.


    Of course, if you have been in a life-threatening situation, my condolences, and I hope you have made a full recovery since then.


    Anyways, as I spin my knife in my hands, I repeat a simple phrase, said from time to time by many of the brave souls who fought until their eventual fall.


    ¡°Here I go.¡±


    --------_______---------


    Why do I bother with you? I wonder, I wonder.


    But hey, it¡¯s far too early for me to show this creepy fourth-wall breaking behaviour. I¡¯m not mentally unhinged like a particular costumed antihero, you know?


    I¡¯m currently trying to keep some semblance of silence as I tread in the darkness, hoping for a poor tree somewhere that I can take advantage of. If you need a reminder, I need some kind of stick to effectively use fire.


    Wait, darkness? Doesn¡¯t that mean I can¡¯t write anymore? It¡¯s pretty dark now, at least. Ok, I just need something interesting to finish this off. Uh quick, whats a good thin to say, yeah..--


    S


    ociety. Yeah soceity is broke and dosent work properly, only a uh


    small precentages of people get to live happily and but most people tend to be not happy and poor ¡®cause there lazy and it¡¯s really unfair. Rich man bad, poor man good.


    Seeya


    I think thats a wolf

 "Finally"

    ¡°Fucking finally¡±


    In contrast to the title of the phrase above, there will be no "fucking" of any kind in this entry. Not only is "fucking" irrelevant to the plot of this chapter, it is also statistically improbable that I will ever experience "fucking" in my life, not that your chances are any better, of course.


    What I mean by "fucking finally" is the fact that I have finally found civilization. Now, I realize this is an entirely foreign concept to you readers, but I am now presented with an opportunity to actually socially interact with other human beings. Simply fascinating.


    To understand how I arrived here, where I now sit on a straw mattress bed, writing (un)comfortably, allow me to walk you through the events that transpired after my last entry.


    First of all, I did indeed escape from a pack of wolves. At least, I think they were a pack of wolves. I just remember catching a glimpse of two glowing citrine dots in the darkness and I immediately knew that I had to run. I also think I heard some ruffling in the grass behind me, so it''s real. I swear, I''m not making this up. After all, I''m definitely not a man who would tuck his tail and escape before even confirming that there''s danger in the first place.


    I see that you''re perfectly convinced by my argument¡­ And I continue my brave tale. After my brilliant escapade, I found myself wandering within a thin forest, evading the trees in fear of touching any insects while still being on my guard regarding the wolves. I am a cautious hunter, one that will never be caught by surprise, mark my words.


    After a few minutes of relative silence, I facepalm and come to the startling realization that there are, in fact, trees. SomethingI hadn''t seen even after hours and hours of walking, if you recall from the previous chapter. If you''re a good boy, you''ll also remember that I need these babies to make a torch.


    I was largely relieved by this and went to work on breaking off a decently long branch from one of the ferns. This process admittedly took far longer than it should have due to my lacking height, but of course, I still stand at 170cm, most likely far taller than you can ever hope for. Bitch.


    Well, I jest. it''s not like I judge people based on their height. After all, midgets are the same as everyone else.


    What am I even saying? Right, so to prepare even further, I gathered an additional branch and charred their tips with a lighter, in hopes that they''ll burn more easily when I need them to. I don''t have any oils or cloth with me, so this is the best torch I can make at the moment. I could improve it with some lighter fluid, but there''s not nearly enough available, so it''s not worth wasting at all.


    Feeling slightly safer with my updated arsenal, I flick my bayonet into the air, feeling its sleek form spin in the air for¡­ I estimate a decent eight or ten times before its smooth handle lands into the flat of my palm. My mind wonders if this will protect me, just in case the fire doesn''t work out.


    My experience with fighting can''t match up to the likes of Eliana, and it mostly amounts to tearing into the playground bully''s face during second grade. Still, I can say that I that I possess the basic knowhow when it comes to weapons.


    Sure of my skills, I feel the need for an opponent, if only to prove my place in this world. Really, even if it''s this late in the night, it''s not too late for a goblin or something to show up. Author, this is your chance to redeem yourself. Make a plot development. Hand over the OP skills¡­ Have a goblin or kobold or even a dragon for all I care show up and make me fight it. We will prove our worth as a species in this forest bloodbath. Offer me the blood of my enemies.


    Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies.


    Ouch, I just cut myself on this edge. I don''t have an eraser, so you''re just going have to pretend the giant edgy block of text above doesn''t exist.


    Anyways, as a result of my runaway earlier, including my current desire for any type of stimulus, I was a little too excited for any sleep, not that it would be safe to sleep in the middle of the woods in foreign territory. Instead, I begin surveying my surroundings using my flashlight, trying to make some sense of where I had gone relative to the valley.


    Fortunately for me, it appeared that I did not stray far from the mountain range during the chase. It''s still to my right. This is actually quite advantageous, since if there is, let''s assume a pack of wolves hunting me, they can only surround me from 180 degrees. This is, in practice, good advice for fights against large groups, as having a wall to your back where no one can attack you from behind is better than being completely surrounded by foes.


    Other than these observations¡­ Nothing else really happened, and I didn''t make any revolutionary breakthroughs concerning the nature of reality and the purpose of life.


    Oh, how could I forget, then there''s the walking. Needless to say, I did not derive any joy from this act. If you''ve ever had the misfortune of participating in a legitimate week-long hiking trip, you will come to understand my pain.


    Starting from day one to day seven, you''ll have to endure walking for motherfucking ever for the entire day and you won''t even see a sign of your progress or even a hint that people exist in the area, save for the occasional crossroad or log bridge every two hours or so. And don''t get me started on the fact that most of your hike will either be a zig-zag trail up an impossibly steep mountain, or a downhill spiral directly next the side of a cliff, merely a wrong step away from a grisly death.


    I offer my prayers to the Gods that I encountered the small mercy of traversing flat land during my otherworldly adventure.


    I simply cannot understand creatures who enjoy mountainous activities while still having the audacity to call themselves humans. To me, you are a regressed form of our species that somehow does not find joy in the comfort of our automated and wealthy lives. Is it not the aim of every species to achieve a hedonistic lifestyle: to benefit the most for the least amount of work?


    So why suffer, I wonder?


    My less than enjoyable time spent walking aside, you''ll also find it lucky that I ripped out my original draft for this, which was just me talking to myself while walking, which is exactly what I''m doing now, except it''s ten pages longer.


    --------_______---------


    By the time day broke, my grudge towards hiking was somewhat subsided, but as a slight growl came to my stomach, I was reminded of the rather desperate situation I was in. I could certainly elaborate on the despair and anxiety I felt in that moment, but in short, I was scared shitless about my chances.


    I''ve just passed at least two mountains, and I allow myself a brief moment of rest as I sit against a boulder, sighing loudly while massaging my sweaty feet and allowing my equally dripping socks to dry. I think about my next line of action, and decide to stop writing while walking and instead make haste like I had last night. When I find shelter, I''ll finish writing up the events of last night, but for now, I will simply finish this section before continuing my journey.


    My stomach growls again, and I reluctantly bring up a cracker soaked in water to my mouth, chewing on it with all the care that I could give to a carb-and-starch based delicacy. Brushing the dirt off of my back legs, I stand and stretch, ready to commence yet again.


    After a few minutes, I find the saving grace to my situation, and it came in the form of a pass between the mountain range that allowed me to continue North, but what really set this place apart was¡­ A tree stump.


    You simply fail to grasp the sheer joy I felt in that moment. This was the final confirmation I needed that intelligent life did really exist in this [New World].


    That discovery was the first of many triumphs. As if to elevate my mood even further, I began spotting more and more evidently man-made marks: an arrow sign marked on a tree, a cleared path, and even a log set over a stream. Simply fabulous.


    By the way, the environment has gotten considerably more "forest-ly" now. There''s a significant increase in the variety, number, and density of trees, and I spotted a great variety of wildlife, including animals and exotic plants. As much much as I would like to discuss the nature here with you, I fail to see any true importance in that, so I will simply leave it as "they are basically the same as our world".


    My joy and fascination, however, are only short-lived. After all, I''m about to discover the village, right? So, why, you ask, are you disappointed? What is the source of your sour mood, Sir Author?


    BECAUSE THIS FUCKING BACKWATER SHITHOLE IS LIKE TEN FUCKING HOURS AWAY FROM THE ACTUAL FUCKING MOUNTAIN. THE FUCKING GENIUS MORON PIECES OF SHIT WHO BUILT THIS PLACE. YOU FUCKING BARBARIANS.


    --------_______---------


    Greetings, this is Tereszia Guls. It''s currently relatively late in the afternoon, and the sunlight has the bright shade of an orange camera filter. I can only enjoy this beauty momentarily in a short moment of rest, as I ready to present myself in front of this village settlement before me.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Until just moments before, I felt as if I was following a trail of loosely scattered breadcrumbs in an ocean, running after the faintest signs of life. By the grace of good fortune, I heard the faint sounds of a river rushing and stumble out of the forest after nearly two days of walking. The sight that greeted me was, to my joy, a farmland.


    On the field, I can spot small sprouts of green scattered around. Loose and disrepaired wooden fences shield the wild from this scene, and the roads that bind them together are a rustic yellow dust. On one such fence corner I spot a flag decorated with a coat of arms, which I assume to belong to the Lord or Kingdom occupying this land.


    Two fields are present, and they are divided by the road. However, the presence of roads did not indicate any element of order. Every project in this settlement is chaotically placed and built with the elegance of an addict on opioids, and weeds grow haphazardly at every stone. The layout is only just organized enough that it supports the notion of human progress.


    This is unfortunately as expected of a medieval village, seeing that they do not require the accuracy and cleanliness of a modern neighborhood, or the tools for precise, fast architecture like the engineers of our world.


    If the presence of any being or phenomenon disturbs me so, it would be the lack of guardsmen or any farmers hard at work. It is quite perturbing that I would enter a settlement after two days of silent adventure, only to be greeted by nothing but the sound of a rushing river.


    Ok, I''ve had enough of this polite ass writing. Just to describe this dump accurately, you know like in comics you see medieval villages, and the houses looks like they''re obviously for poor people, but all of them are perfectly organized and clean with brick streets?


    No, that''s not what a medieval village looks like, manga artists. The villages of antiquity are¡­ messy. And small. Roads are just the ground, except the grass is cleared. A wave of dust sweeps up from a stray current and splatters all over my perfectly clean track pants¡­ Disgusting.


    There''s a lot of trees in between every house, too, but they''re all dying. Their branches have been cleared away for firewood and scant few shades of green remain except for the grass. In short, it''s extremely rural here.


    As I get closer, I can see that all of the shacks and "houses" are made of some kind of cheap brick, and the rooves either straw or wooden logs. They are certainly not a pleasant sight to behold. In fact, I believe some of the techniques used in making mud bricks involve manure.


    And oh God, don''t even talk about the smell. As expected, our ancestors are very down to earth when it comes to sharing their space with animals. And by that I mean they''re right next door. The smell of animal droppings permeates my nose, and I blink away my tears, somewhat adjusting to the odor. A dark brown¡­ goat peeks out of a small opening in a shack and snorts my way.


    Fuck you too, man. Fuck you too.


    But it appears these fields are only the small farms. As I come to a four-way in the road, I see to my far right a grand barn, and before it a vast field that''s probably the lifeblood of this settlement. I must admit, despite this land''s lack of development, with a field this big, there must be quite a large workload to handle. I will at least applaud the primitives for that.


    Good job, apes. You figured out how to grow plants.


    One thing that disturbs me in addition to the lack of humans is the uncanny unpresence of any of the supernatural. This place looks rather domestic and agricultural, even if it''s rural. I''ll be very worried if this is a "transmigration into the past" story, you know¡­ They''re not my thing. Don''t tell me I was sent to this time period because a transmigration fan decided to punish me?


    O_O


    I suppress my growing worries as I move closer to what I assume to be the village center to my left. In doing so, I realize exactly why there were no farmers earlier on. A magnitude of voices are bound from one direction, and I follow it, suspecting that the whole town must be gathered in one spot for some communal purpose.


    There doesn''t appear to be any sign of struggle, so I''ll also assume there hasn''t been a war or something and enemy soldiers are rounding up all the villagers. That would fucking suck, right? To spend two days finding a village, only to get caught up in a war.


    On my way to the voices, I spot several more signs that indicate this world''s progress. To the far right side of the village and across the narrow river that cuts through the settlement, there''s a blacksmith''s workshop, if the glaring sign hanging above it is anything to go by. It''s rather difficult to tell at a glance, given that it looks nearly identical in terms of style to the other buildings. However, when I look again at the particular workshop that sits in front of the building, I suppose the place is definitely a blacksmith.


    To my vast relief, there''s also an apothecary of some sort located snugly beside the smithy, if the green leaf sign hanging near the door is any indication. I still can''t confirm that this is an actual fantasy world instead of a medieval world, but it''s still a good sign. The odds are surely in my favor, seeing that medieval villages probably didn''t have any alchemical craftsman.


    The voices grow larger and more pronounced as I approach, and a quick glimpse reveals that my targets are indeed breathing humans. I take cover behind a one story house (not that the other buildings are any taller), concealing half of my face behind the decaying wall in order to observe the scene.


    The crowd is situated in front of a small outdoor stage, and in total I can estimate no more than a hundred people gathered here. They are all dressed in peasant clothes. Not the clean and simple kind you see in manga, these garbs belong to the wardrobe of a legitimate serf. These tunics and dresses and hats; each and every single one of the are filthy, stained with dirt and torn at every edge, and the same can be said for their bodies.


    Some wear shoes. Some don''t. The children certainly don''t seem to favour it.


    In the chatter of the crowd I pick up the cries of a baby. Giving the mob a brief scan, I spot an old woman, face marred with dust and wrinkles, rocking a white bundle in her arms with the grace of an amusement park attraction. Seeing that I''m not here to tell you how to raise your children, I decide not to comment.


    As soon as I begin to feel immersed in the chatter of the crowd: in the whining, the laughs, the jeers, a sharp voice cuts through the tension¡ª and sweat of the crowd.


    "Hear all, hear all!" He speaks, with an astoundingly bold and brilliant voice, deeply accented with his crooked teeth.


    And I do mean it. This guy, man. His voice stopped everyone in their tracks. All sounds ceased at the exact moment he spoke.


    He''s dressed similarly to the rest of the crowd, but something about him is more refined. A sense of slight enlightenment paints his face, setting him out from the rest of the crowd. If I have to guess, it''s probably because he''s been educated to teach public speaking or something by the local priest.


    I move to a better vantage spot slowly, and my eyes quickly drift towards the stage, where I spot a small group of men and with it, the source of the commotion. At the centre of the stage, there is a¡­ wooden beam, shaped like an L turned upside-down, and to the side, there is a man, pale and shivering, his hands bound behind his back.


    I suppose I don''t even need to speculate, then, that a certain someone is going to be hung for his crimes.


    The speaker resumes his speech.


    "Good men of faith and law! Well met we are, to gather on this late day to enforce the virtues of His Majesty and justice."


    He pauses, staring down deeply into the presence of the crowd before looking down at his scripture again.


    "It is to the misfortune of we the farmers, the smiths, the hunters, the good people of Talbot, that misdoers and villains would betray the code set by our blood, father, the land... And to say of these villains, I say we do away with their heads!"


    The murmurs and rumbles which had been building since he began talking grew in fervor, but it was still deeply subsided within as anticipation.


    "Then, in the name of his Lordship, Harriet the fifth, I name William, son of Rowan, a rapist, worthy of death by hanging!"


    The jeers and cries rise in intensity, and projectiles begin flying as the prisoner is pushed up the stage by a guard-looking fellow, who uses his free arm to shield himself from the vegetables and rocks that miss. A stray pebble flies to the speaker, who waves his scroll around in annoyance. Wait, don''t tell me someone that he was the criminal?


    Speaking of the criminal, he''s rather defenseless. A sense of unease settles in me, and there is a dread as I know what will inevitably occur next, but I can''t bring myself to look away.


    When the cheers reach a cacophony, a short stool is placed under the beam, and the shivering prisoner marches to his death, flinching with every step as a new stone pelts him. At this rate, his spirit will be crushed before he even dies. Oi, old lady, are you sure this is what you should be showing to your kids?


    The crowd finally explodes with energy as the long awaited show begins. The guard strong-arms the pale villager into the noose, his head barely managing to squeeze in as it twists uncomfortably. The chattering of his teeth is now visible, but a stone to his eye stops the thought. I''ve been tryng to avoid looking at his face, but now it really settles into me, the depths of his depravity.


    I believe I felt something akin to terror and deep disgust in that moment, although I have no way of describing who it was directed towards. The crowd or this world?


    Slowly but surely, as if rising with the energy of his fellow peasants, the suppressed emotional turmoil within the man reaches a boiling point, and he begins an onslaught of vicious cries and verbal abuse and perhaps even a plea for help, if I''m hearing correctly, but it''s all drowned out in the roar of the crowd.


    Within the loop of that noose, my vision becomes unfocused. Within that noose, there is a fish struggling. Out of water, its emotionless yellow orb-like eyes become bloodshot as it convulses and contorts its body, attempting to jump back into familiar waters. Its struggle is a dance, a flurry of power that can only be displayed in the last moments of a creature''s life. The final struggle is long and painful, but all the fish can do is to keep pushing.


    As the last twitches of life are drained from his face, the structure of his neck finally collapses, vessels of dark blood pooling around beneath his skin. They are the parting words of a dead man, words of his demise.


    The guardsman watches on with some joy to his face, although somewhat shaken. Nonetheless, with the help of the speaker, he carefully moves the stool back and lifts the limp body.


    And there is nothing William can do about it now. He''s dead, after all. The justice system, lacking in this world as it may be, has done all it can do for him.


    It is unclear to me if he really was a rapist.


    It is unclear to me if he deserves a death. I know my government probably thinks so, or at least they will settle for something not so lethal, but rather humiliating-- say, a castration, or a permanent mark that says "rapist" on your resume.


    I know you will may or not agree with these methods. But all of our debates aside, nothing was revoked during that execution. On that day, the second day of my adventure, William the rapist was dead.


    I''m not sure what happened next to his body, but I have no intention of finding out.


    --------_______---------


    Wonderful. Now that I''ve recounted that particular experience, I no longer have the appetite for writing any further. If you''re confused over the sudden switches in perspective and time, allow me to elaborate.


    The first part of this entry I wrote was the break I took, when morning settled in. As I wanted to make some more distance on that day, I simply planned to write what happened earlier and the events in the village (when I had the time to) by recounting those experiences as if they were happening in the live. Yes, I realize that doesn''t make my reactions completely accurate. But this is a book, no? It needs some reflection of the future for it to be a thoughtful and intriguing read.


    Additionally, it''s simply impossible to record everything in the live. The execution of William, per say, alll happened within the span of no more than five minutes. I couldn''t deliver that whole affair about whether or not his death was fair in only that short period of time, not to mention how a live execution really isn''t the best atmosphere for writing.


    Ha, it must be rather annoying to you readers now, right? I don''t think you wanted to read about me brooding while walking for three chapters and on the fourth suddenly whining about witnessing some death. I''m sure you''ll tell me to suck it up or something. I''m sure it''s fine.


    It''s alright.


    I''m alright.


    Everything''s alright.

 "Priest"

    First of all, an apology for the ridiculously cheesy and poorly constructed prose I wrote last chapter about the execution. I wasn''t completely honest and wrote a poem about injustice and emotional turmoil instead of what I really felt in reaction.


    And what I really felt was indifference. In contrast to my supposed reaction of pure shock and disgust at the hanging of William, I was more like "~woah" when his neck snapped under the force of the noose. If I was in a better mood, perhaps I would have also considered laughing.


    Why?


    I can''t exactly explain it. But just know that very few people (anyone with the slightest shred of bravery) will actually have intense emotional reactions to witnessing a death, not to mention that in this case it''s the death of a complete stranger who supposedly committed a crime deserving of capital punishment.


    In any case, the thing I should really be fearing is the angry mob of peasants that''s no doubt still having their way with William. In fact, heading directly into the village was most likely a terrible idea in the first place. I don''t exactly understand the attitude this kingdom has towards outsiders, but looking towards our own history¡­ it''s probably not a very bright attitude.


    At the very least, I''ll be beaten and thrown out, probably with a few of my belongings taken as well. And at the very worst¡­ well, I''d be lucky to only get my skin peeled off like a fruit. I''m sure you''ve realised by this point that medieval peasants aren''t exactly the most friendly people out there.


    With all of that said, I won''t be sticking my nose around here any longer.


    However, leaving this village isn''t as bad as it sounds. It''s said that usually, no settlement is further than a day''s walk away from one another, being the optimal displacement for a balance of fertile farmland and quick trade routes. If I can manage to find a large town or city, where outsiders can enter with just a few tolls, it probably won''t be difficult to find some kind of job to provide a living.


    ALthough my stomach is beginning to stress at the lack of nutrition, I think I can starve it out for a while.


    --------_______---------


    I cross the main road that runs through the village, tracing its twists and turns with my eyes as my body is set to autopilot.


    My imagination begins working its spell. Slowly, the roads become less focused, and within the layers of my consciousness I see the image of a ebony white serpent. It drifts and twists and curves across the weeds, paving itself into the earth. The snake is an artist. It is a painter of motion, capturing its vitality with one movement of its body.


    Maybe I should stop snorting glue.


    It is through this snake road that I come face-to-face with a building that I''d neglected raising my pen towards: the church.


    I don''t mean to suggest anything truly impressive, but the structure stands at nearly fivefold the area of the average shack and more than twice as tall at its highest point. Its foundation is reinforced with clean-cut wood and stone brick, and the wooden shutters are even engraved with simple decorative symbols. This is a considerable upgrade when compared to peasant housing.


    However, despite the scale of this building, I find it difficult to imagine that the whole community, with the hundred or so population, would be able to fit in here for a mass. Do they stand outside?


    Unconsciously, I tug at the ring-shaped door handle and pull back gently, finding a sturdy force blocking my attempts. As I expected, the gates to this temple are locked. The residents are probably still gathered around the execution¡­?


    As the back of my mind lightly alerts me to the fact that I''ve overstayed my welcome, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand rigid straight. I realize a moment too late the warning bell reaching my ears; the crunch of a shoe grinding against dust.


    I''ve been found.


    My heart leaps to the front of my chest, beating loudly, and it is all I can do to keep a straight face. Frozen in shock or not, I manage to gather my wits and turn to greet the unfamiliar individual.


    Two words that surface to my mind the moment my eyes land. The words "man", and then "priest". I say "man" but I''m not going to elaborate further. I don''t need to tell you what a man is. But the "priest", well, it''s also evident at first glance: his considerably pale, a serious yet kind complexion, and silky black robes that set him apart from the uneducated masses.


    While it''s a blessing to make first contact with a person of education, I''m not the man to ask if you want to deal with older people, like the priest here. There aren''t any close relatives of an age considered "senior" in my family, and the staff employed at the schools I''ve been to are coincidentally young or middle-aged. Thus, I''m experiencing a rather uncomfortable first parley.


    "It''s an impressive work, no?" He comments off hand, faintly smiling.


    It''s the type of smile you see in a manga, where the old person in question has his eyes closed, which doesn''t really make sense if you think about it. I am silent for a second, noting his distinct lack of accent compared to the executioner speaker, before realizing that he''s talking about the church building.


    "... It seems to be a fine use of the tithes," I respond, carefully choosing my words.


    He chuckles briefly without much mirth, holding a firm hand to his slightly wrinkling face. He gestures toward the wooden door.


    "Why don''t we have a discussion inside, traveller? If you have no other business here, that is," He adds.


    Before I can even nod, the old man has already brought up a ring of keys, unlocking the door to the holy ground, bowing his head slightly as he enters through the low door frame.


    I unconsciously note the difference in our heights, the priest being around half a head taller than me. No weapons are visible on his person, although it would be pretty bad if he was a spellcaster.


    My mind, however, quickly decides against a physical confrontation. While I would be taking a significant risk by following him, seeing that I don''t even know if he''s a human or just something resembling one, and having no way of divining his intentions¡­ I need information as to this world''s nature. If I didn''t take this step, I wouldn''t have anything interesting to write about. Such is the life of a warzone journalist.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Silently, I meditate myself and push open the formerly locked doors.


    --------_______---------


    CHURCH INTERIOR


    --------_______---------


    Almost immediately, the peaceful aura that surrounded the village was no more. An insidious miasma, shaped in the form of grasping tendrils, spills out from the mass hall. The sound of empty halls and my heavy footsteps resounds in my ears.


    Ominous music begins playing. This dark symphony, composed of dark pagan drum beats, sharp creaks of string, and a choir that sings of doom: they all grow louder as I approach the stage.


    I''m sorry, that was obligatory. Maybe one day I''ll enter a real bossfight area.


    Anyways, it''s still rather dark in here. The only source for vision can be credited to the shutters, where bright streaks of sunlight manage to pierce through, providing some vague sense of direction and a glimpse of the medieval decor that populates the building. It''s a very distinct atmosphere that few people will have the pleasure of experiencing. No doubt this is the perfect location to film a movie scene where the protagonist repents and professes his sins to a priest.


    However, there aren''t any benches like you would expect from a church. If there was any kind of service held here, the townsfolk would have to stand, highlighting the economic situation of this kingdom.


    My eyes scan over the interior, and it quickly lands on the priest, who''s brooding quietly in the corner, unlocking yet another door to the side of the stage.


    I take the hint and follow him, entering a tiny and cramped room that barely fits into the architecture of the church itself. Within this box-like enclosure, there are no more than the barest of necessities a man of a priest''s standing would need: a desk, a chest, a bed, a chair, and a sparse collection of books.


    Beside the shutters, two slightly decomposing banners drape over rusting nails. One depicts a coat of arms of the kingdom, and the other the black-and-gold schemed symbol of the orthodoxy.


    This, I realize, was where he lived.


    Feeling slightly apologetic for his meagre living conditions, no doubt better than a peasant''s by only the slimmest of margins, I feel slightly sympathetic for the man.


    The priest, who will promptly be introduced as "Raymond", reaches underneath his poor excuse of an office desk and pulls out a short stool. The seat''s unrefined surface is riddled with splinters, and I hesitate slightly before settling down.


    The scholar pats his robe down, adjusting the tunic underneath before clearing his throat, seating himself in his admittedly better chair.


    (One day, I''ll get a better chair than Raymond.)


    "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Raymond Keen, the village priest, if you will."


    The man in question presents himself with all the calm and peace a man could muster, which is quite a surprising amount. But despite his intentions, I catch onto a particular phrasing of his words.


    "Mr. Keen, do you consider yourself a local of Talbot? No, before you answer that, how should I refer to you?"


    To my relief, this question doesn''t seem to stir a hostile response.


    "I am known by the followers here as Father Keen, if you do not mind."


    Somehow, the way he refers to the villagers is distant. But a priest should be raised within his village and therefore fully acquainted with it, no?


    "Not at all, Father. I''m Terry Guls. I was¡­ in education before leaving to travel. Pleased to meet you."


    Why use my real name, and not even the full version, you ask? There''s no reason not to. Names don''t really mean anything at my stage of understanding on this world.


    "Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Guls.


    "Now, I suppose I should answer your question, and indeed, I consider myself more a son of Meliana than Talbot. I taught books for the Order there."


    I pore over the details of his answer, before deducing that "Meliana" must be either a more developed region of the country or a monastery, where education is more important. The fact that he mentioned such a place without referencing what exactly it was also implies that its common knowledge within the kingdom.


    "Do you still teach your arts?"


    Raymond pauses, eyes drifting to the floor.


    "That is no longer where my duty lies. I could teach some of the boys here to read, but none are at a prime age for learning."


    ¡­ Which implies a patriarchal society, or at least one that heavily enforces traditional roles.


    After Raymond''s answer, there was an invisible silence as I felt that we could both consider what''d been said. While I could ask for information about this world, I''m not really in a position to do so without stirring suspicion. More importantly, it appears Raymond has other intentions for me, most likely to profit in a way not related to his religion. This I could feel at a few feels of his personality, his friendly atmosphere almost reminding me of a peddler. After some pondering, I realize that he also never once preached to me about his religion, which only supports my suspicion.


    In order to test that hypothesis, I decide to poke around for a reaction.


    "I see¡­ Would you mind if I tried reading one of the books there?"


    I point to his desk, where a worn brown hardcover rests.


    As I expected, Raymond''s spirits seem to lift with excitement, with a light grin covering his face.


    "You''re certainly welcome to, Mr. Guls." He lifts the text, prompting me to take it from his firm grip with a curious pair of brown eyes.


    There''s always a distinct feel to old books. The chemical processes in their outdated pulp paper produce a unique and homely odor, adding a texture of antiquity to any read. As I behold this particular book, however, it''s evidently made from a method that predates any book that I have touched; its sheets are delicately fine and smooth, but dragging my fingertips across produces a "dusty" sensation. More organic signs are apparent as well. There is a slight layer of "rot" that blackens the edge of these pages, making the yellowing sheets much more vibrant.


    I flip the casebound cover open, estimating the pages to be no more than 300 and its width and length no wider than the average diary.


    The first page reveals a set of finely illustrated ink decor, composed of no more than three or four colors and yet still intimately detailed. These pages hold the table of contents, the header of which is labeled "Part three."


    1. Grace of Good Wind


    2. Mathias


    3. Lukemen


    And so on, in a very "holy book" fashion.


    "Father Keen," I ask as I suddenly clasp the book shut. The man in question raises his head from his thoughts and looks at me expectantly.


    "I am a traveller. If it doesn''t bother you, please point me towards the nearest town or city that can accept outsiders, and I will be on my way. I don''t intend to stay here for long, seeing the¡­ current atmosphere here."


    "An understandable choice," The man''s face wrinkles as he bobs his head.


    "However, I must warn you, Mr Guls, that the roads ahead don''t offer the best of protection. It would be best for your safety to join a caravan or adventurers before continuing your journey."


    While his words hold considerable merit, it''s not smart to believe him just yet.


    "May I ask as to what these threats are?"


    Raymond furrows his brows, revealing traces of wrinkles.


    "Talbot... is a village which has remained mostly separate from the kingdom. If a traveller was to leave for Dorme by the next morning, he will not only will he encounter a plentitude of feral beasts, goblins and the like are known to frequent the roads. There were also rumors of undead, although they are just rumors."


    Finally, a confirmation that this is a fantasy world. I suppress the urge to pump my fists and strip myself naked and run a lap around the entire village.


    Slowly, I lean my left arm against my knee, slouching forward as I attempt to look more apologetic.


    "So it''s like that...Thank you for the warning. But if I was to make a stay here, how long do you predict it will take before these adventurers arrive?"


    "Well," Raymond begins after a brief pause. "Teams rarely find their way into Talbot for more than four occasions every year. At my most conservative guess, there should be no more than two months until the next arrival. That is, however, only if they are willing to take up escorting and if a traveller can offer due compensation."


    My hand moves to caress my chin on reflex. Ah, this was what Raymond was offering. If I can get him to put in a good amount of money for an escort request in exchange for something, I''ll be able to get out of this shithole. Looking at my other options of revenue, including the local lord, who will probably have a hard time trusting me, and the villagers, who probably don''t have much money in the first place, Raymond seems to be the best candidate.


    "Then, father Keen, is your church in need of an extra hand?"


    His eyes instantly brighten, as he seems to finally arrive at what he''d been waiting for.


    "Certainly, Mr. Guls," He nods. "However, before then, perhaps a brief test of your skills?"


    He points behind him, where an ink-and-pen set sat on his desk.


    "I''d be more than willing to."

 "Village"

    "Again, Mr. Guls, welcome to Talbot."


    Father Keen congratulates me for what must be the second time today, welcoming me to a set of new accomodations after his short evaluation.


    As for the contents of this evaluation, Raymond was mainly concerned with my way of thinking and logical capabilities. We started with simple questions like ¡°if villages have many horses, and village A has many horses, does village B have horses?¡±.


    The knowledgeable reader will understand that these questions are a test of whether a person possesses abstract thinking abilities. Without any form of education, humans are unable to warp their minds to think outside of their own world: and in this case, it is a hypothetical world where all villages have ¡°many horses¡±. The retarded farmer who has never seen more than two horses in his life will thus be unable to answer the question.


    In light of Raymond¡¯s examination, I have decided to record my knowledge of mathematics and science for fear of losing them. It is rather fortunate that I arrived in this world at a stage of life where mathematical concepts are applied at all times (high school). What a blessing it is to be young.


    Risa, this is for you. You¡¯re already a woman of thirty-seven. Please review your percentages. I don¡¯t understand how you did our taxes before, but it¡¯s wrong. Oh, and if you run away with the deposit just because I¡¯m not home, I¡¯ll be really mad.


    Writing on ink-and-reed was also an enjoyable experience. It brought back a bag of good memories from years ago, when I was experimenting with various forms of writing. A heavy load of research was conducted on the written expressions of old, in particular my family¡¯s. In the end, I even managed to discover a collection of vellum scrolls, which was an interesting experience, although I had a tad bit of trouble understanding a lost language that less than a handful of people knew at any given time.


    Speaking of languages, you may have wondered how I understood the local language. You can be rest assured, I didn¡¯t completely gloss over this glaring issue, like certain authors make a point of doing, or make a poor job of expositing. In fact, I¡¯m betting that you didn¡¯t even notice my lack of explanation. Dear reader, even if this is a web novel, you should be putting more of your mental capacity to work. There¡¯s no sense in living the life of a mindless consumer.


    To sum up how my translation ability functions, while the villagers here are definitely not speaking our language, I have no difficulty understanding them. The level of this ability seems to transcend mere translators, as I am able to comprehend and even speak the local language at a level where it wouldn¡¯t be wrong to call it my mother tongue. Whether or not this effect is applied on every inhabitant of this world or just a select few like myself, remains to be determined.


    I breathe an air of relief as I set down my book, massaging my slightly sore hands from days of stressful use. I am fairly confident that the straw bed, on which I lie, will net me a nest of insect bites once I settle in for the night. However, it appears that I will have to endure for now.


    To end on a thankful note, I am relieved to have been reminded of the dilemma of rats. There is no doubt in my mind that this common pest dwells within the very walls my bed lies against, and I have no intention of bringing ruin to my baggage or testing whether they can chew through an aluminum can. I relocate the shoulder-slung sack to an empty-stranded chain hanging from the ceiling, praying for its safety.


    ____________________________


    Dear readers, it is my hope that you will have attained some form of insight to the world, and by the Gods, maybe even enjoyed it, although that would simply be too much to ask from a reader these days. Good night.


    And Eliana,


    the best of days to you


    my friend


    ____________________________


    Just woke up. Still pretty groggy, and my breath isn¡¯t faring so well either, since I haven¡¯t brushed my teeth. I¡¯ll see if I can get some water to fix that.


    I also discovered a chain of bed bug bites up my right leg, stretching from my ankle up to the back of my knee. It itches like hell, worse than any insect bite I¡¯ve ever experienced. I¡¯m pretty sure my hair has lice in it as well.


    These primitives must really enjoy their life here.


    I¡¯m heading out for the day. No time to waste.


    ____________________________


    Brushing away the last pockets of wrinkles on my track pants, I leaned my weight against the rather poor excuse of a door and exit my man-hole.


    A midday streak of sunlight blinds me for a moment, trapping me in the midday air. Dust swirls around the holy ground in great storms, only visible against the orange-brilliant backdrop. It was as if I¡¯d slept in and missed school, treading through a silent household, the dread of isolation on high. Not sure of what the villagers would be up to at this time of day, I decided that it would be best to seek out my benefactor.


    There¡¯s a familiar crunch of shoe against dust.


    I pry open a pair of shutters to find Father Keen, his probing eyes screening the earth and green before him, hands tied behind his back. Small sprouts of green dot the tender patch of earth surrounding the church, fashioning themselves collectively as a garden. A fence surrounds this insignificant field, but it is built with the trust of his neighbors, rather than any physical barrier.


    ¡°Good day  to you, Mr Guls,¡± Keen finishes before he can look up.


    ¡°To you as well, father.¡±


    I sighed, leaning my arms against the window frame.


    ¡°My apologies for the late wake up. Is there still work to be done at this hour?¡±


    ¡°It is never too late for a scribe to do his work, Mr. Guls.¡±


    ¡°Even at night?¡±


    ¡°Even when the sun has set, Mr. Guls.¡±


    I scoff lightly, running a hand through my disheveled hair. Father Keen raises his index finger towards the stage.


    ¡°I¡¯ve set aside some scripts for you to copy. You may find them in my office. Complete them by no later than tonight.¡±


    The priest pats his chest, stifling a cough. He turns to his left, where the silent shuffle of dirt turning over can be heard.


    ¡°Before you leave, Mr. Guls, I¡¯d like to introduce you to someone.¡±


    Raymond leans around the church walls, gesturing his arms to calm upon the other individual attending to the garden, of what I can hear is any indication.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Cecillia? Come meet our newest member.¡±


    Oh, so her name is Cecilia. Now, I¡¯m going to bet five sentences that she¡¯s the first heroine. Another sentence says she¡¯s blonde. One more says she¡¯s a village bumpkin. This is a legitimate character archetype, for those unaware. They mainly appear as heroines in isekai-farming-slow-life (And Gods behold! What an incredibly specific genre) works, which have yet to see any animated adaptation (Perhaps caused by the producers realizing the sheer stupidity of the isekai sub genre as a whole).


    I am one of the privileged few that can acknowledge this character type. Indeed, I have become cultured beyond comprehension. It¡¯s rather disappointing, however, that this specific character trope has never been explored or developed in any depth. Perhaps I could attend to that in some future works.


    The thought enlightens me so¡­ and oh my God is that a loli?


    I am struck by a sense of wonder as oblivion stares me in the eye. Framed like turquoise blue fruits, her all-too round irises pulse with the¡­ uh, energy of youth? I ran out of descriptive language there.


    Oh, it¡¯s just a child. Never mind.


    ¡°Father?¡±


    The prepubescent, of ages discernable to be of either eight or ten, looks between Raymond¡¯s legs and my chest, head bobbing almost too suddenly at times, as if the act of avoiding eye contact had become an act that fed all starving beggars in the world and cured them of illness.


    The church keeper gives the space our tag of three occupy one of his eyes-shut smiles, thick eyebrows folding that emphasized his coming of age.


    ¡°This is one of my children, Cecilia.¡±


    Raymond wears a gritted smile: smug, playful, and perhaps just nervous in the slightest.


    ¡°Is tha--, Nice to meet you, Cecilia!¡±


    In response to my greeting, ¡°Cecilia¡± (isn¡¯t this a really heroine-esque name?) can only nod. Like any natured child would do when meeting a stranger with their parents, Cecilia stands with hands pricked together, feet closing me off and head slightly hunched.


    ¡°Was she working the gardens just then? She¡¯s quite hard working.¡±


    A slither of a smile creeps its way to his face. ¡°Thank you, Mr. Guls.¡±


    See, parents are simple creatures. Compliment their children, and they¡¯ll relax their guard completely. Perfect for gaining Father Keen¡¯s support.


    ¡°Is there a Mrs. Keen with us today?¡±


    As the question rolls away from mouth, it seems to hit Raymond like a bolt of lightning, directing his eyes further away from me.


    ¡°No longer walking among us, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Perhaps feeling genuine for the first time in an eternity as a result of my disturbed memory, my face falls to a somewhat remorseful expression. I wonder for a world where the widow, instead of the widower, appears to my aid, sketching the outlines of this mourning woman with my mind.


    Imprinting herself back into the canvas and ink she was molded from, Ms. Keen¡¯s frame breaks apart, rearranging themselves as the stairs and walls and high poles of a playground set. I am planted into a waving ridge, resonating between the slight troughs and peaks of the swinging bridge. Aria of the two golden tails faces me, energetic but never explosive. Below us, the unmoving Kurune¡¯s face meshes with the holes of the playground fence.


    ¡°Well, it was nice meeting you, Cecilia! You will be doing fine, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    I lifted myself up, level now with Father Keen.


    ¡°Thank you for everything, Father. Please call me if you have any requests.¡±


    I take my leave with all the haste that I could, discounting the cold sweat of the previous interaction.


    ____________________________


    Now that I think about it, I believe ¡°walking among us¡± is an expression unique to R¡¯s language, but it was easy to understand, so I didn¡¯t question it.


    ____________________________


    Lunch was a cut of tough bread with a hint of staleness and a handful of berries. Spring is the season of famine, so foodstuffs are limited to leftovers from winter and newly sprung wild vegetation.


    ____________________________


    It was terrible. But at least it¡¯s food.


    ____________________________


    Relatively simple tasks ensued. Raymond, while possessing the status of education and a respectable wealth to enforce it, was not so heavily involved with worldly affairs. His financial movements were limited, with his secretary (yours truly) only having to recount his tally of tithes and debts, some of which the old man had even cancelled, out of the kindness of his heart.


    For those unaware and uneducated, which I suspect to be the very readers and critics regarding my work, medieval households were obligated to pay a tax to their local church, be it in grain or coin. You may guess which form the penniless peasants paid in.


    In the case of Raymond, due to his personal handling of the church, he had far less need of nourishment, and thus adjusted the tax rates to fit the property standards of each respective household. And by ¡°fitting the standards of each respective household¡±, I mean to say that he collected shit all. He¡¯s a failure of a tax-collector.


    Fortunately for Raymond, it appears that the mandatory church tribute of this village was mostly waived due to its low accessibility (the reader with good memory recall the mountains). My benefactor did not specify the method for which these funds were collected or submitted, but I suppose that travelling along adventurers to the city was a well-thought route.


    Overall, it appears the country and church of this kingdom is rather lenient with its taxes. Far more lenient than any reign, in fact. The source of this policy shift, I suspect, would be the low value of the land here. This manor alone had far less population than I would expect. Without many knights and troops to support the monarch, it¡¯s no wonder if the local lord only kept his position as an honorary title.


    I can relate to that at some levels.


    ____________________________


    I can¡¯t help but think that these snippets are too short. I mean, there¡¯s no doubt that I¡¯ll be able to hit light novel length ~50,000~ when considering the future, but the content itself is problematic. Why can¡¯t there be any interesting plot developments? All of that walking just brought up tedious memories.


    1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 139 227


    We interrupt this existential dread with dinner. (there i go again with cutting off the snippet without any warning)


    Yes, I¡¯ve just been called to dinner. The helpful Cecilia interrupted my musings, most probably entrusted by Raymond to do the deed.


    It was my wish that I¡¯d be able to create some interesting characters out of these two. However, in life, the eccentric and the beautiful are rare, and when they are presented to us in the form of breathing humans, we find it difficult to describe them with any significant deeper meaning, similar to the process of writing a novel, if you will. While the ideas may sound grand and revolutionary within your mind, they make little sense on paper and are full of flaws.


    Despite all this writing, I will confess that I find little interest in the character of Raymond and Cecilia themselves, only seeking to find some unique character quirk or what role they play in the grand scheme of things.


    Raymond, while possessing the refined intelligence I esteem, is utterly alien to my perception. While I see no logical reason to not accept his goodwill, I am discomforted by the subtle expressions of awkwardness which are submerged under his mask.


    The readers who comprehend that I am a real person indebted to this great nation of ours will grasp the insight that perhaps I am discomforted by the idea of a nation-wide faith which dominates every facet of its society, and associate these negative connotations with Raymond and his fellowship. The horrors of witch hunts and the zealous fury required to raise a crusade live on in this man.


    And yet, this really means so little, does it not? If I am discomforted by this duo of daughter and father, I will give whatever pity I can spare for their loss of a loved one (unfortunately raising troubling memories in my own heart) and be on my way to adventure.


    The question then turns to if I, Tereszia Guls, am of sound mind to participate in the quick affairs of battle and death.


    When looking to the pedigree from which I was hatched, one can find great warriors and war ¡°heroes¡±, if you will, in the portraits and medals which decorate the old manor at the end of Pender Street. And yet, when attempting to down the foul stew presented before me, perhaps the life of warriors is not fit for myself after all.


    I dare not ask what accursed concoctions went into its wicked construction, which inspire a sense of dread oh so infinitely terrifying, so expansive as to remind myself of the utter insignificance we all possess in this universe, without boundary yet finite yet nevertheless infinite to our ant-like perceptions.


    When summarizing the state of human beings, I would say that fear organizes us; it is the strongest emotion of all, and it is the fear of the unknown which precisely petrifies us. Yet this stew; I fear it possesses secrets which lie beyond human comprehension, so much that the mere understanding of the subject would inspire madness.


    Haha, it¡¯s ok. Let¡¯s lighten the dinner mood a little.


    ¡°What do the two of you usually enjoy for dinner, Father?¡±


    Droplets of green soup fall from Raymond¡¯s spoon as he swallows his bread garnish.


    ¡°Year round we have bread from Mr. Baker, and this stew here--.


    (*_* you eat this stuff year round?)


    The berries from lunch appear in spring and early summer, and crane fruits are quite popular later on in the year. Lord Harriet shares his grapes with us too, if he happens to own them.¡±


    I took a sip of the small cup of milk I was offered, refusing to falter at its fatty taste, musky but rich in flavor. A shy voice interrupts my meeting with milk.


    ¡°Eggs¡­¡±


    Our heads turn to the shortest member on the dining table. Cecilia looks down, faintly stuttering her lips.


    ¡°There are¡­ also eggs.¡±


    I suppress the well of saliva rushing into my mouth. What I wouldn¡¯t do for a nice, smooth hard boiled egg right now. I, for one, find foreign fruits and stale bread to be hardly appetizing. Perhaps the local cheeses would satisfy a refined palate, but I struggle to compare the primitive cheese-making techniques of the ages of antiquity with our industrialized process.


    ¡°Really? Where do you get them?¡±


    I narrowly avoiding placing a preposition at the end of my sentence. I really have no idea as to how the educated individuals of this world speak to each other, but my faux-polite tone appears to have impressed Father Keen. I reckoned it had something to do with my translation power, with its apparent property of distinguishing accents.


    ¡°From Mr. Brennet,¡± Cecilia begins, quickly losing interest in looking at her food. ¡°I, I go to Mr. Bennet¡¯s house and he gives them to me. Did you know that eggs have little chickens in them? That¡¯s why they taste so good.¡±


    ¡°I see. Have you eaten chicken before?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡±


    Take care, Cecilia! If you make claims carelessly as a child without evidence you¡¯ll always end up humiliated when others question you


    As the conversation progressed, it finally occurred to me that my priestly host was rather pleased with my company. If I had to take a good guess, it must have been difficult for him to show affection to his child due to his religious discipline. Seeing one¡¯s family happy¡­ a delightful sensation, to be certain. It¡¯s difficult to relate to from my position, but it looks like all those books about family values and shit were correct.


    Since I¡¯m feeling rather happy with myself for the day, I¡¯ll hold off on editing myself today.

 Greetings

    Something occurs to me. A similar thought has passed my writings before, but now I realize its significance. And oh dear, it¡¯s quite significant.


    In this world, I am a writer. It is the only substance of my character which connects to my previous life. I¡¯ve decided to adopt this journal as my ¡°passion project¡±, of sorts, the goal being to make my experience presentable as a story. However, a story needs characters, not a main character blabbering away his thoughts.


    However however, no characters will present themselves to us without my deliberate effort to socialize.


    I¡¯ve come to realize over the years that I don¡¯t interact with others much outside of necessity. All of my childhood friends were more or less delivered to me by coincidence or active behaviour on their part. And as much as I hate to say it, fearing that I will draw connections with 1-dimensional protagonists, I simply don¡¯t have the motivation to become out-going.


    But given that it¡¯s beneficial to make connections in this unfamiliar world, I think I¡¯ll give this a try.


    ____________________________


    With those ominous thoughts in mind, I grimace through my morning stomach pains and return from the village outhouse, narrowly avoiding the half-asleep farmers preparing for a fruitless day on the fields. As my presence in the church is a matter best left unknown to the peasants, I had to be particularly stealthy during my ¡°breaks¡±. Without guide, I weave myself in and between the gazes of working housewives, their long skirts sweeping dust from the sandy paths.


    A slick layer of morning sweat seeps its way into my clothing, but I pay it no heed and opt in on the local radio station, which plays the fresh tunes of mischievous, filthy children. The sanity of my apparel had long evaporated to other worlds, and with only stream water to cleanse it, the pungent odors of teenhood permeates in my nosils.


    Raymond, his God thank him, had proffered me some rags, a quick inspection turned for a disappointing end. Being scavenged from the depths of empty drawers, the aged set of apparel lacked warmth (the jacket was gone) and its belt was too loose for my fit. Thus, they were delegated to the bottom of my baggage.


    When I opened the eye of my consciousness once more, the morning dew had already threatened to evaporate, and I was at the breakfast table, wiping away the creases on my forehead. While the father and daughter chatted silently, I alone fought the grogginess of waking up at ~5:30.


    Today¡¯s meal is like any other: the holy trinity, being bread, bread, and bread. Today, though, they are crowned with a new jam. There¡¯s also a small assortment of nuts, mainly comprised of sickly green almond-like figures. From day to day I may also land upon the occasional slabs of fish, although they are usually underseasoned.


    We don¡¯t have time to prepare stew for breakfast, but I¡¯m going to tell you about the stew in this world anyways. ¡°Pottage¡± is a term used to define any thick stew. It is comprised of basic ingredients, mostly your regional cereals (barley and rye, in our case) mixed in with anything else from the field that day. As springtime is the season of famine, naturally there was little to add to any stew except for whatever bizarre combination of spices Raymond could think of. It was inevitable, then, that I made no effort in enjoying this meal.


    Also, hear this: ale. Medieval enthusiasts have informed me in the past that ale was a staple drink, possible consumed more than water itself, but that doesn¡¯t seem to be completely true here. Since there¡¯s a readily available body of fresh water filtered at will, more grains can be saved up rather than preserved into ale. I don¡¯t know if Magic has anything to do with this, but I¡¯ll be back with any new information.


    Do I enjoy these fares, these village foods which we have deliberately resorted to calling ¡°foodstuffs¡±, to wholly separate them from what is perceived to be real food?


    No, of course not, and I have every attention to agree with the individual(s) who made the distinction. Medieval foods are simply ¡°foodstuffs¡±, merely existing to fulfill the purposes of nutrition. At this moment, my bowels churn with meta-universal energy, to smite down the manga authors who dared to suggest that these steaming piles of shit were anything delectable or even nutritious. Even a pill-based diet would probably work better, and believe me, I know of a friend who has attempted such a lifestyle.


    In his words, and in mind of his expertise as a nutritionist, ¡°Meal replacement diets are completely fraudulent products of profit-driven research supported by no more than the lack of scientific knowledge itself. They are bogous foods; not tonics, and certainly not medicine¡± (Eliana Everwhite, Beautification of the Masculine Self).


    It seems logical, then, that my energy levels have faced an overall decline. According to experts, my muscular system ¡°will probably cease to exist in the near future, not that there was much to begin with anyways.¡±


    We must substitute this lack of strength for abundance in knowledge, brains-to-muscles fashion. Over the past few days, I have poured my efforts in raising myself to the level of knowledge appropriate for a freeman in this world. Although it¡¯s certainly important, things like continental maps are rare and probably inaccurate to boot. What I needed was a good understanding of village life [due to my circumstances].


    Thus, may I present to you: the story of Eva Greenfield.


    Eva Greenfield is a resident of Talbot village. Existing only within the depths of my mind, she is the perfectly staple medieval village woman, with no peculiarity or developed personality.


    Every morning, Eva wakes at five. If the season is warm, she will begin her work with a modicum of natural lighting. If it¡¯s not a warm season, I say we¡¯ll all be eating shit.


    She moves the animals out of the house and into the yard, sweeping away any droppings, although the odors scarcely improve. Anyways, at this time, Eva¡¯s worthless husband, Brian, also rises. He helps to prepare breakfast, whilst mocking the likes of Raymond, who fasts for breakfast once every week. However, what little pride (delusion) he holds within himself will be gone when he realizes how much more luxurious Raymond¡¯s meals are. Compared to our neighbor priest, Brian¡¯s bread is coarser by several magnitudes. After all, its flour has been mixed in with an acorn dust substitute, courtesy of Mr. Baker.


    As Brian skitters out of the house in his ragged shorts and hood to work on the Lord¡¯s field, Eva delivers a good whacking to her two children and pushes them out for field work without breakfast, as they have risen late. The three tend to their newly planted vegetables, praying for a good harvest. If they had any money, perhaps they could afford an alchemist or priest to bless their fields, but all the Greenfields can offer are their precious poultry, which would drive them even further into starvation. Thus, there is little benefit in seeking the arcane.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    When midday rolls by, the Greenfields rest momentarily for lunch and begin working immediately. Eva¡¯s daughter, however, returns home to begin preparing dinner. As per usual, they will enjoy another night of pottage, stuffed with any scraps they happen upon. They sleep at roughly nine, with the exception of Brian, who may scrounge up what little savings they have to buy a drink at the pub.


    In conclusion, Brian¡¯s a little shit, and Eva didn¡¯t deserve such a life.


    ____________________________


    Do you think I even need to do worldbuilding at all? I mean, you all have a rough idea of how a medieval world works, right?


    ____________________________


    Ha, of course not. What do you think I¡¯m supposed to write when the plot¡¯s not advancing?


    Flashbacks? Short stories? Like I have the motivation to do that. You¡¯ll just be reading pages upon pages of filler and exposition.


    ____________________________


    Dinner was especially difficult to swallow today, although there was no change to the menu.


    Afterwards, I talked to Cecilia. I asked of her preferences in animals, and she claimed to dislike cats, for old Gerald once bit her when she tried to pet it and gave her a nasty fever.


    Old Gerald was later ¡°neutralized¡± by his owner.


    _______________G_o_o_d_n_i_g_h_t____


    Waking up was less of a chore today.


    ____________________________


    Under the insistent instruction of Father Keen, I bolted myself within my quarters today. Behind his figure is Cecilia, a little worn by the blisters on her fingers, who left me with a slice of bread and even fewer words.


    The nature of this nation¡¯s formalities still eludes me. If there are more facets to these foreign traditions, I have yet to master them. Given their importance when interacting with the educated few, I intend to make that my next goal, following securing a means of survival within a safe settlement.


    At once, the villagers that had not glanced upon Father Keen¡¯s good and divine establishment magnetized themselves within its halls. They made little effort to dress themselves appropriately, merely donning their work hoods to signal respect. Masses of women, men, and children (to be honest, there was little of anything else) swung from side to side, finding a delicate balance on top of their soles, both bare and clothed.


    Children bore the front of this lack of dress. Many of the chimp-like farmer spawn were covered with the barest of rags, none having the etiquette to wrap themselves in footwear. While the ones still in cradles could be dressed with simple cloth, the slightly older children simply had nothing to wear, standing about with half-completed outfits; some missed pants, some had naked shoulders.


    I recognize some of them from the execution. One in particular, the woman who I based Eva off of, was vibrant in this crowd of nobodies. This weary farmer of¡­ fifty? Sixty? Afforded an unblemished red tunic-dress, matched with a cloud white hood. She leads one of her daughters with a blistered hand, only releasing her grip once Raymond began his rights.


    May all that is good in the world (women) forgive me, but if I had to judge this worker by her well-spun clothes, then it wouldn¡¯t be improper to say that she belonged to a relatively wealthy family of farmers. Is she wife to the baker? The reeve? The alchemist? I wouldn¡¯t know, but it¡¯s probably one of them. As far as I know, those are the most well-off villagers within Talbot, with the exception of the Lord¡¯s other handymen and Raymond.


    The service begins without interruption. Our gathering of villagers immediately find it in their best interest to stay silent, daring not to disturb whatever holy traditions that the church has perpetrated.


    What ignorance! What barbarism!


    The primitives continue their wicked traditions, kneeling before the trio of Raymond and his two assistants. I¡¯ve little idea where Cecilia is, except that she¡¯s nowhere within the mass or beside her father at all.


    At this point, I advise myself that it would be unwise to continue visually observing these lifeforms. Despite their apparent focus on the ritual, it¡¯s completely possible that the two assistants on the stage have a clear view to the door of my room. Thus, I slowly peel back from the gates of my residence, as deathly quiet as the kneeling villagers.


    I spend the rest of the morning drowning in Father Keen¡¯s prayers, utterly disinterested in the evil idols which these mere primitives worshipped. Angel Maria, Saint Ruth, and whatnot¡­ ¡°oh Lord we ask for forgiveness for our sins¡±... ¡°please pardon us from the road of evil¡±... ¡°tempt us with no vile demon¡±...


    I¡¯m not really familiar with faith, but if you want forgiveness for your sins, just don¡¯t commit them in the first place!


    ____________________________


    The service is ending. I¡¯m feeling rather sluggish, though, so I¡¯m going to go off to sleep without a meal. My work is done anyways.


    ____________________________


    Woke up with a nightmare. I can¡¯t remember what it was about, but I know it had something to do with school. I think there was supposed to be a math quiz or something right before I ¡°left¡±.


    Now that I think about it, I believe it was about integrals. Goodness, high school math is quite troublesome, no?


    ____________________________


    ¡°What do you think of our traditions?¡±


    Barely awake on a Monday at 5:41, this was not a question I¡¯d expected. Putting down my eating implements, I look up to a casually-toned Father Keen and a somewhat attentive Cecilia at the meal table. Suddenly nervous of this mob mentality, I work out the creases in my head and formulate a diplomatic answer.


    -But wait- my mind cut in. What¡¯s Keen, this old man, asking for? What intentions does he have, to ask this question? Is it out of pure formality? Will he cast me aside once he finds my answer inappropriate?


    ¡°I believe¡­ I¡¯ve made no mistake in travelling here. The people are faithful, and there¡¯s no fear of invasion. It¡¯s fortunate that there¡¯s no famine, too.¡±


    If I¡¯ve made it unclear, yes, there is a barely spoken contract between Raymond and I, the subject being that I am a ¡°foreigner¡±. How he truly views this alarming bite of information, I can only assume that he intends to benefit from me in some way. Thus, I can only offer empty praises to his faith.


    ¡°But our personal interpretations are much more interesting, are they not? Tell us, what does a man from a different country truly think of this new world?¡±


    My heart nearly shoots out from its cavity at the phrase ¡°new world¡±, but it settles as I understand its context.


    I must truly applaud Keen¡¯s open-mindedness. If it was any other priest, or just any other person, the most they would have lent me was a night or two of bedding and some leftovers. But now, this medieval man of all men has the interest to learn about other nations. I suspect the state of education supplied here is not lacking in the slightest.


    ¡°In my view, the people of Rosia are heretics. This Maria you dare to refer to as an ¡°angel¡± is an insult to the moral decency of humans, and the day it is burned in this bonfire of barbarians is when innocence will return to humanity.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡± Cecilia inerjects, eyes full of confusion, glancing between Father and I.


    ¡°Because, dear, sometimes people from other countries believe in different Gods. That¡¯s why we shouldn¡¯t trust them,¡± Raymond chides.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t there any other places, and the people there believe in Maria too?¡±


    ¡°There are, but they are very far away from us.¡±


    ¡°What if¡­ what if we moved closer to them?¡±


    ¡°That would take a lot of food. Can you eat all of the bread?¡±


    ¡°Well, we can just ask Her Holiness to do it.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t trouble Her Holiness with something so trivial.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    In the end, Cecilia gave up her initiative to unite the followers of Her Holiness Maria.


    ____________________________


    It would appear that this duo is finally releasing their guard around me. While I can¡¯t say that it¡¯s something I achieved with scheming, in contrast to my previous promise, it definitely proves, by powers of observation, that the primary mammalian species residing in this world is probably human.


    Still isn¡¯t it strange? By virtue of me being placed into this unfamiliar situation, all logical conclusions which have been accumulated in my past life is worthless. Without this accumulation of observations, nothing can be concluded until further notice. I can¡¯t even rule out the possibility that I¡¯m just in a preservation dome, as part of a simulacrum of humans.


    By that same logic, couldn¡¯t we also argue that you are the one being deceived? Is it not possible that at this moment, you are sitting in the basement of my residence on Pender street, tied up in rope as Eliana and I violate you in various unspeakable ways, forcing your consciousness into our special mental cage?


    I jest, I jest.


    ¡­ Unless?