The sky was hazy and the rain continued.
On the muddy road, an old horse pulled a mottled carriage, leaving two deep ruts in its wake.
A dilapidated shed was propped up among the messy goods on the carriage, barely covering Darien, who was lying in the middle of the goods.
The raindrops followed the hole in the roof and dripped relentlessly onto Darien's face. He tightened the tattered blanket and sighed helplessly.
In such miserable conditions, even sleep had become a rare luxury.
The coachman in tattered sackcloth heard the movement behind him, and quickly grabbed the reins to let the horse slow down a bit, then turned around, revealing a brown-haired and blue-eyed face.
"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord," he said with an apologetic smile. "Storm's made the road foul. Hope I didn't jolt ya too bad. I'll ease the pace some."
Darien gave a tired wave of his hand.
"It's fine… just wondering how much longer we've got."
The rain had barely let up for two days straight, and Darien had felt every bump of the journey. What he craved now was simple: a warm bed, a hot plate of food, a long soak, and some real sleep.
"At this rate, we'll reach Brindlemark by nightfall—no more than half a day, if the road holds."
The coachman spoke with confidence. He knew these roads like the lines on his hands.
"Half a day?" Darien muttered. "Can't we go any faster?"
The coachman chuckled dryly, flashing uneven yellow teeth.
"Aye, we can—but if a wheel pops off, we'll be walking the rest of the way."
With that, he gave a sharp flick of the reins. The old mare snorted and trotted on, sending muddy water spraying across the road.
Clop-clop-clop.
Darien braced himself inside the rocking carriage, gripping the edge as he wrapped his blanket tighter. The cold wind slipped through the gaps and bit at his skin.
He exhaled and leaned forward slightly. "Tell me—what should I expect in Brindlemark?"
Anyway, he couldn't sleep. Darien wanted to know more about the situation in this world. It was very important to know oneself and one's surroundings.
"As you wish, m'lord,"
The coachman organized his thoughts, then said:
"Brindlemark Barony is the land of Baron Charles. Not just the town, mind you—but all the surrounding villages, farmland, and even the Arvandor Forest to the north lie under his rule…"
"It's one of the largest settlements in the Thryngard Mountains. A place many peasants dream of reachin'. But don't be fooled—just 'cause it's big don't mean it's easy to survive."
Darien listened intently, trying to piece together an image of the world he had been dropped into.
"I can't rightly say how vast Brindlemark be, yet 'tis a mighty sight to behold. Black stone walls guard it well—no wolf dares enter, no thief dares scale them. Safe within, a man may rest through the night without dread."
"Brindlemark is full o' shops, offering all manner of goods. Folk say merchants will wait long to set up their trade. Aye, I hope one day to run a shop of my own."
"But the greatest pride of Brindlemark lies in the Baron's castle. Crafted from black stone, it towers above all, steadfast as a fortress."
"And the knights—clad in gleaming armor, swords ever sharp at their sides, and mounted on fleet horses—none dare stir mischief within the Baron's domain."
"Brindlemark also has..."
Listening to the coachman's vivid tales, a splendid and exotic barony called Brindlemark took shape in Darien's mind.
Darien, who lived in a modern world, still yearned for a prosperous city similar to the Middle Ages.
Seeing Darien listening so closely, the coachman spoke with even more energy. To him, these stories were nothing new, but it felt good to impress someone he believed was a nobleman.
Darien didn't realize he was already seen as one.
"And Baron Charles—aye, now there's a man to respect. He took the reins after the old baron met a grim end, chokin' on lamb stew. A sad fate, truly. Yet in but three months, Lord Charles set the land to order."
Darien blinked. "Wait. You mean… Baron Charles only recently took over?"
"Aye. Not long ago. Still fresh in the saddle, but already makin' a name for himself."
"…Huh. Life really is unpredictable," Darien muttered. "Choked on lamb stew, huh…"
He chuckled dryly. One moment, you're at a feast. The next, you're gone. Then again, his fate hadn't been much kinder. One hiking trip, one strange storm, and now… this.
Yes. Darien didn't belong to this world. Somehow, he had crossed into it.
When Darien opened his eyes, he found himself inside a rattling carriage. Trying to stay calm, he noticed a strange mark on his right hand—but he had no idea what it meant.
The only comfort was that he could understand the language of this world. At least he could speak to people without them looking at him strangely.
Darien touched the backpack he carried. Inside were a few protein bars, bottled water, a match, and some basic survival tools. In this backward world, these might be priceless treasures.
But first, he had to reach Brindlemark. It sounded like a good place to start.
...
Not long after, wheat fields began to appear, and the sight of golden grain brightened their mood.
Farmers toiled in the distance, guiding plows pulled by oxen or horses. A few paused when they noticed the passing carriage, their eyes lingering on Darien's strange clothes. When he offered a polite smile, they averted their gazes, wary and silent.
His smile lingered only a moment before slipping away. He shifted in his seat and looked out at the fields instead.
The coachman didn't seem to notice. He kept talking about Brindlemark with reverence.
As the rain eased, the mist began to lift, revealing rows of wooden houses with thatched roofs. Smoke rose quietly from their chimneys.
"There it is, m'lord. Brindlemark Barony."
Darien leaned forward in surprise.
"Huh? We're here already?" His eyes scanned the humble village. "This is… Brindlemark?"
"Aye," the coachman said proudly. "Ain't she beautiful?"
Darien blinked.
The towering castle, the bustling marketplace, the streets paved with stone—where were they?
All he saw was a modest rural settlement.
He stared in silence.
…