'Shit, shit, shit…
Where am I?'
This isn't my bathroom.
This isn't even my body.
My heart pounded as I slammed the wooden door open. The hinges screeched, and I stumbled into a dimly lit living room. Lanterns flickered weakly, their glow casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. The furniture was simple, rough, and old, like something straight out of a medieval painting.
The floor creaked under my bare feet, every step followed by that sharp screeching sound. Across the room, I noticed another door. A bedroom, maybe?
Then my eyes caught the window beside the bathroom door.
Darkness. Pitch-black night.
The only light came from scattered lanterns and torches along the road. Houses lined the street, their silhouettes leaning into the night like crooked teeth.
A medieval village, by the looks of it.
A sigh escaped my lips.
"…I got transmigrated, didn't I?"
The words tasted bitter.
Sadness, frustration, disbelief everything came crashing down. My chest tightened, my head spun.
"Why… why did this happen to me?"
I whispered.
"I just achieved my dream… and now, transmigration?!"
The rage boiled over.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!!"
My voice cracked, echoing in the dim house.
I slid down the wall, my back bumping against it, until I sat on the creaking floorboards. Tears blurred my vision.
All my hard work now gone.
My dream now shattered.
And my family…
My family was gone too.
I buried my face into my palms and cry.
That's when I heard it.
footsteps.
The door across the living room opened, and a couple stepped out.
They were young. Maybe in their twenties.
The man had a short beard, a muscular build, and cropped hair. Scars marked his arm, evidence of battles or harsh work. His eyes were dark, his features rugged, almost identical to the boy whose body I now inhabited. He stood tall, around 180 cm or more, wearing simple medieval clothes, a white shirt, brown pants, and a leather belt.
The woman… she was beautiful. Young, with the same reddish eyes as mine. Her figure was slim, dressed in a flowing gown of white and blue. She was shorter than the man, maybe 150 or 160 cm, and her delicate face bore features that unmistakably matched the boy I had become.
They must be… his parents.
They froze when they saw me.
Crying, broken. Concern flashed in their eyes.
The man stepped forward, his deep voice carrying both worry and sadness.
"Τί γέγονεν, τέκνον? ἆρά γε εὖ ἔχεις?"
"What has happened, child? Are you well?"
The woman's voice followed, softer, lighter, like a melody.
"Κλαίεις φωναρῶς· τί γέγονεν?"
"You cry so loudly… what has happened?"
Her voice was beautiful, so beautiful that if she's singing, it would sound like a hymn from the heavens.
I blinked.
Huh?
Wait...
Was that… Greek?
No…
Similar, but not the same.
I caught some fragments
"τέκνον… γέγονεν…"
Wait.
I know this.
It sounds like… Greek?
I learned a little back in college, just enough to read modern texts and philosophy quotes.
But this…
This wasn't the Greek I knew.
It was older.
Sharper.
Almost… ancient.
"I… I don't understand,"
I muttered, my voice shaky.
I tried to copy their words, fumbling with my tongue.
"Ti… gegonen? Teknon?"
The man and woman exchanged glances. Confusion flickered in their eyes, but also relief, like they heard a baby trying to speak.
"I can't… I don't… understand you!"
I shouted in English, frustration spilling out.
They didn't flinch.
The woman crouched beside me, gently placing her hand on my shoulder. Her voice was soft, musical, even if the words were nonsense to me.
"Μὴ φοβοῦ, τέκνον…"
"Do not fear, child…"
Tears stung my eyes again.
"I'm not your child… I'm not even supposed to be here…"
But all that left my lips was a broken whisper.
After a while they guided me up a narrow stair, to a small room that I guessed was my bedroom.
It wasn't large, but it was enough for a 10 years old, it has a simple wooden bed with a thin blanket, a small desk under a lantern, a shuttered window beside it, a wardrobe in the corner, and a chair. A square mirror hung on the left wall, catching the lantern light in a dull reflection.
They murmured comforting things as they walked me in words I didn't fully understand, but the tone was warm. Then they left, closing the door gently behind them, leaving their son to be alone for a while.
"Εὖ ἔχει, τέκνον· νῦν ἀναπαύου."
"It's okay, dear. You can rest now."
After the door clicked shut I let the tears come again. I lay on the narrow bed and cried until my chest ached, the sound of my sobbing swallowed by the thin walls. Every cry felt like a small betrayal of the life I had left. My apartment, the cars, the degree, the hugs of my parents gone in a blink.
Hours passed.
At some point the sobs slowed and finally stopped. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, sat up, and take in a long, shuddering breath. This was real. I had been transmigrated. Denial wouldn't change the fact. I need to do something to be able to survive in this unknown world.
I swung my feet to the floor and went to the desk. Lantern light painted the papers gold. On the desk lay a few things, an empty notebook, a feather quill, a small glass inkwell, and four books stacked neatly. The book covers were worn, the titles were written in characters that looked disturbingly like Ancient Greek. I could read a little modern Greek philosophy quotes, a few words, but this script felt older, heavier, like the language had been twisted through centuries.
My hands trembled as I opened the notebook and uncapped the inkwell. The quill felt strange and foreign in my fingers, but it still wrote. I wrote down everything I could think of, messy and fast, as if scrawling it on paper might pin reality back into place.
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1.) Woke up in unfamiliar body. Ten years old. Black hair, reddish eyes.
2.) Transmigrated into a Medieval world, didn't know the exact location.
3.) Don't understand the language, sounds like Greek, but older. I guess it's Ancient Greek languages.
4.) I need to study the languages.
5.) Prioritize identity, knowledge, money, and maybe escape plan?
-----------------------------------------------------------
I paused and read what I'd written. The list looked pathetic. A failed checklist thrown together by a frightened man in a child's body, but it felt better than nothing.
It was a start.
I flipped through the four books one by one, as carefully as I could. The pages were cramped with dense lines of script, the ink faded but still sharp enough to sting my eyes.
The first book looked like a primer of laws it's heavy, rigid, filled with rules and decrees.
The second contained rows of numbers I recognized, arithmetic, maybe? Basic calculations, lists of sums and products. Gladly, that the numerical system in this place is no different than my previous world.
The third was stranger, a collection of fables or myths, filled with sketches of creatures I didn't recognize, their bodies twisted into shapes both wondrous and terrifying. There's also some of that I recognized, like a wyvern and dragon.
And the last book…
The last one was different. Its pages crawled with runic notation, odd runes and circles, along with passages that looked like chants or prayers. The handwriting shifted between precise lines and frenzied scribbles, as though the writer alternated between calm reason and mad inspiration.
'Magic?'
'Could it be… magic?'
"Aghhh… I don't know…"
I groaned, pressing my fingers to my temple.
But then, as I turned another page, something caught my eye.
The words.
Unlike the other books, this one didn't use the same unfamiliar, ancient script. The chants, the prayers, were written in a language I knew. A language I had studied long ago in college.
Latin.
I leaned closer, reading aloud in a whisper.
"Ignis… Aqua… Verra…"
I froze.
The syllables rolled off my tongue naturally. Familiar. Almost comforting.
"This… this is Latin, isn't it?"
I murmured, my eyes widening.
I traced the words again, carefully.
Yes. It really was. Latin, crude, maybe, simplified, but Latin nonetheless.
A deep breath left my chest, heavy and shaky. Finally, something I could understand.
At that moment, I made my first true decision in this world. I need to learn the language.
If I could read these books, even a little, I could learn where I was.
And most importantly… I could learn how to speak.
Because until I could speak, I was nothing but a freak, a foreigner.
I closed the notebook and slid it carefully under my pillow. Then I blew out the lantern, letting the darkness swallow the room.
Lying on the hard bed, I stared at the ceiling beams as the wood creaked around me. The air was damp, filled with the faint smell of old timber and lantern oil.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I would begin. Tomorrow I would plan, and study, and survive.
For now…
Sleep.
If nothing else, sleep would give me strength for the next day. And in this strange world, strength was the only currency I could afford.