Chapter 7
Written by Bayzo Albion
Before me opened a true paradise: along the cobbled streets strolled young women—radiant, refined, as though they had stepped straight from a painter's canvas, each one a masterpiece of ethereal grace and vibrant allure. Their light dresses danced in the wind, fabrics of silk and linen swirling like petals caught in a gentle breeze, revealing hints of sun-kissed skin and elegant curves. Their smiles were so pure and bright, radiating an innocence laced with subtle invitation, that I nearly teared up… in the best way possible, a surge of emotion that blended awe with a deep, unspoken longing for connection in this strange new world.
My body reacted before my mind did—but it wasn't animal lust, not the crude impulse I might have expected from my earthly days. No, it felt different, more profound, a stirring of something older, heavier, like the call of a warrior who knows he must rise to meet a worthy opponent, his blood singing with the thrill of impending conquest. The sensation coursed through me, electric and insistent, awakening instincts I thought had been buried in the void of death.
"I understand, my friend," I muttered to myself, clenching my fists and looking up at the sky, where wisps of clouds drifted lazily against an impossibly blue expanse. "You're eager for battle. But our opponent must be worthy. Only the strongest lady deserves the right to challenge us. That duel will be sung of in legend, etched into the annals of this realm as a tale of passion and triumph." My words were a vow, spoken to the heavens as if seeking their blessing, a dramatic flourish to mask the raw desire bubbling beneath.
Several women slowed their steps, their graceful movements halting as they stared at me—half curious, half alarmed, their eyes wide with a mix of intrigue and uncertainty. Hands covered mouths in delicate gestures of surprise, whispers passing between them like secrets on the wind. I could feel their gazes tracing my form, a blend of judgment and fascination that only fueled my resolve.
I straightened, lifted my chin proudly, and declared with booming confidence, my voice carrying across the street like a herald's proclamation:
"I fear no one! For I carry a great weapon. It is mighty, it recovers quickly, and no sudden strike can put me down! Even if I fall, I shall rise again and rejoin the fight, stronger and more determined than before!"
Silence descended, thick and expectant. Only the wind moved, tugging at my hair and stirring their dresses in a symphony of rustling fabric, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for the punchline or the revelation.
Then I shifted my tone abruptly, spreading my hands in mock despair, my expression crumbling into one of pitiful pleading.
"Somebody—anybody! Please, lend me a coin. I was robbed! Stripped of everything! I'll take any clothes—even rags, tattered and threadbare. I'm not picky, so long as I can cover my… magnificence. Good people, have mercy on a wayward soul thrust into misfortune!"
Passersby whispered among themselves, some giggling behind cupped hands, others deliberately turning away with exaggerated nonchalance, their footsteps quickening as if my presence were a mild contagion. Yet one girl's gaze lingered longer than the rest, her eyes—a striking shade of emerald—holding mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. Something in my gut told me she might be important, a key player in the unfolding narrative of this world, her presence radiating a subtle aura of destiny.
At that moment, new figures appeared, emerging from a narrow side street like shadows materializing from the stone walls. There were three: two men in uniformed gray-green cloaks, their attire practical and weathered, embroidered with insignia that spoke of official duty, and a tall woman with a staff clutched in her elegant hand, its tip glowing faintly with an arcane light. Their steps were firm, purposeful, their faces lined with suspicion that deepened as they approached.
"Who's this?" one man asked, his lip curling in disdain, his voice gruff and laced with authority. "And why is he, for heaven's sake, unclothed? Has the village gone mad to allow such a spectacle?"
"Newcomer," the gate guard grumbled from behind, his tone heavy with reluctance, as if admitting me was a decision he already regretted. "We let him through under emergency protocol. Says he was robbed—bandits in the woods, or so he claims."
"Uh-huh. And judging by his speeches, he's not exactly right in the head," the second muttered, eyeing me skeptically, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword as if ready for trouble.
The woman stepped closer, her presence commanding the space around her like a queen surveying her domain. Her eyes were cold, like a dawn-lit lake that refused to show its depth, reflecting nothing but calculated assessment. She studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle, as if she could peel back layers of flesh to reveal the soul beneath.
"He's from elsewhere," she said evenly, her voice smooth yet edged with steel. "Not one of us… but not an enemy either. Not yet. There's an otherworldly quality to him, a stranger's aura that doesn't belong in our harmonious folds."
Turning to me, she added, her tone laced with a hint of warning, "Sir, in our settlement, clothing is customary. Especially… in public. We value decorum here, a thread that binds our community against the chaos outside."
"Yes, I understand," I replied quickly, nodding with feigned earnestness. "I am actively working on this problem and making every effort to resolve it, scrounging for aid in this unfamiliar land."
She gave me one last cool look, her gaze lingering as if committing my features to memory, then turned to her companions with a dismissive wave.
"Let's go. No need to waste time on eccentrics. There are greater matters demanding our attention."
And with that, they left me standing in the middle of paradise—bare, baffled, and oddly determined to make this new life work, to carve out a niche in this realm where vulnerability could become strength.
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I stood there as the patrol disappeared into the throng of villagers, their cloaks blending seamlessly with the crowd. People passed by with the casual indifference only a village crowd can muster, their daily routines unbroken by my oddity. Some tried not to look, averting their eyes with polite discomfort; others glanced once and hurried away, their paces quickening as whispers trailed behind them; and a few just whispered behind their hands, exchanging smirks as if I were today's entertainment, a living jest to lighten their mundane afternoons.
A boy ran past with a wooden hoop rolling before him, his laughter ringing like bells. He slowed, wide-eyed, and shouted to his friend trailing behind:
"Look! It's the Naked Hero! Come to save us from boredom!"
The other boy nearly fell over laughing, clutching his sides as tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks, before they both vanished down an alley, their giggles echoing off the stone walls like fading echoes of innocence.
I rubbed my temple, a wry smile tugging at my lips despite the sting. Wonderful. Five minutes here and I was already a local legend, whispered about in taverns and markets as the fool who dared bare all. But legends, I reminded myself, often start with ridicule before ascending to glory.
Determined not to crumble under the weight of their amusement, I strode down the cobbled street as if nothing were wrong, chin high, steps bold and unyielding. My confidence lasted all of thirty seconds—until I reached the marketplace, a bustling heart of the village alive with colors and sounds.
Dozens of stalls brimmed with fruit—ripe apples gleaming red, clusters of grapes dripping with dew—fabrics in vibrant hues fluttering like flags, and trinkets of polished metal and carved wood sparkling under the sun. Dozens of eyes turned toward me at once, conversations faltering mid-sentence, the hum of barter dying to a murmur. Somewhere, a tomato slipped from a merchant's hand and splattered on the ground with suspicious timing, its juice spreading like a crimson accusation.
I coughed into my fist, clearing my throat to break the tension.
"Ladies and gentlemen, fear not! I am not a vagrant, nor a lunatic—merely a temporary victim of unfortunate circumstances, a traveler beset by ill fate. Clothes are forthcoming, and soon I shall blend among you as one of your own!"
The only reply was a chorus of snickers and muffled laughter, rippling through the crowd like waves on a pond. Undeterred, I marched on anyway. Each step was agony for my dignity but fuel for my stubborn pride, a forge where embarrassment tempered into resolve. Let them laugh. Heroes are always misunderstood at first, their trials the crucible that shapes their destiny.
I begged for coins in the most pitiful tones I could muster—grim, weary, clinging to scraps of hope like a drowning man to driftwood. At first, people only passed by, shaking their heads with sympathetic sighs or outright avoidance. But then, after what felt like ten long minutes of rejection, someone stopped, her presence cutting through the crowd like a beam of light.