Chapter 85
Written by Bayzo Albion
"Welcome to reality, Balthazar," I muttered.
I finished every last bit of the rabbit, leaving only a pile of scorched bones and scraps of hide. My stomach swelled with a heavy warmth, and clarity sharpened my thoughts like a whetted blade.
Gazing at the smoldering remains, I felt a pang deep inside. The rabbit was no longer a creature—just fuel for my survival.
Still, guilt gnawed at me from within.
That scream... it echoed in my ears, haunting and unrelenting.
"Alright," I said aloud, steeling myself. "If this is the price of staying alive... then I'll pay it."
A breeze rustled the branches overhead, and the forest seemed to murmur in approval, its leaves whispering secrets I couldn't quite decipher.
With my strength renewed, I pressed on through the woods. My goal was straightforward: escape this endless green maze and find any sign of civilization. But the farther I ventured, the more the forest surprised me.
Rabbits and hares darted everywhere, but they weren't like the ones from my old world. Their pelts shimmered in an array of colors—from deep chocolate browns to vibrant strawberry reds. Some sported intricate patterns, swirling blends of hues as if nature itself had taken up a paintbrush for sport.
I couldn't wrap my head around the evolution here. And then there were the oddities: tiny horns sprouting from their heads, more like knobby protrusions than true antlers. It all felt so organic, as though this world delighted in bending the rules, crafting life without boundaries.
Amid these bizarre sightings, my mind wandered to my own peculiarities. My parents were elves—both with those elegant, pointed ears. Yet here I was, with plain human ones. I was human, through and through, defying all logic. At times, I'd wondered if they were even my real parents at all.
Staring at these multicolored, horned critters, a strange urge bubbled up: I wanted to taste them all. Maybe the differences would be subtle, but this was a new world. It had to have its own flavors, its own secrets waiting to be savored.
Wandering deeper, I soon realized escape wasn't coming easy. The trees blurred into an impenetrable labyrinth, every turn looping back on itself like a cruel joke. Exhausted, I called it a night, seeking shelter between the gnarled roots of a massive oak. The ground was dry there, the overhanging branches forming a crude canopy. Primitive, sure, but it felt secure enough.
The night dragged on in fits of unease. Every rustle in the underbrush spiked my pulse, hunger gnawed at my insides like a persistent beast, but I endured. Dawn broke, and the cycle resumed.
For nearly an hour, I chased a black-furred rabbit adorned with stubby horns—a sly little forest demon, darting and weaving with infuriating agility. But hunger fueled my persistence. After several botched stone throws and a frantic pursuit, I finally cornered it.
I hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then I struck. Its blood stained my hands anew, and that soul-shredding cry pierced the air once more. But this time, I was prepared.
The roasted meat proved a notch better than the last—tender, richer, as if the darkness of its fur and those peculiar horns infused the flesh with a unique depth. It was odd... and oddly thrilling.
This routine stretched into a full week. I hunted and ate rabbits of every variety: mottled ones with swirling patterns, ashen grays, even a luminous specimen with faint glowing spots. Each carried a subtle twist in flavor, like flipping through pages of a culinary tome penned by the wilderness itself.
Yet food offered no answers, and the forest held me captive. I trudged in circles, revisiting familiar clearings, until the seventh day brought a breakthrough. Amid thick brambles, I spotted a faint trail—trampled earth, snapped twigs, flattened grass.
I froze, my heart pounding with sudden hope.
"A path..." I whispered, scarcely believing it.
I followed cautiously, as if the trail might dissolve like a mirage. But it grew clearer with each step, guiding me out of the woods. Soon, the outline of city walls loomed ahead.
I paused, glancing back at the verdant expanse. My chest tightened. The wind stirred the foliage, and in its sigh, I heard echoes—the squeals of the fallen, the thrum of hearts I'd silenced, the forest's own enigmatic whisper.
"I hope I never set foot here again," I thought. "Enough. Let this nightmare stay buried. Horned rabbits, starvation, terror... all of it, behind me."
Drawing a deep breath, I stepped toward the city. A new life awaited.
As I drew nearer, curiosity gnawed at me: How did people even live here? Back in my old world, tales painted medieval cities as cesspools of filth—manure-strewn streets, human waste dumped into rivers that doubled as drinking sources. Diseases spread like wildfire, outpacing even the juiciest gossip.
"Please," I murmured, "tell me there's magic here... something that scrubs the streets, chases off rats, and tidies up after everyone. Come on, universe, don't let me down."
But up close, the massive gates offered no glittering enchantments, no hovering wards or mystical barriers. Just a stark stone wall, imposing and silent, etched with the weight of ages.
Still, a bold inscription crowned the entrance, carved in deep, unyielding letters:
"Welcome to Arengard – the city where legends are born... and failures meet their end."
I chuckled, though unease coiled in my gut.
"Nice motto," I said under my breath. "Perfect for a guy who was rabbit chow just yesterday."
No guards manned the gates. Entry was unrestricted, like strolling into a deserted convenience store at midnight. Odd. I'd braced for the classic "Halt! Who goes there?" interrogation or at least a suspicious glare. But... nothing. No one barred my way.
"Ah," I smirked. "Must be magic at work. Probably scanned me head to toe, sniffed me out, and gave the all-clear. Thanks, invisible spells—appreciate not having to strip down for inspection."
I inhaled deeply. The air was... neutral. No reek of decay, no choking dust—just clean, breathable oxygen. I coughed in surprise, caught off guard by the sheer normalcy.
The streets gleamed with cleanliness: polished cobblestones, tidy houses lining the way, distant market clamor echoing. It screamed of subtle sorcery—a daily sweep by some ethereal janitor wielding a broom of epic proportions. Yet beyond that polish, the city evoked true medieval vibes: folk in tunics and cloaks, horse-drawn carts clattering by, vendors hawking wares. Middle Ages, upgraded.
"I've seen this before," I thought. "In video games. Minus the floating quest markers."
My first instinct was to scan the surroundings. Memories of my initial village arrival flooded back—greeted by stunning women, each more alluring than the last, like a parade of goddesses. I'd thought it paradise then.
Here, though? The scene was far more grounded. Beauties mingled in the crowd, sure, but so did average women—plain, even homely. Children shrieked and played in the square, elders shuffled with baskets, crones hobbled along, their years unsoftened by any spell. I spotted the disfigured too: twisted features, mangled limbs.
I halted mid-stride.
"Whoa..." I whispered. "If this is paradise... why the kids, the old folks, the ugly? My heaven didn't have that. Everyone was young, hot, and... delectable."
The realization hit like a dagger: "Am I actually reincarnated into a real world? And if so... does death here mean the end? For good?"
I clenched my fists, a wry grin twisting my lips.
"Brilliant, Balthazar. From god to grunt. Welcome to the real deal."
I lingered in the square's heart, amid the bustle—trades, arguments, laughter—but no one spared me a glance. Then it dawned: I was penniless. Not a single coin, not even pocket lint to barter.
"Splendid," I sighed. "The world's my oyster, but I can't afford the shell."
A boy hurried past with a tray of steaming buns, their aroma assaulting me like a siren call. My stomach roared in protest.
"Nope, can't go on like this," I resolved. "Stealing's out— they'd string me up by the short hairs. Classic fallback: the adventurers' guild. They're always hiring desperate fools willing to gamble their lives for scraps."
Eavesdropping on the crowd proved fruitful. Women haggled over meat prices, a merchant bellowed about superior boots, and a slurring drunk rasped:
"The guild... they feed ya there! Even greenhorns..."
My ears perked up like a hound's.
"Bless you, random boozehound," I whispered. "You just staved off my starvation."
Following his vague gesture, I spotted a sturdy building on the corner: stone walls, oak doors, a faded sign overhead reading "Broken Blade Adventurers' Guild."
A armored man loitered outside, puffing on a pipe. His eyes held the weary cynicism of someone who'd seen countless wide-eyed newbies—and buried most of them.
"Well," I muttered, "welcome to the grind, Balthazar. You're no deity, no kid, not even a sightseer anymore. Just a broke rookie."
I pushed open the door, and it let out a long, drawn-out creak, as if protesting my intrusion—as if whispering a warning: "You shouldn't have come here, kid..."