August 26, 1300. Tarif City.
I kick the door with a loud thud and sluggishly drag myself into my bakery and coffee shop — my second location — the tiny shop nestled between the busiest street in Rahman Al-khouri's Islamic district. The smell of freshly baked bread fills the air, thick with butter, mingling with the bitter scent of coffee that hits me directly in the nose. My nose twitches slightly, but my mouth is too lazy to move.
I just nod at the manager — what's her name again, Sara or something like that — who's busy behind the counter, hands covered in flour. She looks up, showing a broad grin, and I complete my international communication duty with a quick nod. That's enough for me.
I walk straight to the ledger. I flip through the pages of the book quickly, my eyes scanning like a whirlwind.
4.8 gold coins. Still steady, just like last week. Selling bread, selling coffee, even selling a bit of my own dignity to the locals, and yet I only pull out 4 gold coins and 800 silver coins.
I clench my lips, a curse quietly bubbling up in my mind:
"That damn Aldo! Trying to make us starve collectively?!"
The whole western half of this place has been enzyme-deprived for nearly ten days now. From the old leatherworker in the alley down the street, to the pharmacist at the research institute, and the drunkards at the guilds brewing fruit wines — they're all wailing as if their parents just died.
And it's no wonder, without enzymes, everything's rotting. The wine won't ferment, the medicine spoils. And Aldo? He's gone silent. Thought he was so smart.
I slam the book shut, too tired to curse anymore, and turn to shuffle outside.
The first location — the main shop — is bigger, fancier, about half a street away. I walk, passing some street kids selling things, ducking into the dust storm. When I reach the shop, the sunlight nearly burns my neck, but I don't bother to curse. Life and death are all fate.
Here's the main shop. As soon as I step inside, it's cool, like crawling into a mother's womb. White limestone walls, a ceiling with hanging oil lamps, the scent of old books mixed with damp linen.
One wall is recessed in a hexagonal, honeycomb pattern, each compartment stuffed with books, pillows, blankets, and mattresses, looking messy yet somehow... very Joon Soo-like.
I make my way straight into the room built just for me. The door is locked with a heavy wooden bolt. I push it open and step inside.
I don't turn on the light, just instinctively reach for the familiar corner: a low shelf with a glossy wooden box made of spruce. I bend down, running my finger lightly across the surface. A soft glow spreads, like mist.
Bip — a low, brief sound.
The magical fingerprint recognition. The lid of the box slowly cracks open...
I look at the wooden box, its lid barely open, my heart skips a beat, something I haven't felt in days of sluggishness, my mind numb from lack of enzymes. It's the first time in a week I feel truly alive.
I remember the day I found this box. Back then, I was crawling through a damp cave in the southern border, a place that wasn't even marked on maps, and locals didn't dare go near — rumors of "earth spirits" or something like that.
Ridiculous rumors.
I saw the box behind a narrow rock gap, hidden so deep that I had to crawl to reach it. And right next to it — a skeleton. Curled up, still clutching a rusty long rifle. I noticed immediately: the uniform wasn't like the soldiers from Terre. It was dark earth-colored with patches on the shoulders and a symbol that looked like a star. And the first words I muttered after all that searching were:
"…America? American soldier?!"
Based on the stitching, the color of the fabric, and the shoe soles, I guessed — American soldiers from World War II.
It could have been 1944. And this was clearly a man. The skeleton was still intact, though the nose had caved in, but the skull still held a strong jawline.
I froze for a moment. A bit of shock, a bit... eerie. But then, what's my usual reaction?
If something's mysterious, I dive straight in, no matter if it ends in glory or a cracked skull.
I pulled the wooden box out of the rock crevice. Maybe it was just a standard military weapon box. But that magical lock? That was something new. Clearly, it wasn't a factory feature. It looked like... this soldier had learned magic after being summoned to Terre, and then added a magical lock to secure his weapon box. Just the kind of soldier who survives by learning everything himself.
I carefully opened the box fully. Inside, everything was intact.
A leather-bound notebook lay on top. I flipped it open.
The handwriting was in English, hurried but disciplined. The first page clearly read:
"James H. Coleman – Private – United States Army – Age: 16"
I held my breath.
Sixteen? Damn, he really lied about his age to get onto the battlefield. Brave? Or crazy?
I don't know. But my heart tightened.
I quickly skimmed through the first 30 pages. His early days in boot camp, getting his head shaved, learning to shoot, yelling under the blazing sun, skin burning.
Then he described his first day in North Africa, fighting alongside the Free French against the Germans and Italians.
Bombs falling, bullets flying, a close friend dying right in front of him — all recounted in a calm voice, as if telling a summer afternoon story.
No embellishments. No complaints. No blame.
I placed the notebook down, feeling a weight in my chest.
Under the notebook were the items he had with him:
— A M1903 Springfield rifle, long and heavy, slightly rusted but still had its bolt action intact.
— Two M1911 pistols — the same ones I've seen in old movies — both intact, though the grips were scratched.
— A KA-BAR Fighting Utility Knife, the blade still dark red. I sniffed. Not human blood. The scent of wild meat — deer. Maybe he used the knife to survive by hunting.
There were also three boxes of .30-06 Springfield ammunition, and two boxes of .45 ACP — one box full, the other nearly half empty. Everything still in good condition, as if the passage of time in Terre couldn't damage technology from another world.
I sat down heavily, resting my hands on my knees, my eyes fixed on the rifle box. A thought exploded in my mind like a blast:
"…Damn, don't the Mikhland soldiers have guns too?"
They can't manufacture guns, but they can still use them. I've seen a few old-fashioned rifles among the special forces. A bit strange, but they shoot for real. Maybe... they've been studying the stuff left behind by teens like James — those who were summoned during World War II.
Damn it... maybe there are more like him. Pulled here. Died here. And whatever remained was used as experimental material.
I took a deep breath. My back felt cold. Not from fear. But because...
I lift the Springfield rifle, feeling its weight and roughness—just like a classic rifle.Classic, but not cheap. Looking at the barrel lock and the still shiny barrel, I can tell—James really took good care of it. Maybe even in a world as insane as Terre, he still treats his rifle like it's his life.I bring the rifle to my shoulder, squint, then...BANG!!!The gunshot rings out, tearing the air apart in the small laboratory behind the bakery."YA! CHO JOOOON-SOOOOO!"A scream thunders—it's the bakery owner's voice, who is also... my baker.She's pounding on the door like I just blew up the whole market street.I roll my eyes, sigh, then shout back,"You heard wrong! You just imagined that! Probably didn't eat enough breakfast!"I hold my breath for a few seconds. No response. She must have decided to believe me (or was too lazy to argue).Indeed, in Mikhland, guns are still unfamiliar to most people. The officials know about them, the nobles keep them as treasures, but ordinary folks? Some don't even know where the muzzle is.I lower the rifle, my shoulder aching from the recoil."Smooth recoil, though. True American style, no joke."I sneer, then place the Springfield on the table and turn back to James's notebook.Next page..."6/6/1944 - Normandy."I freeze."Wait... Normandy?"I read the next line carefully, each word imprinting in my mind like the sound of gunshots, like footsteps:"We landed on Omaha Beach. Bullets rained down like crazy, one by one, my friends fell. I'm still alive. I don't know why. Maybe it's luck, or maybe I was the only one who knew how to swim right in the training..."Omaha.It's Omaha, not just Normandy in general.I scratch my head and slump down. Looks like all those history teachers at my school were wrong. The Normandy landing wasn't just one general spot; there were individual beaches, and Omaha was where James first set foot.The next page talks about their advance deeper into France. James mentions his comrades—who got hurt, who survived, who died. Then comes August 25, 1944."We entered Paris with the French resistance. The people cheered. I walked through the Arc de Triomphe. They threw flowers at us. An old lady kissed me on the cheek. The scent of her perfume has lingered on my clothes ever since..."I chuckle softly. The Arc de Triomphe, flowers, and a 16-year-old kid from Ohio (according to him on the previous page) marching like a hero. Hard to believe. But the trembling handwriting, the excitement—I know he's not making it up.The next page talks about the Netherlands. The war shifted into winter, cold and brutal.The final date mentioned in the war is 2/3/1945. After that... the tone of the writing changes."I see a bright purple light. Screams. I can't hear gunfire anymore. I can't see my comrades. I get pulled away—not by hand, not by plane. Everything is tearing, twisting like being sucked through an endless steel pipe..."I swallow hard. A chill runs down my spine."I open my eyes. Not Europe. No German soldiers. No comrades. I see a black dragon devouring people... I think I'm dead. But no. I still have the Springfield in my hand. And I'm still alive."I freeze.Here it is. This is Terre.The crazy world I'm living in, where James set foot... eighty years ago.I flip to the next page of the journal, chewing on the dry bread left over from this morning. The paper is starting to yellow, ink smudged, but James's handwriting is still bold and... very American.At a part near the end, the handwriting suddenly aligns in a strange, meticulous way, like he carefully copied each word.— You are chosen.— Chosen my ass. I'm fighting in the Netherlands. Who the hell pulls me to this damn place?— Mikhland needs strength. And Earth people are always a valuable resource.— Mikhland?— A powerful empire, existing for 128 years. You are a gift from Another World.— So... you guys have been kidnapping Earth's teens and making them slaves for over a century?— Exactly. You will serve the peace and order here.I frown.A pause in the journal, then the ink splashes in a long smear.— I shot him. All three others too. I didn't think. I just fired. And I ran.I burst out laughing."Now that's real. James is just the kind of American I like."No hesitation, no drama. Survival of the fittest. If I were summoned like that, I'd probably set up bombs too.The next page is just a bunch of days about running, surviving, eating scraps, and recording homesick thoughts in the American way: missing hamburgers, missing mom, missing traffic lights. At one point, he writes:"I met an old man who claimed to be Da Vinci, saying he came to Terre in 1477. Back then, Earth people were revered like gods. Now, they're treated like trash. Life is really funny."I flip a few more pages. Nothing really useful."Ugh. No more reading."I walk out of the bakery—no, my underground base disguised as a bakery—blending into the crowded streets of Tarif.Tarif is always bustling: the sounds of street vendors, arguments, the smell of Arabic spices, sweat, and... horse manure. A mix of odors, hard to describe but easy to get used to.I look up at the sky—a deep blue, no smoke, no street lamps, no traffic cameras. I start thinking about "later"..."If I get back to Korea... how will I live?"I try to imagine:Happy memories? No.I scored 92, not 100.I was top 8, not valedictorian.My mom... well, her face looked like it had been dipped in cold soup when she saw my report card.My classmates? A bunch of:• The feminists are venomous like snakes, see a man and act like they've seen a virus.• The guys are the opposite, bitter about feminism like they lost their throne back in elementary school.• The rest are just bystanders, faces as stiff as statues, living like "knowing a little is enough, but not really understanding anything."My dad? Works at a factory for a chaebol, leaves at 6 a.m., and... doesn't come home. That's usually how it is. Mom says "busy." I say "missing."I sigh."How should I live when I get back? Stay at Zihao's place? Or crash at Aldo's? They probably still have enzymes to eat."While lost in thought—bam!A woman in a bright pink cloak, wearing a mask that covers her face... crashes into me.Before I can say anything, she screams loudly:"He assaulted me!!!"I freeze.People around me turn to look. Eyes full of prejudice.Damn. Could I be this unlucky?I quickly glance—mask. Pink cloak. Dramatic posture..."Damn... is she from the Sapphic Cult?"Sapphic Cult.That extreme feminist sect banned in over half the city, founded by that girl Kara hundreds of years ago—when they were oppressed because of their gender. Now they're hunted, but still operate in guerrilla style.Before I can think more, a muscular guard, wearing the typical Tarif armor—long cloak, headscarf—charges at me. A club in hand, ready to smash me into the ground.Muscles, instinct to protect women, and a lack of analytical thinking. Classic Tarif.I grind my teeth, cursing this damn society, then quickly think of how to escape...
I'm still staring blankly at the ground like it might hold the answer to my future—whether I'll return to Korea and figure out how to live there, crash at Aldo's or Zihao's place, or just stay here and be some kind of hero—when it hits me like the kind of fate reserved for unlucky kids born in June.
The city guard of Tarif, built like a buffalo with muscles like cast bronze, charges at me without a word. I think I'm done for, so I spin on instinct—and… the giant slams right into the girl in the pink cloak. The impact is so hard I hear a "splurt" sound, like someone smashing a flour sack against a wall.
Right after that, the guard jumps up, sees the symbol of a two-headed snake coiling around a flame on her cloak. His eyes change instantly.
"Sapphic Cult scum?" he roars—without asking me a single thing—then ties her up like a pig and hauls her over his shoulder. No interrogation, no questions, not even a suspicious glance my way. I just stand there like some idiot miraculously spared by the gender wars.
I'm about to let out a relieved breath when… life says no.
Some handsome guy jumps out from the crowd—one of those "I'm sad because I'm too cool" faces, hair curled like it's been drenched in wet gel, wearing high-end adventurer gear, sword in hand. He yells something like, "Give her back!" and then punches the guard.
And just like some trashy soap opera, the girl who was tied up suddenly springs back to life like an electric eel, jumps straight onto the roof. What the hell? Can normal people even jump like that? I stand there staring, half ready to shove my hand into my mouth from the shock.
The guard doesn't follow. No, he cracks his neck with a loud pop, then turns to deal with the simp. What I witness next is a tragic love song to the blind faith of men.
That adventurer gets beaten to a pulp. Black eye, swollen lips, bloody nose. Then, to top it off, he's fined 200 silver coins. Two. Hundred. Silver. That's enough to live for eight months on a tight budget. And now? Say goodbye to food.
Curious, I step in for a closer look. And then, in a scene I can barely believe, the guard starts preaching.
"You think seeing a girl means you gotta save her? You think that's courage? No. That's lust mixed with pride. That's foolishness disguised as fake heroism!"
Slap! A hard smack across the face.
"If you wanna save a girl, at least figure out which ones are worth saving, you cow-brained idiot!"
Smack! Another one.
Seven slaps later, and he's sentenced to seven days in the slammer for "obstructing guard duties." I nod in approval. Now that's western justice.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets, searching for my cigarette pack.
Nothing. Oh, right… the smokes were on Earth. I haven't even gotten used to the water smell here.
I tilt my head to the sky, sighing like an old Korean drama actor—one of those sighs where the tears won't come and no one understands your pain. That damned cult, the Sapphic Cult. You can't just punch your way through them to fix things. You have to negotiate, redistribute power, cooperate with the military… It's enough to make me not want to think anymore.
I turn and head straight for the western marketplace of Tarif. There's a big forge there, where Veritas—my platinum-haired buddy who sparkles like cold moonlight—is chatting with some Muslim blacksmiths in a bunch of languages I don't understand.
I need to pull him into this. I can survive on my own. But to change things? I need a teammate. And a few swords. And maybe a bottle of painkillers.
When I get there, I hear the loud clash of metal on metal. The smell of hot charcoal mixed with forging oil hits me right in the nose. Veritas' workshop is basically a sweat labor camp—big, noisy, burning hot, and full of half-naked men sweating like they swam across a river but still laughing it off.
In the middle of it all, there's Veritas—the living platinum statue, cloak loosely tied, hands stained with pitch-black oil—preaching metallurgy to a bunch of newbie blacksmiths.
"You mustn't dunk the whole sword into water after heating it red-hot!" he says, in the exact tone of a physics teacher at a gifted school. "It'll crack, weaken, and die. Only the blade should go in. Then submerge the rest in sand or an Akkane solution… or NaOH... something like that." He nods, then turns to watch a few guys dunking a glowing red sword into water like they're dipping sausages into hotpot.
I don't really get it. What even are Akkane and NaOH? I barely scraped through chemistry on multiple-choice guesses.
"Hey, Veritas," I say as I walk up next to him. "Did you hear what happened with the Sapphic Cult outside the gate today?"
He brushes his hands off like he's dusting the world clean. "The Parliament's already targeting them. Forget it. Getting involved with religious cults is a huge pain."
I nod, ready to chat more, when a blacksmith pounding a hammer with another hammer suddenly speaks up—like one of those NPCs who drops a plot twist:
"Word is the government's offering four gold coins for capturing Leyna—one of the cult's key members. Double that if she's alive."
My eyes light up. Eight gold! Eight! That's 8,000 silver coins—enough to eat like royalty for a year, buy new armor, new weapons, maybe even… hire someone to teach me how to jump onto rooftops!
But just as I'm starting to dream, the blacksmith throws cold water all over it:
"They say she almost got caught this morning."
My face freezes. That mask with the snake. That pink cloak. That anime-ninja rooftop leap. Oh, God—it was her. And I stood there like a lump of wood. Utter failure.
I'm still drowning in the shame of not being able to jump when the blacksmith speaks again, this time quieter, like he's offering a side quest:
"Or if you help the underground Dwarf settlement east of Tarif kill a Balor—horned like a Minotaur, burning, smells a little burnt—they'll forge you a green mythril sword called the Answerer. Anyone you cut with it has to speak the truth. This quest also has the same prize."
My eyebrows go up. That's solid.
"…and you can control it remotely. No need to hold it."
Wait. No need to hold it?
My eyes light up brighter than before. I turn to Veritas and grab his sleeve: "Let's go! This quest is golden!"
He's about to say something, but I'm already dragging him, pulling him out of the forge, through the market, across grimy alleys, heading east toward Tarif's outskirts. I feel like I've just entered an MMORPG, accepting a side quest to slay an underground boss from a weapon-vendor NPC, and for some reason, I'm ridiculously hyped.
"I'm an adventurer! An adventurer chasing a flying, truth-telling sword!!"
Veritas pulls his cloak back on as it slips, still half-asleep, muttering something like, "Why the hell am I even friends with this guy…"
Behind us, the blacksmith watches us run off and sighs.
"Every time the government puts out a bounty, it's because the monster's too much for the guards to handle. Hope those two make it back alive… If Veritas dies, this whole workshop's done for, and I'm probably out of a job…"
I think going on a quest is gonna be like—bam!—teleport to the scene, just like those Korean action movies: slick, fast, dramatic. Turns out, the moment I step out of Tarif market, it's like walking into a royal wedding. The stone street is as cramped as a construction worker's lunchbox, and people are packed in, moving one step at a time. The air is hot, dusty, and thick with sweat. Veritas and I feel like two fish swimming upstream in a river of dried fish. Every step is a struggle.
"Veri, I can't, I seriously can't take this anymore!" I pant while shoving someone's back. "Let's take a shortcut!"
He doesn't say anything, just shoots me a look like "Nice idea, but I know you too well."
First alley—full of thieves. They're divvying up stolen coin purses like they're playing UNO. The moment they see my face peeking in, they grin. I grin back. And then we all bolt.
Second alley—dead end. I kick the wall at the end and hit it with a thud. It hurts like hell; I nearly cry.
Third alley—oh god, the elf ladies. Tall, beautiful, fragrant like flowers, dresses slit up to the waist, eyes sparkling like they're in a romance movie. The leader sees me and says, "Eastern man, come with us to El'mr. We're in desperate need of… manpower."
I freeze, smiling like a corpse. "Sorry, I still have my ideals and my... purity to protect…"
Veritas yanks my arm and drags me away like a madman. Behind us, the ladies call out, "Come onnnn!"
Fourth alley—drug dealers. The sweet scent in the air makes life feel like a pink fairytale. Veritas cracks his wrist, his eyes icy cold. They back off, and I pull Veritas away before either of us ends up addicted.
Finally, we duck into a tiny pottery shop nestled beside the street. It's filled with jars, bowls, and plates that look like they've fallen out of some ancient dynasty.
I drop down on the floor, breathing hard. "What kind of quest drains you this much before it even starts…"
Veritas stares at a bowl with a smiling cow on it, not even turning around as he asks, "So once you get the Answerer, how exactly are you going to capture Leyna? Slash at her and say, 'Tell the truth'? That sounds a bit… unrealistic."
I reply, completely deadpan, "To earn money. I have to pay the bakers in my two bakeries in the city."
Veritas turns, raising an eyebrow. "Aldo's amylase enzyme costs went up? Or did he halt production?"
I nod miserably. "Yeah, he stopped at the start of the month. But wages can't wait until next month. They live off that money, Veri. Even a day late and their whole family's eating… grass."
He nods sagely, then states, "Hire a taxi."
Taxi, meaning one of those Alibaba-style flying carpet drivers. We find a guy smoking a pipe under a broad bean tree. I wave him over, haggle through five rounds of bargaining, then we're off.
Flying for 15 minutes straight—I don't even get a chance to look around. The city passes underneath like a high-speed slideshow. When we arrive, I hand over 120 silver coins, practically crying inside.
"Why don't you guys offer budget rates for regular folk or freelance questers like me?" I ask, staring up at the sky.
Veritas doesn't even look at me. "Because it's magic. And not everyone knows magic."
I snort, dusting off my coat. "Free market will fix that. One day, every household will have a flying carpet, just like bicycles!"
Then I pull my cloak tighter, take a dramatic breath, and stride into the entrance of the Dwarf underground settlement.
And after three steps, I… crawl right back out.
"Hot like a coal oven… how do Dwarves even live like this?!"
I nearly melt on the spot and have to drag myself into a nearby shop to buy a magically temperature-controlled cloak. It costs a fortune, but worth every coin.
One more thing: a magical oxygen-supply device—small as a clothespin, clip it to your neck and breathe easy.
Veritas stands beside me, totally unfazed, still wearing his old outfit like it's no big deal. That Metaller body of his is literally a living cheat code.
Once I'm fully equipped, I nod, adjust my cloak, attach the device, and open the door back into the Dwarf zone, way cooler now—figuratively and literally.
Just as I approach the steel entrance embedded in the earth, Veritas yanks me back. I almost glare at him, but he just says coldly, "This is an underground city. You think you can just walk in without a guide?"
I frown and glance around. "Why all the fuss?"
Veritas doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out a few silver coins and slips them to a Dwarf wearing a brocade cloak nearby, then turns to me and says, "Wait for them to call the guide."
I groan and lean against the cold dirt wall, grumbling, "Eight gold coins for this quest, and we've already spent two just prepping to fight one Balor. This is exhausting."
Veritas glances at me, his eyes teasing. "We haven't even gotten to the main course. Brace yourself."
I purse my lips. "No wonder adventuring is a broke man's game. After all the expenses, my bakery's profit margin is better than this. This job's only for the passionate, not for serious businessmen like me."
We wait. Five minutes. Ten. Then thirty. I start knocking the wall rhythmically and rambling, "These people don't understand capitalism. No free market mindset at all. They should have express service packages—pay extra and get a guide instantly, get it? If it's a service, you gotta please the customer, not have them waiting like it's a village bus stop!"
Just then, a tall, slender figure appears in the distance. She has copper-red skin, long pointed ears, curled hair tied back neatly, a simple brown cloak, and leather boots.
"Greetings," she says, her voice deep and smooth with a slight ancient ring. "I'm Zayira bint Ruzha, your guide."
What a name—it sounds like a spell. I gape. "Wait, you're not a Dwarf?"
She raises an eyebrow, like I just asked what water is. Veritas chuckles lightly. "She's a Copper Elf. Pointy ears, copper skin, lives underground with the Dwarves."
My jaw drops wider. "An Elf? Living underground? With Dwarves?"
Zayira simply smiles, her eyes flicking to Veritas. "Not all Elves like trees and moonlight."
That glance lingers long enough for my reflexes to kick in—I glance between Zayira and Veritas. Their eyes meet briefly, and I whisper, "She's looking at you kinda weird, huh?"
Veritas ignores me. Classic Veritas.
We follow her a bit further. Near a sunken chamber with a steel door, she stops. "This is as far as I go. That's where you need to be."
Then without waiting for a reply, she turns and vanishes into the stone maze.
I move to step in, and realize—hey, we haven't even needed light magic this whole time. I look up. Above, embedded in the underground city's ceiling, are glowing plants and flowers. Some glow gold, others a soft twilight blue—like miniature upside-down suns. Far off in the corner is a massive mining site, where workers are digging up iron and glimmering blocks of Mythril.
I stare for a moment, kinda impressed. But looking around—other than Zayira… yeah, the women here are a bit too "exotic." Mostly copper elves and Dwarves—short, stocky, weathered faces. I mumble, "I can handle a lot, but a shortage of...good-looking girls is unbearable."