"How do you escape a world that's safe, yet feels like a cage you can't see?"
Three months. That's how long he'd been in this world — a third of a year, here, a year only had nine months, each stretched to forty days.
He hadn't decided if that made time move faster or slower.
His grasp of the local tongue had improved… somewhat. He spoke like a toddler who'd just discovered words, and read like a bored fifth grader. Still, it was progress. His old handbook — the one written in that elegant, impossible script — had become his lifeline. Each word felt sacred, layered with meaning, as if the language itself were alive. Whoever had written it must have been a genius, or a god.
Life here had settled into a rhythm. He'd wake to sunlight spilling through the window, the air crisp and cold. If he tried to sleep in, Paul had his own way of dealing with that — a splash of icy water straight to the face. Effective. Cruel. Unnecessary.
Breakfast was Guineahare meat and berries again. Not bad, but not rice either. He'd kill for a bowl of miso soup, or the click of a rice cooker. Did rice even exist here?
Then came the morning run. The mountain air bit at his lungs, the landscape almost too beautiful to look at. He ran because Paul said it would clear his mind, but it never did. His thoughts just chased each other in circles.
When Paul left for town, Tatsuya studied until his head throbbed. The Deity's language wasn't impossibly hard — just relentlessly strange. Meanwhile, Paul's voice echoed faintly in his memory: "You'll get it eventually." Maybe.
Sometimes Paul dragged him on hunts. The Guineahares seemed to mock him, darting away the moment he drew his bow. Paul would smile, patient and calm. "Patience," he'd say. Easy for him — the man never missed.
Up here, the only other creatures were mountain goats. Paul always waved them off. "Not worth the effort." Their milk, though, tasted surprisingly close to cow's. One small comfort, at least.
The only true luxury was the hot spring nearby. The water shimmered like glass, the steam rising in soft curls. For a while, sitting there, he could almost forget everything. It reminded him of the public baths back home — the laughter, the clatter, the warmth.
But when he stepped out again, reality always waited.
The cold returned. The silence pressed in.
No warmth, no routine, no fleeting comfort could fill that empty space inside him.
part 2
"Meow, meow" Tatsuya heard.
Sitting on a desk reading a book.
A cat like creature jumped up on the desk and nuzzles against Tatsuya's head.
Its fur is primarily tan or light brown with darker brown or gray stripes. The cat's eyes are a striking green, standing out vividly against its fur.
raised, ears perked up, and the three tails held out behind it in a curve.
It's called a Bastek cat, named after the beast-volk, cat breed god. Bastet.
His trusty old book wasn't the only one in the cottage. Shelves and stacks held volumes on history, myths, and even fairy tales. Maybe Paul had a soft spot for legends—or maybe he just liked clutter.
Tatsuya hadn't chosen to study most of it willingly. Paul had practically forced him to open the books. Studying history was… fine, but why did it matter? What did Paul hope he'd learn from it? He didn't ask—it was easier to catalog the man's actions than confront the unease gnawing at his gut.
They had lived together for three months, yet Tatsuya still didn't trust him.
"I'll be going to town again," came Paul's voice from the doorway.
The man stood there, calm and composed, carrying his usual package.
"You'll be fine by yourself?" Paul asked, in that quiet, almost parental tone.
"Yes, you don't have to worry," Tatsuya said, forcing a casual edge. "I won't set the house on fire."
Paul smiled softly, nodded, and left without another word. He always checked on him before leaving.
Tatsuya shoved his book and other things aside and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket—a crude "escape plan."
He thought briefly about the state of his clothes. They were dirty and worn. Paul had washed them once, but that hadn't helped much. No washing machine existed here… or so he assumed. He could ask for new clothes, maybe, but that would get him closer to Paul than he wanted. Focus first. Survival first.
He unfolded the paper and studied it. Every day, the church bell rang twice at midday, marking when the sun was directly overhead. At that time, Paul left for town. It was the window Tatsuya had been waiting for, watching, planning.
Despite living in a world of magic, Paul's life was surprisingly ordinary. No grand spellcasting, no dramatic heroics—just the steady rhythm of someone deeply attuned to the mountains.
Each morning, around sunrise, Paul nudged him awake. He spoke little, just a quiet pat on the shoulder. His presence was warm, like a hearth that had always been burning. Tatsuya sometimes wondered if warmth like that could be dangerous—if leaning on it too much would make leaving impossible.
He cataloged every move: how Paul checked traps, stacked firewood, repaired the roof. Each act of care felt measured, almost rehearsed. Was it wisdom—or a trap? Tatsuya couldn't be sure.
Even when Paul went to town, Tatsuya's eyes followed his every step. He noted each turn, each pause, each slight adjustment. What if Paul wasn't as harmless as he seemed? What if the quiet gestures, the small kindnesses, were just another way to keep him tethered?
When the traps were empty, Paul would call him, and together they hunted the Guineahare. Tatsuya watched him move with effortless skill—axe in hand, precise and controlled. Magic barely seemed necessary, except for the Speed Dragon encounter, which had been so fast, so flawless, Tatsuya hadn't even been sure what he had seen.
Paul fetched water from the river afterward, sometimes wandering to the cliffs where the mountain goats grazed. He returned, always measured, always calm, every movement seeming deliberate. Too deliberate. Unnervingly so.
Sometimes Tatsuya forgot he was in a fantasy world. Paul's quiet discipline, his natural grace, made the boy feel small. Invisible. Replaceable.
After their morning routines, Paul went into town. He said little about it, and Tatsuya didn't press. Occasionally, Paul returned with supplies: flour, fabric, herbs. Other times, he returned empty-handed, smiling faintly as if a fleeting encounter in town had been worth the trip. Every gesture became a riddle, and Tatsuya cataloged them all, searching for meaning.
Paul was a man of few words, but each one seemed to carry weight. The routine itself was comforting in a strange way, predictable almost to a fault. He knew when Paul would leave, how long he'd be gone, the paths he'd take. Every detail became part of Tatsuya's mental map, each observation another piece of his escape plan.
Evenings were peaceful. Paul would climb a ridge to watch the sunset, silhouetted against blazing orange and purple skies. Tatsuya never joined him. He watched from the cabin, cataloging, memorizing, feeling a cold clarity in the observation. In that lens, he felt in control, even as the rest of his life felt like a trap.
"What do you think about when you're out there?" he had asked once.
"The day," Paul had replied. "What I did right. What I could do better. What I'm grateful for. It's important to reflect. Otherwise, the days slip by before you know it."
Watching him, Tatsuya realized Paul wasn't just living in the mountains—he belonged there. Every careful, deliberate action was a guide, a reminder: Tatsuya didn't belong. Not here. Not yet.
He couldn't leave, not until he understood, not until every detail was memorized, every path mapped, every weakness noted. One misstep, one unknown hazard, and the mountains could swallow him whole.
So he watched. He waited. And all the while, a quiet plan took shape, hidden beneath layers of observation and longing.
Despite the small comforts—the meals, the routine, Loki's presence—Tatsuya's resolve never wavered. Paul's patience, his reliability, even his kindness, were all weapons in disguise, Tatsuya reminded himself. One day, when the bell tolled twice at midday, when Paul's back was turned, he would move.
He didn't know exactly how yet. But he would.
part 3
In the end, his grand escape plan boiled down to something surprisingly simple: sneak away when Paul made his trip to town. Just quietly slipping away, unnoticed, while Paul's back was turned.
It wasn't a flawless plan. It wasn't even a good one. The biggest obstacle was laughably obvious: he had no idea where the town even was.
Wandering aimlessly in the wilderness would certainly end with him starving, lost, or becoming a particularly unlucky monster snack. And Paul's vague advice hadn't helped much. Safe, as long as you don't enter their territory. Easy words—if you actually knew what a Speed Dragon's territory looked like. For Tatsuya, the whole mountain range was nothing but teeth waiting to close. Who knew what other monsters lurked besides them?
Every hunt, every morning run, he tried to scout, piecing together a crude map in his head. Game trails, broken branches, even a goat track that seemed promising—only to lead him back into endless trees. Civilization was out there. He just couldn't reach it.
He slammed his book shut. "Ugh, this is impossible…"
"Meow."
Loki jumped onto the desk, her three tails flicking. "…Hey. I can trust you, right?" He stroked her fur. Back home, he'd never had a pet. Here, she pressed her warmth into his hand, choosing him in a way that made his chest tighten.
Maybe he'd take her. Maybe. But then he pictured her shivering, starving if he failed—or worse, hunted while he stumbled through the woods. He clenched his jaw and pushed the thought away.
Loki purred softly, leaning against him. For a moment, it felt like an anchor holding him in place. But anchors dragged you down too.
The cabin was silent. He stared at the ceiling beams, each bell from the church outside a reminder that time moved on while he stayed trapped. Like an insect preserved in amber.
His eyes drooped. He rubbed them, trying to force focus on the map and notes sprawled across the desk. But exhaustion clawed at him, heavier than any mountain or monster he'd faced.
One day, he'd run—when Paul's back was turned, when the bell tolled twice, when the shadows were kind. He had to.
But for now… his head fell forward onto the open book, he drifted off, it wasn't into peace. It was into a restless, buzzing slumber—a mind still racing with escape plans, maps, and the ever-watchful presence of Paul.
Tomorrow, he would wake. Tomorrow, he would act—or at least try.