The scent of wild cloves and bitter roots filled the room like boiling memories. Thin wisps of steam from the clay pot formed strange silhouettes that danced in the air, as if trying to tell us something we did not understand.
"Shinna," Rima's voice came from behind the wooden shelf, "bring me three sprigs of Red Ladraan and two buds of Old Sakewa. The buds, not the blooms. And don't you dare mistake their shape again."
I raised my eyebrows. "The Ladraan that looks like octopus tentacles or the ones that look like dead fingers?"
Rima just sighed, then handed me a bundle of dried plants that were bent and dark red like fresh wounds.
Ah, those.
I took out my notebook, which contained more strange scribbles than actual pharmaceutical knowledge. My hands worked—separating, pounding, and mixing.
Rima had entrusted most of the mixing to me lately, either because she believed in my talent... or because she was too lazy to keep an eye on a wild cat like me all the time.
My hand pounds the Old Sakewa bud—the flower trembles momentarily before wilting, leaving a faint purple trace at the bottom of the mortar.
Its raw effect? A mild hallucinogen, a low-level spirit resonance opener. But after being processed with Ladraan and moon water, its effect changes: it becomes a sedative for the wild spirits attached to the patient. In the right dosage, it can ward off nightmares that do not originate from one's own mind.
Or so says the manual written in blood and confidence.
Sometimes I suspect these wizards just call side effects features. "Hallucinations? No, that's a dimensional gateway opener!"
Sure. And the voices in your head are 'curious spirits,' not because you stay up too late scrolling through social media or watching certain things.
But... the effects do work.
I tried it on a possessed squirrel two nights ago. Now it only rambles about walnuts and land taxes. It's more spiritually healthy than half the priests I've ever debated with.
I chuckled, "Don't ask why this stuff works," I muttered into the air as I stirred slowly. "I'm not sure myself whether it's logic or fantasy I'm studying."
Rima turned her head. "Who are you talking to?"
"The remnants of my past."
She chuckled softly, her shoulders rising slightly as if holding back laughter. The movement was slight—almost imperceptible—but enough to make this clay kitchen feel alive.
Rima stepped in another direction. Her deft hands arranged glass jars filled with dried roots, preserved flowers, and powder as shiny as moon dust.
"Have you ever thought, Rima," I asked as I poured the potion into a small glass bottle, "what if someone from the village peeked through the window and saw two strange people boiling roots and talking about 'spirits' and 'the moon'? Are you sure we're still safe?"
Rima's expression didn't change. She scooped powder from a jar, sprinkled it into the pot like pale yellow rain, then looked at me.
"In a place like this, witches aren't myths. They're legends." She bowed her head and began grinding the raw Koru roots with a round stone. "The villagers here fear crop failure more than they fear Church dogma. And the 'church' here... well, it's just an old building that's rarely visited except when someone dies."
Of course. Legends. In a place like this, even mushrooms growing crookedly could be a sign that the mountain spirits were sad.
This village—too far from the city, too high above the sea, and too close to the strange fog that never seemed to completely disappear at the edge of the forest.
Even trade routes are reluctant to stop here. The outside world may be developing, but this place seems to have forgotten that the centuries keep changing.
No wonder belief in spirits and nature grows wild like moss on stone walls. A kind of animism wrapped in daily practices—small rituals before planting, whispers to the well, wild flowers placed on the hearth every night.
They call themselves 'villagers', when in fact they just live in a dimension that is lazy to update.
I think this also answers one question: why the Church didn't just come and sweep everything away with torches and dogma. This place is too remote to bother with. Maybe it was considered conquered, or more likely—deliberately ignored.
Places like this nurture their own beliefs like wounds that are left to dry without being touched. They don't hurt, they don't heal. They just become part of the skin.
And the residents? They aren't aggressive because... well, what's the point?
If your life depends on seasonal rains, not on interpretations of holy scriptures, you will worship anyone who can make the heavens friendly.
"So... we're safe?" I asked again, a little too loudly.
"Safe... as long as you don't turn their goats into fireflies or mention spirits in an operatic tone," Rima replied with a wry smile. "And don't talk too much to the children. They remember silly things."
I nodded, watching Rima's hands pour the solution into the stone mold. The greenish herbal liquid thickened into hard pellets the size of marbles.
The first medicine of the day was finished.
There is something comforting in the momentary silence that follows—the sound of boiling, the warm aroma, the sound of stones rubbing together—all blending together to form a kind of music in our little house. It is not grand magic or soul-stirring adventure.
But sometimes, it is precisely from the boiling roots and whispers of spirits that the world learns to breathe.
An hour passed, and the last bottle containing a greenish liquid that smelled like burnt wood and rotten mushrooms was poured into a clay bottle. Rima closed it, putting them one by one into a basket woven from dry roots. Her hands were deft, as if she had done this a thousand times before.
Meanwhile, I sat cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in a half-worn leather book—more like a high school diary obsessed with gothic horror than medical notes.
"If you're caught fooling around again like last week, or yesterday," said Rima, handing me the basket, "I'll throw you into the Ghaar root decoction alive."
"Relax," I said, taking the basket with one hand and giving a two-fingered salute. "I've resolved to be a model villager who doesn't trade herbs for absurd sex stories in the middle of the market. Again."
She sighed. That meant I had succeeded.
But it also meant she was really alert.
"Make sure you barter for useful items, no more trinkets or old dolls. Winter is coming, Shinna. Your nostalgic items won't be able to withstand the storms from the south, let alone the winds from the Lumbar Sea," added Rima, emphasizing this point. She seemed to want to keep a close eye on me.
Not because she was worried about me, but because she was afraid I might steal something unnecessary. "'Calm down, consider me a crow who is an expert at assessing items.'
Without further conversation, I left the hut while the night air was still biting, but not completely biting. The dew seemed reluctant to fall, as if they were too lazy to welcome winter.
The Metynnis sky was split in two by the moons—Lunara and Stelluna, hanging like two giant eyes silently watching everything.
The path to the core zone of the village of Aethelgard winds up and down, like the spine of a lazy dragon. On either side are towering coniferous trees covered in moss, their leaves piercing the sky and stealing the moonlight. The rocky ground crunches under my feet, providing a faint rhythm in the quiet night.
"Northern Europe... maybe Norway? But a cosmic version that Google Maps has forgotten," I muttered to myself.
If there was an algorithm that could compare this view to Earth, it would surely produce a slideshow full of villages in the Carpathian Mountains, mixed with results from Reddit conspiracy forums about places lost from the map.
The houses here were built close together, their roofs sloping and towering like wizard hats, perhaps to prevent snow from piling up in the winter, which they say can freeze tears before they fall. One architectural mistake, and you'd be buried in snow before you had time to regret it.
Of course, the houses that are slightly separated usually belong to hunters, farmers, or brewers like Rima. That's where the wild world and the human world touch shoulders, but pretend not to know each other.
The community here... how should I put it?
They weren't exactly organized, but they had structure. Like a survivalist community. There weren't many written rules, but everyone knew their role. All for the sake of survival at the edge of the world that even the church was too lazy to visit. I once said to Rima, "I don't think this place is on the church's pastoral list."
He said, "Good, so we don't have to pretend to repent."
In the distance, houses began to peek out from behind the trees, like a group of old creatures waiting for guests with cold breath. I walked down the gravel path and entered the core zone of Aethelgard—the heart of the village that beat almost silently.
Up close, these buildings felt like a vertical forest. Tall, slender, and tightly packed, like a line of protectors leaning on each other's shoulders in weather that was never entirely friendly.
The dark wood was carved with ancient symbols that I did not understand, but Rima said they were markers of homes and ancestors—a kind of balance between the spirit world and the kitchen world.
Small alleys divide the buildings like veins in an old hand, and I walk through them with my head slightly tilted back, admiring how the roofs pierce the night sky like arrows.
The distance between houses is too narrow for two adults to pass without greeting each other. But that is precisely what makes the atmosphere so lively.
The sound of a blacksmith hammering something, the thin smoke from a stove escaping through the gaps in the wooden planks, and the aroma of a mix of dried skin, root soap, and stale bamboo shoot soup filled the air.
I've seen this several times before, but only now am I really paying attention.
And—damn—I'm still amazed.
"At least, this isn't a generic medieval European isekai," I think.
No cheap, grandiose castles. No floating RPG UI. No prince suddenly appearing and asking me to be the royal healer. This world... has flavor.
And somehow, it feels sharp and realistic. Like old pine wood and farmer's sweat.
In the middle of the village stands a communal warehouse—a large wooden building that looks like the belly of the village itself. A place where food, firewood, and useful items come in... and go out. This isn't charity. It's barter. Simple and honest.
You bring something, you take something. No point system, no tickets. Everything is regulated based on need, and sometimes also reputation. Barter system + communal morals + neighborhood gossip = local economy.
Today, my task is to deliver several bottles of herbal sedative, the result of my collaboration with Rima's rough hands. In exchange? Who knows. Sometimes I get ointment, sometimes lard, sometimes a piece of warm knitting with an ambiguous shape.
Once I got some blue wool yarn that somehow triggered nostalgic memories of my childhood, with its smell of medicated oil. I still use it. It's aesthetic.
As I stood there staring at the warehouse, someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder from behind.
"If you stand there too long, people will think you're a new guardian statue," said a hoarse voice mixed with laughter.
I turned my head. Of course. Maertha.
Her face was sunken, her eyes sharp like an owl's, and a thick knitted shawl hung over her shoulders—handmade, of course. Even up close, her knitting still surpassed the e-commerce algorithms that claim to be "personalized for you."
Her basket was empty, which meant she had just exchanged something.
"I'm just... admiring this place," I said, shrugging. "Was your bartering successful this morning, Grandma?"
She chuckled softly, pulling a broad leaf from her waist pouch. "Ragulth leaf. It makes your hands feel like they're burning, but the warmth seeps into your bones."
Ah, I knew that leaf. A mildly poisonous leaf; if used incorrectly, it could cause blisters on the skin. But with the right dosage, it was commonly slipped into gloves or shoes when winter came. Pain as warmth. Classic.
"It will be useful for the coming winter," added Maertha, her eyes sparkling. "More powerful than the stories of the priests."
I chuckled softly.
Of course. Here, pain is more believable than miracles.
I continued walking toward the communal warehouse, crossing narrow alleys that were getting more crowded. This village was never really as "crowded" as a big city, but today there was something in the air—a kind of collective spirit celebrating the hard work that was almost done.
The harvest.
"Hey, Darnel! Don't carry that basket at an angle—you'll crush the mushrooms!"
"Tell Father, I saw five more on the east side of the forest! I didn't have time to trap them!"
"Hey, don't throw the peel there, the wild dogs will eat it!"
The voices fluttered through the air, mingling with the scent of wet earth, wood smoke, and something faintly sweet—perhaps over-fermented fruit.
Along the way, I saw children as tall as clotheslines carrying baskets full of root vegetables or dried mushrooms. Adult men skinned their prey in front of their houses, hanging the skins high like autumn flags. Several old women mixed herbs on the porch, their hands nimble but their eyes sharp, watching who passed by. I received a nod or two of courtesy, and I responded with a minimal smile—my trademark for not wanting to chat, but I'm not a jerk.
According to Rima, we are entering the final phase of the harvest. In the local calendar system called Stellunar, just like the names of the months above, all time calculations are based on the moon's orbit and natural phenomena, not clear and logical numbers.
They harvest. They store. They celebrate.
And for some reason, everything is done based on the moon's orbit and the smell of the soil, not something scientific like... calendar calculations with numbers.
But hey, who am I to protest, if everyone here agrees that the smell of morning dew and the shape of the fog can determine when to store food supplies?
I looked up, staring at the tall buildings that also matched the height of the people here. At 170 cm tall, I had to look up at almost all the adults here, and even some children who had entered their growth spurt.
The average person here stood between 240 and 267 cm tall. And they didn't slouch, they didn't walk awkwardly, they didn't look like basketball players with joint problems.
I once thought this was just a local racial trait, like mountain tribe people with extreme physical adaptations. But after a few months here, and after nearly tripping over high tables multiple times... I began to suspect that this planet's gravity is lower than Earth's.
But hey, I'm no physics expert, just a former science student who once failed an exam because I forgot the unit of air pressure.
I arrived at a small field in front of the communal warehouse. There was a long line of residents, each carrying something: sacks of grain, knitted cloth, pieces of firewood, and even steaming ready-to-eat food. It was a kind of contemporary mutual aid, if "contemporary" means without technology and lots of animal fur.
One of the hunters greeted an old woman in a loud voice,
"This is my catch! The meat is sweet, the muscles are tender! Perfect for the closing celebration!"
"Just don't forget to bring something for the beginning of winter too," replied the grandmother. "Blessings come twice, remember!"
The end-of-summer celebration. The start of winter.
They weren't just storing food, but also rituals and hopes.
I looked up at the sky, which was turning gray. Today was bright enough... if bright meant you could see your own shadow. But at least it wasn't raining.
As far as I've been here, the sun has only come out three times, yesterday being the brightest. I even wanted to write it down manually because—oddly enough—there was no definite calendar.
Rima said I had to learn to read the twin moon rotations—because they were the benchmark for seasons and time. But I still didn't understand why there was no definite numbering system. Even Excel needed dates.
I got in line, sighing deeply. In front of me, people were unloading their harvest onto a large table in front of the warehouse, then chatting briefly with the manager and leaving with something in return. The mechanism was simple, but the queue... was as long as an endless app update.
I started to get a little fun. I observed the details of the sandals of the person in front of me. I counted how many birds flew by. I guessed the age of each person from the wrinkles on their foreheads.
Until finally... the warehouse door opened, and someone came out.
Tall. Well-built. Broad shoulders.
But not just any tall local man. This one was young, clearly not yet middle-aged, but his body was like a combination of Nordic athlete genes and a Greek statue. His clothes were simple—a layered leather jacket—but his eyes were calm.
His smile... None, his lips were flat, and oh, his lips were thick enough to make some of the women in line stand a little straighter.
And, damn it, I know this is cliché, but even I, the queen of rationality, have to admit that those symmetrical shoulders and strong jawline... well, they're pretty distracting.
Oh, shit. I stared. For a long time.
Of course, I'm not the type to be easily tempted just because of symmetrical shoulders and a strong jawline. I have standards. But I'm not made of stone either.
"The village girl's dream," I thought. "And maybe a few widows' too."
"If you're going to propose, at least don't block the entrance," a voice behind me teased.
I turned around to see a young woman with an expression like a cat that had smelled rotten watermelon staring at me sharply.
I responded with a fake smile and entered the warehouse without saying a word.
Personal note: Don't admire handsome men in public without anti-stare magic protection.