Interesting dream… or is it?
Usually, when I gain this kind of awareness in a dream, it's a nightmare. Let's test it. I raise my hand and count the fingers — 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Huh. Five fingers. That's strange. In dreams, it's never five. It's always more or less. I clench my fist. I can feel pain.
So it worked. My prayers... to every god I knew. They answered.
My life on Earth wasn't a tragedy. Quite the opposite — it was painfully average. An ordinary IT job. A boring routine. No magic. No monsters. No towers summoning the chosen. No mysterious gates opening in the sky. Just… life.
So I prayed. Not to any one god, but to all of them. I begged for something different. Something more. Something worth living for. Like in those manhwas and web novels. I didn't want to be just another cog in the machine — I wanted to be powerful. An individual standing above the masses.
But how could I ever hope to dream if I couldn't even bend the world to my will? Sure, I can aim for something big, like president. But what chance does a shy introvert like me really have?
Well, whatever… Now that I'm here —
What do we have here?
I'm standing on a stone bridge. The air is fresh and cool, tinged with something unfamiliar. Ahead of me are wooden houses and a few stone buildings. The kind you'd see in fantasy settings. This has to be a village.
By cliché, some stranger should be walking up to me now, ready to guide me toward an inn or a guild.
Someone is coming. It's a man, likely in his thirties. He has greenish hair and looks above average.
What's he going to say?
He looks at me… and walks right past.
Okay then.
Let's find that inn by myself.
I walk down a wide street, eyes scanning for a sign. Sure enough, there it is: a wooden board with a beer mug painted on it. Some writing too — but I can't read it. Still, it seems like a safe guess.
Inside, it's lively. People chat and drink at the tables. There is a bar counter at the back. It kind of reminds me of those old American Western bars.
People talk all around me, but I can't understand a single word. It's not just reading — I can't speak the language either.
Seriously?
How am I supposed to do anything like this?
Frustrated, I step back outside and start walking around the village. Observing.
Smithy. Bakery. A village hall? A small open-air shop selling vegetables. A butcher's shop. Lots of wooden homes. It's rustic but lively.
Everyone I pass is fair-skinned, mostly with red hair. They all look so… lovely. Like idealized versions of Europeans. Not a single person looks average.
Then there's me.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection earlier — still me. My normal, below-average face. The same face some girl back in school once called "ugly" — not the word she used, but the message was clear.
Focus. Focus. No use dwelling on the past.
I continue walking until I reach the edge of the village. A dirt road leads out, flanked by fields — corn on the left, wheat on the right. The corn towers over me, reaching a height of two or three meters. It looks ripe. If I ever get desperate, I could probably sneak some food. Water seems available in the village, too.
I walk about a kilometer. Then, I see a small wooden house. It's even smaller than the village homes. Out front, there's a girl who appears to be around 17 or 18. Bright red hair. Tall. Beautiful.
Everyone here is beautiful; now that I think about it, I haven't seen a single plain face since I got here.
Snap out of it, idiot.
She's boiling something in a pot over a fire — corn, judging by the smell. As I walk along the road nearby, she turns her head and studies me with curiosity in her eyes.
The scent hits me hard. Sweet. Warm. My mouth waters before I realize it, and I almost — almost — drool.