Jun opened his eyes, the memory of his near-death was a chilling, recent sensation. He pressed a hand to his forehead, recalling the terrifying spectacle of his inevitable demise_ a horrifying ordeal he should not have escaped.
He had faced an impossible situation, yet now, instead of the cold numbness of death, he was inhaling the soft, familiar scent of woodsmoke and old fabric. A thought surfaced in his head, 'I'm still alive?' as he took a deep, clean breath the first one in this world that felt untainted by a heavy, metallic air.
The ruins were gone. His surroundings had shifted to a small, wooden room. Through the tiny, light-seeping window, he could vaguely make out the silhouette of a quiet, unassuming town outside.
Just then, the door creaked open, and a man named Bander Walcroft entered. Roughly fifty-one, with a sturdy build and a face etched with thick lines and a full beard, Bander's gaze held a mix of concern and simple friendliness.
"You're awake, lad?" Bander said, his voice rough but kind. "I figured I shouldn't leave you out there... brought you inside. You clearly aren't from around here."
Jun slowly sat up and instinctively checked his body.
Astonishing. There wasn't a speck of injury. The gaping wound on his right thigh, inflicted by the shadowy fiend, was gone. The shoulder that the gaunt monster had savaged was now flawless.
Jun had fully expected to be consumed, yet he had woken up completely healed, just like the time he had been struck by the terrifying scarlet eyes. This bizarre, repeated recovery left him utterly astonished.
As Jun internally wrestled with the inexplicable mystery, Bander continued.
"I'm Bander Walcroft. I've lived in this town with my family for a long time. I found you passed out by the riverbank last night while fishing. You had no injuries, but your breathing was dangerously rapid. I figured I'd bring you home to rest."
Jun spoke softly, his voice still shaky. "Th-thank you... and I... I'm not from here, and I don't know the local terms... I mean"
"It's alright, lad," Bander interrupted gently. "Just call me Mr. Bander.''
"Yes, Mr. Bander... and where exactly is this place?"
Before Jun could voice the hunger of his curiosity, Bander politely supplied the answer. "This is a small town called 'Mistveil'. It's a quiet settlement near the Western Border. A fair distance from the main Central Empire [Nadian Empire]. Why?... Where are you from?"
Jun replied without hesitation
"Actually...I don't even know where I'm from.''
Bander asked again
"Did you lose your memories?"
Jun gave a barely perceptible shrug, his gaze distant as he finally offered a hesitant answer.
"Perhaps."
In truth, Jun was deliberately concealing the fact that he had transmigrated from another world, fearing his revelation would be viewed as strange and unbelievable.
Bander, seeing the lost look in Jun's eyes, and he offered.
"If you have nowhere to go, lad, you can stay here for a while."
Jun's tense shoulders relaxed slightly. He quickly responded with polite gratitude.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Bander."
Mr. Bander's attire was typical of a seasoned local: an inner tunic of coarse, dingy brown linen was covered by a heavy black leather vest. This thick leather served as protection against Mistveil's damp, cold climate.
His rough leather belt, securing his thick wool trousers, held a small hunting knife. His thick beard and long, slightly oiled hair clearly marked him as a tough laborer_ someone accustomed to the hard work of fishing and hunting outside the town's perimeter.
Jun fixed his gaze on Bander. "Then, Mr. Bander... when you found me, were there any thick grey mists around me? Or any strange, terrifying monsters?"
Bander furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about, lad? I found you right by the river. Grey mists? None of that. Just the usual river mist. As for monsters, those are just old wives' tales we tell the children."
Jun looked at his body again. 'Were those terrifying events all just illusions in my mind? Or was it some kind of temporal or spatial displacement?'
"Then, Mr. Bander... is there a forest nearby that holds an ancient ruin?"
"A forest? There is a small wood not far from town where the Scouters occasionally patrol. But no ancient ruin like you speak of, lad."
Bander's words intensified the questions swirling in Jun's mind regarding his ordeal.
He then noticed the complete change in his clothing. His modern garments were gone, replaced by the threads of this world, thanks to Bander Walcroft.
He was wearing a simple off-white linen shirt woven from natural, coarse cotton. The long sleeves puffed slightly below the shoulders and were gathered at the wrists with tight cuffs_ a medieval design focused on comfort and freedom of movement rather than aesthetics.
The neckline was a simple V bent-neck with a subtle stitch at the placket, a common style for hardworking locals like Bander.
His trousers were thick and rough, charcoal gray or dark brown, tucked neatly into a high-waist. Most notably, a double-layered, heavy dark-brown leather belt cinched his waist, featuring a complex metallic buckle. Two tiny leather pouches, used for coins or medicinal herbs, were attached to the belt.
Jun, now sitting on a dark, rough wooden chair, examined the clothes, his thoughts echoing the realization that his original world was indeed far away.
"By the way, Mr. Bander," Jun finally asked, looking at the tunic. "What happened to my original clothes?"
Bander looked up from mending a piece of linen. "You mean the long trousers you were wearing by the river? They were completely tattered. I burned them. They looked too tight, and I worried they weren't comfortable. What you're wearing now is what the locals wear. Doesn't look bad on you, actually." Bander chuckled.
Jun felt the coarse texture of the linen and the thickness of the leather belt. He recalled the copious blood that must have stained his original windbreaker and undershirt.
"Then... where are the clothes I wore on my upper body, Mr. Bander?"
Bander stopped his work. "When I found you, you were only wearing those long, strange trousers. Your upper body was bare, and you were unconscious."
Bander's response was unsettling, yet it offered a strange comfort: at least he wasn't lying in a pool of blood, inviting unnecessary scrutiny.
Jun sat rigid on the chair, his body slightly leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly over his knees_ not a position of rest, but of a soldier bracing for the next fight. His face was calm, but his eyes, staring straight ahead, were seeing a constant playback of the bizarre events that had brought him here.
Suddenly, the word "Scouter" from Bander's earlier mention snapped him out of his reverie. He shot up from the chair and strode quickly toward Bander.
"Mr. Bander... I"
Bander, who was busy ladling a scoop of warm stew into a wooden bowl, cut him off.
"Lad, I know you have many questions right now, but you look starved. You haven't eaten, have you? This is my 'Mistveil Stew.' Don't worry about the whispers of Black Soot from the machines; everyone in town eats it. Eat until you're full... then you can ask all the questions you want."
Bander extended the bowl of steaming stew to Jun.
Jun was indeed desperately hungry, though his mind had been too preoccupied to register it. At Bander's words, a loud, embarrassing 'Grumble!' erupted from his stomach.
Jun took the bowl and prepared to eat.
He walked to the small table near the hearth. The table was made of thick, roughly assembled wooden blocks. Its surface wasn't smooth, scarred by knife marks and burn spots, and stained dark by years of spills and the omnipresent Black Soot. It was clearly a piece of furniture meant only for survival and simplicity. The benches and stools surrounding it were equally rugged, reflecting the unpretentious life of Mistveil's inhabitants.
He took a deep breath, letting the savory aroma of the stew fill his nostrils, a scent that carried a faint, nostalgic echo of his mother's home cooking. He looked down at the bowl.
The stew possessed an inviting Amber Hue, a mix of Golden Brown and Deep Plum, suggesting a rich, long-simmered broth rather than a thin soup. Golden oil droplets shimmered beautifully on the surface.
The initial aroma was a blend of fresh woodsmoke and earthy notes, followed by the warming scent of strong herbs and rich meat. It was a robust smell, a nourishing meal meant to combat the Mistveil cold.
Bander's stew was a compilation of the best the local area had to offer: lean cubes of game meat (rabbit or deer), evenly cut and tender from hours of cooking. They had a darkened outer layer and a faintly pink, appetizing interior. Roughly chopped turnips and red beets gave the stew its thickness and a sweet, earthy depth. Dark grains or barley added to the hearty, starchy texture. A sprinkle of pale green herbs topped the bowl, a final touch that showed Bander's care even in this grim era.
Jun inhaled the steam, an ancient, comforting warmth rising from the wooden bowl. It was the first luxury he would afford himself in this new, harsh world_ a meal for survival.