Marcos Vidal Santacruz had landed in many strange places during his years as an archaeologist. Remote sites in Peru, excavations in the middle of the Egyptian desert, that odd village in Spain where everyone looked at him with suspicion because he was "from out of town." But nothing, absolutely NOTHING, had prepared him for this.
Pentos was... well, it was as if someone had taken Constantinople, added architectural steroids, and then left it to ferment for a thousand years with a touch of "mercantile dystopia".
The streets were an organized chaos of merchants shouting in languages his brain recognized but he'd never heard, horse-drawn carts that smelled as if they'd died three days ago (the horses and the carts), stone buildings with red-tiled roofs piled on top of each other in a geometry that defied the laws of civil engineering, and people. Lots and lots of people.
And everyone was looking at him.
"What the hell am I supposed to wear?" Marcos muttered, looking at himself. He was wearing what could only be described as "generic but expensive medieval nobleman's clothing." A dark blue, fine wool tunic with embroidery that definitely wasn't cheap, tight black trousers, knee-high leather boots, and a belt with a buckle that was probably worth more than his first car.
The Supreme Being, the son of a bitch, had at least kept his word not to leave him naked.
But the problem wasn't the clothes.
The problem was that Marcos had no fucking idea exactly where he stood inside Pentos, or where to go, or what to do, or even if the sun was rising or setting because his sense of direction was still absolute shit even with divine power.
"Okay, okay, let's think," he said to himself, ignoring the curious glances of passersby. "I'm in Pentos. Year 297. That means Daenerys is... somewhere? Probably. Or not yet. Or she's already passed."
My sister's a real piece of work, she should have paid more attention to the books.
A merchant drove by pushing a cart full of what looked like spices, shouting something in which Marcos assumed was Bastard Valyrian.
—Fine spices from the East! The best of Pentos! Pepper, saffron, cinnamon!
Marcos blinked.
I had understood every word.
—Wait... do I understand Valyrian? —He murmured in Spanish.
The merchant stopped, looking at him in confusion.
—What language is that, stranger?
Marcos instinctively responded in... Valyrian. Perfect, fluent, as if he had spoken it all his life.
—Excuse me, did I say something strange?
"First you spoke in a strange tongue, now you speak like a noble Pentoshi. Are you from Asshai?" The merchant eyed him suspiciously. "You look odd. Dark eyes and hair, but your skin is lighter than that of the Dothraki, though darker than that of the Andals."
"I'm from… very far away," Marcos replied, deciding that "Argentina" probably wouldn't mean anything here. "Could you tell me where the city center is? Or an inn?"
The merchant pointed vaguely in... a direction.
—Over there, past the Weavers' Square, then turn onto Swordsmiths' Street, continue straight until you reach the red temple, and from there it's easy to find inns.
Marcos nodded confidently.
—Perfect, thank you.
He walked away with determination.
In the completely opposite direction.
Twenty minutes later, Marcos was lost.
Not "a little disoriented." Not "I need a map." I was completely LOST. Lost to the point of being "I could be in another city and not even realize it."
He'd passed what appeared to be the same fish stall three times. Or they were three identical stalls. Or the universe was playing a trick on him. Any of the three options was equally possible.
"Damn it," he muttered, stopping in the middle of a quieter street. "Okay, I need a plan."
A real plan. I can't keep walking around like an idiot.
That's when he felt it.
It wasn't gradual. It was as if someone had opened a floodgate in his mind and an ocean of information had rushed in.
Knowledge.
Magic.
Experience.
Memories of battles I had never fought.
Memories of empires he had never built.
Arcane theories that I had never studied.
Anos Voldigoad's power wasn't just brute force. It was absolute understanding. It was as if every law of the universe had stood before him and said, "Hello, we work for you now."
Marcos staggered, leaning against a wall.
"Holy shit..." he gasped, his forehead covered in sweat. "This is... this is too much..."
Images flashed through his mind at supersonic speed. He saw battle formations of armies that never existed. Administrative systems of kingdoms he had ruled in another life that wasn't his own. Spells, enchantments, rituals, pacts, summonings. Everything was there, organized, cataloged, ready to use.
And most importantly: he understood every concept at a fundamental level.
It wasn't like reading a manual. It was as if I had always known it and was simply remembering.
He took a deep breath.
He closed his eyes.
He concentrated.
And when she opened them, her eyes glowed for a split second with crimson red before returning to normal.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, this is another level."
He extended his hand. He focused his will. And with an ease that should have been impossible, he created a small, floating orb of light. It wasn't fire. It wasn't an ordinary spell. It was pure light, manifested by sheer willpower, violating approximately seventeen laws of thermodynamics in the process.
The orb floated in front of him, glowing softly.
Marcos looked at him with a mixture of fascination and existential terror.
"I can do magic. I can do MAGIC." A smile slowly spread across his face. "Hey, I can do magic, dude."
He closed his fist and the orb disappeared.
But that wasn't all.
I could feel the System.
It was like realizing you had a sixth sense that had simply been switched off your entire life.
Now it was on, pulsing in the periphery of his consciousness, waiting to be activated.
"System," he said aloud, feeling stupid.
Nothing happened.
—...Minecraft?
Neither.
-Inventory?
DING.
Before his eyes, like a hallucination but completely real, a translucent interface appeared. It was exactly like the Minecraft inventory: a 9x3 grid, plus nine additional spaces at the bottom for the hotbar, and one armor slot on the side.
Everything was empty.
"IT CAN'T BE!" Marcos practically shouted, attracting glances from the few passersby on that street.
I'VE GOT THE INVENTORY! I'VE GOT THE FUCKING MINECRAFT INVENTORY!
An elderly woman passing by crossed herself and muttered something about "crazy foreigners" before hurrying off.
Marcos completely ignored its existence. He was too busy touching the air in front of him, where only he could see the interface.
—Let's see... if I have inventory, then that means... —Her eyes lit up—. Creative mode.
DING.
Another interface opened. This time it was the Minecraft creative mode block selection menu. And it wasn't the limited menu from the base version. It was EVERYTHING. Every block, every item, every variant, every version. From basic dirt to the most complex command blocks.
Marcos remained motionless.
He processed what he was seeing.
And then she burst into tears.
It wasn't sad crying. It was crying of pure, absolute, uncontrollable joy.
"Infinite resources," she sobbed. "Unlimited materials. I can do anything. ANYTHING." She wiped away her tears. "I can build an empire. A REAL empire. With infrastructure. With technology. With everything I studied and could never implement because reality was a mess."
He sat down on the ground, right there in the middle of the street, and began to laugh like a maniac.
A city guard approached, looking worried.
—Sir, are you alright?
Marcos looked at him with eyes glassy with tears of happiness.
—I'm perfect, man. I'm absolutely, incredibly, fucking perfect.
The guard decided that this strange foreigner had probably drunk too much Pentoshi wine and left him there.
It took Marcos a full five minutes to calm down.
When he finally stood up, he had an expression of absolute determination.
—Okay. OKAY. Priorities. —She started counting on her fingers—. First: I need a place to stay.
Second: I need information about the current political situation. Third: I need a long-term plan.
Fourth: I need food because I'm starving.
His stomach growled as if to confirm point number four.
—Okay, food first. Maslow's hierarchy of needs applied to fantastic reincarnation.
He looked around. Finally, he noticed that he had arrived in what appeared to be a more prosperous district of the city. The buildings were larger, the streets cleaner, and the people dressed more elegantly.
And at the end of the street, he saw a large building with a sign that had the image of a golden lion.
An inn. An inn that looked expensive, but that didn't matter because Marcos had just realized something crucial.
He opened his inventory.
He selected the block category.
He searched for "Gold Block".
He pressed the mental "get" button.
And in his hand appeared, out of nowhere, a perfectly solid cubic block of pure gold of approximately one cubic meter.
It was heavy. Extremely heavy. But thanks to Anos's power, he held it up as if it were made of foam.
Marcos looked at the block of gold.
Then he looked at the inn.
She smiled.
—I don't think I'm going to have any money problems.
The Golden Lion Inn was, as Marcos suspected, a high-class establishment. The kind of place where wealthy merchants and lesser nobles stayed when visiting Pentos.
The interior was stunning: marble floors, expensive tapestries on the walls, wrought iron chandeliers that probably cost more than a horse, and a general atmosphere of "if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it."
Behind the reception desk stood a burly man with a braided beard and a gold vest who shouted, "I'm the owner and business is booming, thanks for asking."
She looked up when Marcos entered, and her expression changed from neutral to vaguely interested when she noticed the quality clothes the newcomer was wearing.
—Welcome to the Golden Lion, sir. Are you looking for accommodation?
"Yes," Marcos replied in perfect Valyrian, approaching the counter. "I need a room. The best one you have. For an indefinite period of time."
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow.
—Our premium rooms cost five gold dragons per night, sir. They include a private bathroom, meals, and housekeeping service.
Marcos did a quick mental calculation. Five gold dragons. In a medieval fantasy world, that was probably a fortune for ordinary people.
—Perfect. I'll stay at least a month. —He paused—. Do you accept gold bars?
The innkeeper blinked.
—At... a bar?
—Yes. I have ingots. Is that a problem?
"No, it's not a problem. In fact, I prefer pure gold to coins that might be counterfeit." The man seemed genuinely interested now. "How much gold do you have, if you don't mind me asking?"
Marcos smiled.
-Enough.
He reached into his pocket (though he was actually accessing his inventory) and pulled out what looked like a brick-sized gold ingot. It was one of Minecraft's "Gold Ingots," which in this world manifested as roughly half a kilogram of pure gold.
He placed it on the counter with a solid thud.
The innkeeper was left breathless.
"That... that's very high purity gold," he murmured, taking the ingot and examining it with expert eyes.
Where did he get it?
"Family inheritance," Marcos lied without blinking. "I have more from where that came from."
The innkeeper swallowed hard. He was mentally calculating how much money he could make from this strange but seemingly wealthy customer.
—This ingot is worth approximately... one hundred and fifty gold dragons in the current Pentos market.
Marcos did the math. Five dragons a night, for thirty days, was exactly one hundred and fifty dragons.
—Perfect. That ingot will cover a month then.
"With... with pleasure, sir." The innkeeper put the gold away as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "May I ask your name? For the record."
Marcos considered using a fake name. But then he thought: screw it, it's not like anyone here is going to Google me.
—Marcos Vidal. Merchant and researcher of distant lands.
"A pleasure, Mr. Vidal. My name is Lysaro. I am the owner of this establishment." He bowed deeply. "Allow me to show you your room."
The room was, in Marcos' words, "much cooler than I expected."
It had a large four-poster bed, windows with silk curtains, a carved wooden desk, a huge wardrobe, a private bathroom (a private bathroom in a medieval world!) with a bathtub and everything, and a decent view of the main street.
Lysaro had explained to him that the bath worked with a system of pipes that brought water from a nearby aqueduct, and that there were servants who would heat the water if he asked.
"Basic but functional plumbing technology," Marcos muttered after Lysaro left.
Interesting. Pentos is more advanced than I thought.
He threw himself on the bed.
It was comfortable. Surprisingly comfortable for a world without metal springs.
He closed his eyes.
He took a deep breath.
And then, the weight of everything that had happened in the last... hours? Days? Time was confusing when you died and were reborn. It all came crashing down on him like an avalanche.
"I died," he said aloud. "I died after being hit by a plaster Napoleon at an excavation site in Bolivia. And now I'm in another world. In Westeros. Well, Essos, technically. In the Game of Thrones universe. With real magic. And Minecraft Creative. And the power of an anime Demon King."
He stared at the ceiling.
"My mom must be looking for me. Miguel must be explaining to the police that I fell into a hole like an idiot. My apartment in Buenos Aires is gathering dust. My Netflix subscription is still running. My friends must think that..." He felt a lump in his throat. "...My friends must think I'm dead."
Because yes, I did die.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"I'm going to miss them. Don Ángel's pizza. Sunday barbecues. Beers with the guys. The stupid talks about history and archaeology until three in the morning." Another tear fell. "I'll never see them again."
She was allowed to cry for five minutes.
It was five minutes of mourning for his previous life.
And when she finished, she wiped away her tears, sat on the bed, and made a decision.
—Okay. I can't go back. That's clear. But I have a second chance. An incredible second chance, to tell you the truth. And I'd be a son of a bitch to everyone's memory if I wasted it crying.
He stood up.
He walked towards the window.
He looked at Pentos stretching out before him: a chaotic, vibrant city, full of life and probably also full of dangers.
"I come from a family of immigrants," he said softly. "My grandfather came from Spain penniless. My grandmother from Italy with only the clothes on their backs. They built something from scratch in a country that wasn't their own." He smiled. "And I'm a historian. I've studied empires my whole life. I know exactly why they fall. I know what mistakes they make. I know what makes them work and what destroys them."
Her eyes shone with determination.
"I'm going to build something here. Something big. Something that will last. I'm not going to be a pawn in the game of thrones." His smile turned dangerous. "I'm going to change the rules of the game completely."
He opened his mental inventory again.
He looked at all the available resources.
Infinite.
Literally infinite.
"But first," she closed the inventory, "I need information. I need to know exactly where I am in the timeline. I need to know where Daenerys is. Where Drogo is. What's happening in Westeros." She made a mental list. "And I need to learn how not to get lost every time I step outside."
Serious.
The day had been absolutely surreal.
But tomorrow the real work would begin.
Tomorrow he would begin to build his empire.
For now, I had to try the food of this world.
He left his room and went down to the inn's dining room, where the aromas of roast meat, fresh bread, and exotic spices hit him like a punch.
"Well," he murmured as he sat down at a table, "at least the food smells good."
A waitress approached.
—What would you like to order, sir?
Marcos looked at the menu written on a chalkboard on the wall.
—Surprise me. Bring me your best.
The waitress smiled.
—Right away, sir.
While he waited, Marcos observed the dining room. There were several merchants dining, some minor nobles conversing in hushed tones, and a group of guards in a corner laughing loudly.
Nobody paid him any special attention.
Perfect.
He liked to go unnoticed.
For now.
Their food arrived: a huge platter with what looked like herb-roasted lamb, roasted vegetables, warm buttered bread, and a jug of something that smelled like spiced wine.
Marcos took the first bite.
Her eyes widened in shock.
"Holy shit," he muttered with his mouth full. "This is delicious."
He ate like he hadn't eaten in days (technically, he hadn't eaten since he died, so it was true).
When he finished, he paid with a copper coin he had taken from his inventory (Minecraft had several types of materials, including copper) and went back up to his room.
He threw himself onto the bed, satisfied and with a full stomach.
—Day one in another world: complete. I didn't die. I'm not permanently lost. I have a roof over my head and food. —He yawned—. Tomorrow the real adventure begins.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since his death in Bolivia, he slept soundly.
In his dreams, he saw empires.
Empires that he would build with his own hands.
Empires that would last for a thousand years.
And somewhere, far away, a Higher Being and his wife watched through the fabric of reality, betting on how long it would take Marcos to conquer his first kingdom.
Aetheria bet six months.
The Being bet a year.
They were both completely wrong.
It would take them much less time.
[END OF CHAPTER 2]