Two hours of walking felt like two years.
John's feet screamed in protest with every step. His hands were raw from gripping the leather reins. Sweat soaked through his rough tunic, and he was pretty sure he'd developed at least three new blisters. The horses plodded along with the kind of steady indifference that suggested they'd done this route a thousand times, which meant John was probably the least experienced member of this expedition, including the animals.
The younger kid beside him had stopped making eye contact entirely, probably afraid that John's stupidity was contagious. The older volunteer just stared straight ahead with the expression of someone who'd learned long ago that hope was a luxury.
Behind them, the carriage rolled smoothly along, cushioned springs absorbing every bump in the road while John felt every single pebble through his thin boots.
Finally, mercifully, a voice rang out from inside the carriage.
"Stop."
John had never been so grateful to hear a single word in his entire life. He pulled on the reins, and the horses halted immediately, better trained than he could ever hope to be.
The carriage door swung open, and the young lord emerged, stretching languidly like a cat. His golden yellow jacket caught the sunlight, and for a moment he looked almost ethereal, like something out of a painting. Then he opened his mouth.
"You. The stupid one who can't kneel properly." (DAMN!)
John's heart sank. That was definitely him.
"Find me a sturdy stick. Nothing flimsy. It needs to draw clearly in the dirt."
A stick. The young lord wanted a stick. John could handle that. Sticks he understood. He'd spent enough time alone in parks back in Japan to be intimately familiar with stick quality assessment. (nerdddddddddd)
He stumbled off toward the tree line, his legs barely functioning after two hours of walking. After a minute of searching, he found a good candidate, a fallen branch about as thick as his thumb, relatively straight, with one end that tapered to a point.
He brought it back, holding it out with both hands like he was presenting a sacred relic.
The young lord snatched it without acknowledgment and moved to a patch of clear dirt beside the road.
John watched, fascinated despite his exhaustion, as the lord crouched down and began to draw.
Oh. Oh.
John's mind lit up with recognition. This was it. This was magic. Real, actual magic, happening right in front of him. And it required drawing symbols in the dirt, which meant this world had a sigil based magic system, like Fullmetal Alchemist or maybe The Ancient Magus Bride. That was so cool. Sure, it seemed time consuming, having to draw out complex geometric patterns every time you wanted to cast a spell, but the visual component was incredibly anime and the tactical implications were fascinating. It meant magic users needed preparation time, which meant combat would favor quick thinking and pre drawn arrays, which meant there was probably a whole subset of magical items with pre inscribed sigils for emergency use.
The young lord's hand moved with practiced ease, etching lines into the packed dirt.
First, a circle. Simple, clean, about two feet in diameter.
Then another circle inside it, smaller, concentric.
Finally, a cross, two perpendicular lines intersecting at the center point.
That was it. No complex geometric patterns. No intricate runes or flowing script. Just two circles and a cross.
Seemed almost too simple, honestly. Like a beginner's spell or maybe a basic utility function. Nothing like the elaborate transmutation circles from Fullmetal Alchemist with their dense symbolic language and layered meanings.
The young lord placed his hand flat in the center of the inner circle.
Reality rippled.
The air above the drawn symbol shimmered like heat haze, and then the ground simply opened. Not violently, not with dramatic flair. It just opened, like a door swinging inward, revealing a space that absolutely should not exist.
A pocket dimension.
Right there in the dirt.
John's jaw dropped. The physics defying implications alone were staggering. A stable dimensional pocket accessed through a simple drawn sigil meant that spatial magic was not only possible but apparently common enough that a young noble could do it casually. Which raised questions about storage, transportation, warfare applications, and whether there were size limits or weight restrictions or if you could theoretically store anything.
The young lord crouched at the edge of the impossible opening and reached inside, rummaging around like he was digging through a closet. John caught glimpses of the space beyond, shadows and shapes that his brain couldn't quite process.
Then the lord pulled out a sword.
Even from several feet away, John could tell it was expensive. The blade caught the light beautifully, clearly well maintained, probably some kind of high carbon steel or maybe even a fantasy metal he didn't have a name for yet. But what really caught his attention was the hilt.
It was elaborate, ornate, with a cross guard that swept up in exaggerated curves and a grip that seemed almost too long, wrapped in what looked like fine leather or maybe silk. The pommel was oversized, decorative, the kind of thing that looked impressive but seemed completely impractical.
John frowned. That was weird. The hilt design looked like it would throw off the balance completely, make the sword unwieldy and awkward to use in actual combat. Had the author not done their research? Did they just design a cool looking sword without considering functionality?
But then the young lord stood, gripping the sword, and John saw how he held it.
Both hands. The grip was designed for both hands.
Oh.
Oh, that was actually smart. The elongated grip wasn't a design flaw, it was intentional, meant to accommodate a two handed fighting style which would give better control and more power behind each strike. The oversized pommel would act as a counterweight, and those elaborate cross guards would provide hand protection during extended combat. It was actually a really well thought out design that balanced form and function.
John felt a surge of respect for whoever had created this world. They'd clearly done their homework on medieval weaponry. The attention to detail was genuinely impressive.
"You know," John said, unable to contain his enthusiasm, "that's actually a really well designed longsword. A lot of fantasy settings just slap ornate hilts on their swords without considering weight distribution or grip dynamics, but that's clearly built for proper two handed technique. The pommel counterbalances the blade weight, and the grip length allows for variable hand positioning depending on whether you're doing a thrust or a cut, plus those cross guards would catch an opponent's blade in a bind, which suggests this world's combat system accounts for actual medieval sword fighting techniques rather than just anime style slash attacks. Really solid worldbuilding. I'm actually impressed by the level of research that went into...."
The sword hilt cracked across his face.
Not the blade. The lord had twisted the weapon and struck him with the pommel (for the idiots a pomell is like the sword equivalent of the butt of a gun), that carefully designed counterweight that John had just been praising, right across his cheekbone.
Pain exploded through John's skull. He staggered, his vision going sparkly, tasting blood again, his third or fourth time today, he'd lost count.
"Did I ask for your opinion, worm?" The young lord's voice dripped with contempt. "Did I grant you permission to speak? To spew your idiotic observations about things you couldn't possibly understand?"
John hit the ground, his hands instinctively coming up to protect his face. His cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he was pretty sure something was swelling rapidly.
"I should cut out your tongue for your insolence. The only reason I don't is because you're still useful for carrying things."
Through the ringing in his ears, John heard the young lord turn away, boots crunching on gravel.
"Get up. We're continuing."
John lay there for a moment, dirt pressing against his other cheek, the one that didn't feel like it had been hit with a decorative pommel. His body hurt. His pride hurt worse.
This isekai sucked.