Sunlight. Birds chirping. Children laughing in the distance.
It was, objectively, a beautiful day, which made the gaping hole in my torso feel like an even greater inconvenience.
I stood on the edge of a cobbled street, draped in a bright yellow raincoat two sizes too big and at least ten years out of fashion. A gentle breeze played with the hem as people passed by—humans, sure, but also creatures with cat ears, lizard tails, and more fur than I'd ever seen outside of zoos or a certain convention that is en route to a massacre.
For a moment, I genuinely considered the possibility that I'd been kidnapped and placed in a furry convention.
Not hell. Not heaven.
A con. In summer.
And no one had offered me a badge.
However, my beliefs were quickly challenged by my own observation. Their skin, it was different, unlike the artificial fur coats they were saggy, oily, and behaved as if real skin.
I pulled the hood tighter around my head and kept walking, blending into the background like a very confused, very stab-wounded minion. The streets were clean and colourful, lined with stalls selling fruits, fabrics, and trinkets. Everyone seemed busy. Cheerful.
It was almost enough to make me forget the fact that I was bleeding internally.
It was also the fact that I'd been talking to myself for the last ten minutes. "Right," I muttered, pulling the raincoat tighter around me, wincing as something in my ribs shifted unpleasantly. "Either I'm dying, schizophrenic, or turning into Deadpool. Honestly, the last one sounds kind of fun—minus the cancer part."
I ducked into a nearby alleyway, hoping to find some shelter, maybe a clue, maybe a sign that this was just a coma dream from a bad burrito. The cobblestones were slick, uneven, and looked medieval enough to give me a time period—though the architecture screamed 'fantasy RPG starter town.' Neat.
I stopped at a puddle, crouched low, and looked into it.
And there he was.
Messy blond hair, a face that could've been carved by Renaissance artists on a good day, and eyes like dying starlight. But most notably—the armour. Even beneath the raincoat, the faint shimmer of silver-blue plating peeked through. Not shiny. Weathered. Worn. And definitely not from Earth.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
As I watched, a glowing screen shimmered into view above the puddle. Transparent. Glitchy. Text scrolled across it like a video game status screen.
Class: Saber
True Name: Arthur Pendragon
Strength: B+
Endurance: B
Agility: A
Luck: D
Of course. D luck. Because being impaled and thrown into a strange world wasn't bad enough, I had to be unlucky on paper too.
"Awesome," I muttered. "So I'm not just a delusional bum in cosplay. I'm a dead king in a fantasy world. That tracks."
I pressed a hand to my stomach under the coat. The injury was still there, but oddly numb. Like my body had accepted it as a roommate it couldn't evict.
Footsteps interrupted my self-analysis.
Three of them. Boots on stone. I stood slowly, still hidden by the hood.
"Oi," one of them called out. "You lost, sunshine?"
I turned. Three men, clearly not here for small talk. One tall and wiry with a knife already out. The second was built like a sack of potatoes. The third... Well, he looked like he'd lost a bet with fashion.
"I'm good, thanks," I said.
"Doesn't look like it. That coat's hiding something, innit?" Knife Guy grinned. "Bet he's got coin under there."
I considered lying. Running. Maybe just pushing past them.
Then my right hand moved on its own.
I was holding something.
Heavy. Familiar. Invisible.
Excalibur, shrouded by Invisible Air.
The instinct to swing, to end the fight before it started, rose in my blood like fire.
But I wasn't here to kill. Not yet.
I let the sword vanish, releasing it back into whatever weird metaphysical space it came from. Then I shifted into a stance—not a knight's, but something older. Simpler. Balanced.
Kung Fu. Street-ready. Perfect for thugs who thought numbers meant anything.
"You sure you wanna do this?" I asked.
Potato Man stepped forward. "Oh, he's a tough guy."
He swung. Wide arc. Slow. Too slow even—slow to the point I analysed: Left foot planted too early. Right hand telegraphed the jab. He's never fought someone who knows what they're doing.
I slipped inside the swing, hooked my leg behind his, and sent him sprawling into a wall face-first. Fashion Disaster lunged with a broken bottle—I ducked, elbowed him in the gut, then tapped his jaw just right. Down he went.
Knife Guy was smarter. He backed up, wary.
"You're not normal," he muttered.
"Glad you noticed."
He swung anyway.
I caught his wrist, twisted it, and used his momentum to drive him into the alley wall. His head bounced off the stone with a dull thunk.
He slumped.
I crouched beside him.
"I need information," I said calmly. "Someplace where they sell goods under the table."
"Old Man Rom," he gasped. "Slums. Big guy. Ugly."
I nodded. "Thanks."
Then I knocked him out too. One clean hit. No mess.
I rifled through their pockets—mostly junk, a few coins, and a suspicious-looking apple—and walked out of the alley, heading toward the slums.
The city glimmered in the sun.
My chest ached with every step.
But I was alive. Awake. And in a world that clearly didn't know what it had just summoned.
Whoever dropped me here?
They better pick a god and start praying.
***
It seems that no matter where you go, suffering always finds a home.
It wasn't hard to find the slums—just follow the smell of rot and desperation. The hard part was finding this Rom. I spotted a kid loitering nearby and approached quietly.
His head jerked up. Wide eyes. Silent. Suspicious. "Say kid, do you know where a certain Old Man Rom happens to live here?"
"Left from there. Go straight until you smell booze," he muttered, gesturing vaguely down the alley.
"Thanks."
I followed his directions until I found it—a shack, barely standing, stitched together with aged wood and rusted nails. I knocked on the door.
"For a rat…" came a gravelly voice from inside.
What?
…
"For a rat!..." he repeated, more insistent this time.
A password? For this dump?
What is this, some child's fort made of cardboard and ego? I should just knock again.
Knock Knock
"Who the hell—" The door swung open, revealing a giant of a man with a mug only a mother, or maybe a brawl, could love. This must be Rom.
I tossed him a sack of coins, the spoils from earlier. He caught it, tested the weight with a grunt, and quieted down.
"Sorry, old man. I'm new around here, so I don't know the code and all that. Hear me out?"
He looked at me, then at the bag. A pause.
"Get in."
I stepped inside.
"So," he grunted, "whatcha want?"
"Well, some poor man's poison sounds good right about now." I had no idea what they drank in this world. Still trying to piece things together—the written language looked like Greek, but I'd heard Japanese and English too. I'd have to rely on implication and vagueness, letting them make their own inferences until I knew more.
Rom poured me a drink and slid it over. "Best we got."
I took a sip.
Foam. Bitter-sweet like apple cider, but with a burn that clung to the throat. A splash of vodka, maybe. Hard to say.
It'd do.
I leaned back, letting the drink do its work. "So, what's the password?" I asked.
Rom blinked. "Huh?"
"I figure I'll be stopping by again. Not just for the drinks—official business and all." I gave him a knowing smile and some more coins on the table. I'd dealt with gangs and cartels before. Speak their language, and doors open.
"In that case…" Rom cleared his throat and recited:
"For a rat, poison.
For the White Whale, a harpoon.
To the noble dragon, we are—
Shitbags. That's how it is."
Charming.
The first two lines were meaningless to me, but the last stood out. To the noble dragon, we are shitbags. The phrasing had weight. Perspective shaped everything—this was the slums, so "noble dragon" likely meant some lofty, distant figure. Religious, political. Arrogant.
To them, the people here were nothing but filth.
The booze flowed, and Rom and I traded stories. Some mine, some borrowed, some stolen from the life I'd once lived—or perhaps dreamed of.
Knock Knock
The sound cut through our conversation. Rom stood up and shuffled toward the door.
"For a rat—"
"Poison," came a girl's voice—young, confident.
"For the White Whale—"
"A harpoon."
"To the noble dragon, we are—"
"Shitbags."
Rom opened the door.
"Oh! Didn't know you had a guest, Old Man Rom."
The girl at the door grinned like she owned the place. Yellowish-orange hair, sharp eyes that gleamed with mischief, and a stance that said she was one part fox, two parts alley-cat. She barely looked old enough to drink, but the knife she carried didn't care about age limits.
Rom gave a tired grunt. "He's new. Paid proper coin. Doesn't seem too dumb."
"High praise," I said, raising my glass in mock salute.
The girl laughed and stepped inside, giving me a once-over. "You're weird. That coat doesn't suit you."
"Not a fan of banana chic? I'm offended."
Rom groaned and reached for another bottle. "Felt, this is... eh, what was your name again?"
"Arthur." I gave a casual nod. "Just a traveller. Looking to stay alive long enough to figure out where the hell I am."
"Big mood," Felt muttered, hopping up onto a crate like it was a throne. "So, Arthur, traveller... what brings you to this little dump?"
"Same thing that brings most people, I'd wager. Coin, drink, and hopefully answers."
She narrowed her eyes. "Not looking to cause trouble, are you?"
"If I was, I'd have started with that password." I smiled. "Still working on getting it tattooed."
Rom chuckled. Felt didn't. She just studied me, expression unreadable for a second too long.
I let the silence settle, sipping the weird cider vodka again. My eyes flicked toward her coat—short, patched, and suspiciously bulky near the pocket. She caught me looking.
"Eyes up, perv."
"Pardon me. Just admiring the craftsmanship of whatever you may or may not have stolen today."
She bristled slightly. Bingo. For a girl her age, in this dump, there were few things she could do to make a living. Considering she didn't show signs of syphilis and her attitude, he was most likely a thief, her petite figure would allow for it better.
Rom sighed. "Felt, don't start."
"Hey, I didn't start anything. Just picked up a shiny thing someone else dropped. Plus, a client's paying big coins for this, it even has a jewel in it." She trusts the old man that was a given.
I leaned back against a support beam, letting my head loll like I was drunker than I really was. "You know," I said lazily, "where I'm from, taking stuff from the wrong people tends to bring a world of hurt."
"What, you think I can't handle myself?" Felt scoffed. "I've been running these streets since before you learned to walk."
"Not saying you can't. Just saying... sometimes, the storm's bigger than you expect. Especially, since, you were hired to steal something precious, meaning the other party wants to keep their name clean in this case. From what I see, this just got political."
A new tension crept into the shack, subtle but sharp. Felt leaned forward, taking a sip of her milk. We didn't get to explore the topic any further—because the door exploded inward.
Literally.
The wind slammed it open with magical force, and standing there in a swirl of light and fury was a silver-haired girl in white, eyes blazing like winter stars. A lesser person might have called her beautiful. I saw a loaded crossbow of mana ready to snap.
"You have something that belongs to me," she said, voice icy. "Give it back."
Looking at her and Felt, I wonder what this feeling of deja vu is.