That was the first thing that struck him—not how he arrived, but that he was already there.
One heartbeat he expected something to go wrong. The next, the ground was solid beneath his feet.
He inhaled sharply.
The air was cool. It filled his chest easily, without resistance, without discomfort.
He didn't move for several seconds.
Then, slowly, he looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
Not violently—just enough to betray what he was holding back. He clenched them into fists and released them again, grounding himself in the simple fact that they obeyed him. That his body was intact.
"where am I.....," he said under his breath.
The words sounded strange in the open air, too exposed. He swallowed and didn't repeat them.
He knew why this had happened.
That much was clear.
He had used the Trade Contract's travel function.
A chance. Just for a better chance.
That was all he'd asked for.
He lifted his head and looked around.
A dirt road stretched ahead, uneven and worn by countless passings. Trees lined both sides—tall, quiet, their leaves shifting gently in the breeze.
Life, continuing.
His heart eased by a fraction.
He reached instinctively toward his chest, fingers brushing against the pendant beneath his clothes. It was there. Solid. Unchanged.
The familiar weight steadied him more than he expected.
He adjusted the strap of the satchel at his side. It felt lighter than it was supposed to, because he had made it so.
He hadn't known what crossing worlds might do to a person, or things on them, Carrying less on person and more in the miraculous inventory had been one of the few decisions he made after trying it once.
It was part of the preparation he had made for the unknown.
He took his first step forward.
Not quickly. Not aimlessly either. Each step was deliberate, paced to keep his thoughts from spiraling. He focused on small, ordinary details—the way the light filtered through the trees, the faint smell of earth, the dirt road beneath that suggested people existed somewhere ahead.
The trees began to thin.
A wooden signpost stood beside the road, its surface weathered and carved with symbols he didn't recognize.
He slowed, then stopped in front of it, staring.
The markings made no sense to him.
Just unfamiliar lines carved by unfamiliar hands, pointing toward places he could not name.
For a moment fear came full force, if he can't understand what is written, would he understand what others talk? how would he ask?, if they didn't understand him what would he do?.
He closed his eyes briefly.
For a moment, the forest faded, replaced by a small, quiet room. The sound of uneven breathing. The warmth of a child's hand wrapped around his finger. He didn't let himself linger—he'd learned the cost of that—but the image anchored him all the same.
"I'm choosing it because it's still possible."
he whispered, so softly the trees couldn't hear.
He opened his eyes.
Stone walls came into view ahead, low but thick. Beyond them, smoke drifting upward. Movement. Voices.
A village or something?.
His chest tightened—not with relief, but with the weight of what came next.
People meant questions. Questions meant false explanations which they might not even understand. Identity. Money. Rules he didn't know yet.
Still, it also meant something else.
Options.
He approached the gate at a measured pace.
Two men stood near it, spears resting loosely against their shoulders.
Guards.
One of them noticed him and straightened, eyes sweeping over his clothes, his satchel, his face.
"Purpose?" the man asked.
The word landed cleanly.
His steps faltered for half a second.
He understood it. Instantly.
It was the same as the slovarian he knew.
Questions surged up at once—how, why, —but he crushed them down just as quickly.
This was not the moment. Whatever strange logic it was, he could not afford to stand frozen in front of armed men while he had more pressing matters.
He answered before the guard asked again.
"Work," he said. His voice sounded steady enough. After a moment, he added, "And information."
The guard studied him for another breath, then nodded and stepped aside, already losing interest.
That was it.
No follow-up.
No name.
No demand for proof.
He took two steps forward before realizing he had been holding his breath.
Inside, the settlement widened into a central path that functioned as a street. Stalls leaned beneath cloth awnings. People moved with practiced ease, brushing past one another without ceremony.
Weapons were everywhere.
Not drawn. Just present.
A man adjusted the strap of a sword at his waist while arguing over prices. A woman passed with a staff taller than herself, the wood darkened by long use. Someone laughed as they hauled a pack that clinked faintly with metal.
Civilians?Scouts?Or something close to it?.
His pace slowed—barely.
A flicker of light sparked near the far end of the street.
His eyes followed it without conscious thought.
The conversation he'd been half-listening to unraveled halfway through.
…what was that?
Then he moved again.
A stall owner mistook his pause for interest and spoke to him. The exchange was short—prices, gestures, a shake of the head.
Nothing unusual.
Then another interaction. And another.
Only after several did it register.
No one asked who he was.
No one demanded explanation.
No one cared.
He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders loosening by a fraction.
Why…?The thought surfaced—and was cut off.
Not now.
He adjusted the satchel at his side. Jewellery remained stored away, untouched in inventory. Enough to trade once he understood the rules here. After that—food. Shelter. Time.
Questions could wait.
He stood at the edge of the street and let the noise move around him.
For now, this place allowed him to exist.
That was enough.
Three days passed.
Not quickly, but without incident.
He had learned the shape of the settlement in fragments—what streets led where, which stalls returned fair prices and which did not.
He sold half the jewelry he had brought with him, one piece at a time,at different place if possible, careful not to draw attention.
Whether the exchange had been fair, he couldn't tell. Coins were coins.
What mattered was that they were accepted.
This world was different than his own.
Kings were spoken awe and wonder. Nobles existed not as abstractions but as people whose names carried weight.
And magic—magic was real, visible, discussed openly, yet held at a distance.
He asked, cautiously, about learning magic.
The answers were consistent.
Years of study. Talent. Guidance. Patience.
None of which he had.
Time, especially.
What he did hear—again and again—were stories about dungeons and adventurer, people who were like mercenary, or maybe hired worker?.
Dungeon, places where relics surfaced.
Old magic, forgotten things. Dangerous, unpredictable, lethal to the weak. The sort of places sensible people avoided and desperate people sought out anyway.
That decided it
The request board stood near the town's administrative building—wooden, broad, layered with parchment. Some were fresh, some yellowed at the corners.
Escort jobs, monster sightings, retrieval requests written in hurried hands.
He stood there longer than he meant to.
This was where people like them came, as well as people who carried weapons openly, people who treated danger as work.
He counted his coins twice before speaking to the clerk.
The offer was simple:
Escort and dungeon exploration. Shared spoils waived. Payment half upfront half upon return, the payment was submitted to the clerk.
The amount made the clerk glance up.
"Passing through?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The parchment was accepted. Pinned.
Another paper among many.
He waited for a while then went back to the inn.
From then on, he would go to the notice board daily, to check whether his request has been taken.
At one time there was a group who ready to take the request, but the size of the group was big and they felt too dangerous, at that time he ended up cowering out, later he realised that anyone going to a place like dungeon won't be normal , so he decided to accept no matter who came next.
It was almost a week later that a new group came to accept his request.
It was a group of three, a young girl with a staff, purple hair and purple eyes, a young boy with an axe like weapon , spiky red-black hair and orange eyes and another younger kid with white hair,green eyes and pointy ears.
He noticed the pointed ears for half a second longer than the rest of her.
Deformity? Some local trait?.
He had no frame of reference.
Then he shook his head once.
"No."
The word came out firm.
All three paused.
"This request is too dangerous for a group of kids, " he said, turning fully toward them. "It involves a dungeon. If you didn't read it carefully, read it again. If you did—walk away."
The boy blinked. Then burst out laughing, clutching his stomach.
"Kid?" he said. "Oi frieren—did you hear that?"
The white-haired one didn't react. She was already focused on the parchment, eyes drifting over the word dungeon.
"I'm older than you," she said, tone flat.
The boy almost had tears in his eyes.
The girl frowned. "Please take this seriously."
The father felt something tighten in his chest.
Too young. All of them.
He reached into his pouch before he could stop himself and pulled out a handful of coins.
"Here," he said, holding them out. "Get food. A room. Anything. Just don't go into places like that."
The girl stiffened.
The boy stopped laughing.
The white-haired kid finally looked up at him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the girl stepped forward and gently pushed his hand back down.
"You don't understand," she said quietly. "We do this for a living."
He met her eyes.
"You shouldn't have to."
Something passed through her expression—annoyance, maybe. Or resignation?.
"Come with me," she said after a pause. "Just for a moment."
They moved outside the town near a tree. The girl stopped, planted her staff, and raised one hand.
The air shifted.
some kind of light? gathered—dense, controlled, suffocating.
A sphere formed, compressed and humming.
It fired a heartbeat later.
The tree behind them then had a huge hole blackened and warped.
The father stared, frozen not from the distriction alone but from how effortless it seemed.
She lowered her hand.
"My name is Fern," she said. "And this is normal for me."
The boy grinnedas he came from behind "She's terrifying, right?"
The white-haired kid yawned. "You should see her when she's annoyed."
Silence.
The weight of what he'd just seen settled deep in his chest.
These weren't children playing at danger.
Maybe they were the danger?.
He exhaled slowly.
"…I accept," he said.
The girl nodded.
The boy beamed. "I'm Stark."
The white-haired kid waved lazily. "Frieren."
He hesitated.
"…You're really not a kid?" he asked despite himself.
Stark laughed again. Fern sighed.
Frieren tilted her head.
"I've been alive for a long time," she said.
That answer didn't help at all.
As they walked to gate together, he watched them bicker lightly—Stark complaining, Fern correcting him, Frieren already distracted by a stall selling old trinkets—and wondered how a world like this could look so ordinary on the surface.
And hide things like this underneath.