The patches of grey swimming around the edges of Damian's eyes dissolved to a faint orange, waking him to a splitting headache.
It clawed at his temples, almost as if a wooden stake was lodged inside his head, simultaneously grating against his brain and skull.
He tried to reach for his temples but he found himself unable to. His limbs were unresponsive, like rusted metal gears.
Wha... what's happening? Amidst the slowly receding tide of headache, and the surging panic, the memories of last night's heart attack resurfaced in Damian's mind.
Am I dead? Is this death? Despite the severity of the thought, he found himself unusually calm, almost at peace.
The sensation of peace unsettled him more than the unusual calmness, causing him to groggily open his eyes.
After a minute of haze and static coloured by warm streams of light, his vision finally cleared up revealing a wide, almost hall-like room.
Half a dozen beds were arranged on both sides, leaving a narrow space for movement in-between.
Despite being brightly lit, the room had a somber, clinic atmosphere hanging over it.
Its most glaring detail however was its medieval aesthetics.
Coarse wooden beams ran along the ceiling's length, holding it in place. On the room's far end, a broken hearth leaned against the wall which was a mix of stained and chipped bricks.
What the... A slow creak echoed through the room, cutting off the thought.
Following the sound, the door adjacent to the hearth shifted inward, revealing a sliver of hallway that seemed to stretch for miles, then a blonde-haired girl.
The moment she locked eyes with Damian, the girl's mouth slowly widened in shock. The next instant, she let out a short, sharp scream and fled the room.
Watching the figure fleeing down the hallway, while shouting in an alien language, Damian couldn't help but mutter to himself, "Am I really that ugly?"
"No, that doesn't sound right." He shook his head. "She must've been scared off by my imposing masculinity." Stroke his chin, he murmured, "Yes that must've been it."
The next second, his eyes widened in surprise at the fact that he'd moved his hand.
After two minutes of testing his movements with exaggerated hand and leg movements, Damian threw back his head, and laughed. "We are so back baby."
"Now to find out what's really happening here," he muttered, quickly reigning in his laughter, and sitting upright.
His gaze drifted over to the door, only to once again see the blonde-haired girl standing by it.
This time however, she was accompanied by a chubby, middle-aged man wearing a simple brown robe and a wooden cross around his neck.
Noticing the incredulous expressions on their face, Damian scratched his head awkwardly, and moved to stand.
"Careful, Herr Friedrich!" The blonde-haired girl exclaimed, immediately rushing forward.
Unlike when she ran out of the room, Damian found himself able to understand her words. Tilting his head, he stared intently at her.
"Huh?"
Instinctively, the girl lowered her head, her face flushing red from Damian's gaze.
"Anna's right Herr Friedrich. You should take it easy." Gesturing toward Damian's chest, the middle-aged man added, "Your wounds have yet to heal." His tone was gentle, yet chiding.
Strange. I can also understand what the man is saying, even though they're both clearly speaking a foreign language.
Before Damian could begin to dissect this new layer of insanity, his mind locked onto another piece of information.
Wait, wounds? Looking down on his chest, he saw a strip of white gauze running diagonally across his torso. A portion of it close to his chest was dyed a dark shade of red.
The area flared up the moment he noticed it, sending a mind numbing jolt of pain through him. Groaning in pain, he slumped into the bed.
As he hit the straw mattress, a second, sharper pain speared through his skull. Shortly after, images began flashing in his mind.
At first, they were monochrome and soundless, like flipping through pictures in a book.
Then they sped up, turning into a montage of memories which finally coalesced into a singular identity; Friedrich László Kata, the first son a Hamburg Merchant.
His father, Albert Kata had taken over the reins of the family business following his grandfather's death. Despite all the effort he'd put into it, the profits had only peaked for a few years, before it began a downhill climb.
And were it not for Albert's accidental discovery of a salt mine half a year ago, the family business would've long crumbled.
Following the discovery, the Kata household went from a life of quiet desperation, to one of well... slight stability.
Perhaps too wrapped up in his dream for glory and legacy, Albert had failed to acknowledge the fact that he needed allies, powerful one's to develop a salt trade.
And on the occasions when his fellow merchants, even a member of the city council had sought him out with a partnership, he had strongly refused.
Sometimes, his temper flared so hot he was ready to trade blows with them.
The memories carried a constant, anxious nag from Friedrich's mother, Marta, a fear they were making powerful enemies.
Yet, every time she spoke to him about it, he broke out into a tangent of fury. An act that had lasted until the third shipment of raw salt arrived at the Port of Elbe earlier today.
After receiving the news, Albert had immediately ordered the entire family to join him at the port, then left with the serf who'd delivered the news.
Half an hour later, the entire family of five were gathered on the port's planks.
The offloading of the cargo was already underway, with bulging jute forming a small pyramid on a corner of the port.
A happy, boisterous Albert could be seen circling the pyramid, earnestly inspecting it.
Seeing his family arrive, Albert immediately ordered his two eldest sons, Friedrich and Bernhard, to join the men offloading the cargo.
Their younger siblings occasionally butted in to help. Most of the time however, they simply ran around the docks, chasing around seagulls.
Around mid noon, just as the last of the cargo was off-loaded, a merchant ship appeared on the horizon. Its figure which was quickly gaining on the port was shadowed by the sun.
The ship's weathered mast flapped furiously in the wind, beating a cadence that merged with the tumultuous cascade of the Elbe.
Between the horrific discovery of the ship being a pirate ship in disguise, and the moment of his death, Friedrich's memory was a dull haze of frantic screams, the metallic scent of blood and a dreadful premonition that all of it was a targeted massacre.
In the last moments before his vision went dark, the loud, heated argument in the background eased, followed by grunts of consensus.
After a brief silence, the smell of smoke accompanied by the soft crackling of fire burning its way through wood filled the air.
"All done, Herr Friedrich, " Anna said. Her voice cut through Damian's haze of thought, bringing him back to the present.
Removing his gaze which had been fixed on the cracked ceiling, he looked down on his chest.
The dark red patch on the gauze now had an additional bright red stain around its edges, the flesh around it also felt tight and constricted.
Lifting his gaze up, he saw Anna about to leave the room.
Recalling that while he knew that he was in the medieval ages, he didn't quite know which year he was in, he called out to her:
"Anna wait!"
Pausing at the door, Anna slowly turned around, a confused look on her face. "Herr Friedrich?"
"Before you leave," Damian began forcing himself up. "I have a simple question to ask you. What... what year is it?"
Anna's brows knitted together in confusion at the strange question, then a little concern. "The year, Herr Friedrich?"
"Yes. What year is it?" he reiterated. Seeing her still confused face, Damian forced a weak smile. "Humour me."
Despite the troubled look on her face, Anna answered, "It's the year of our Lord, One thousand four hundred and forty."