The road was rough and uneven, strewn with countless pebbles and cracked patches that jostled the pickup truck with every bump and dip. The relentless sun blazed overhead, its heat oppressive and unyielding, causing the very air to shimmer in waves. Mixed with the sharp, acrid scent of gasoline that hung heavy inside the cabin, it created a strange, almost hypnotic atmosphere that made Aren's eyelids grow heavy.
He sat in the back of the truck, the hood of his black raincoat pulled low over his forehead like a fragile shield, desperate to protect his face from the harsh sun and stave off the creeping dizziness threatening to pull him into a sleep he couldn't afford. Every so often, he blinked rapidly, trying to stay alert.
I really need a shower, he thought with a weary sigh, rubbing the grime and sweat off his face. It can't go on like this.
It had been days since he left the dense forest behind, following the worn path until it spat him out onto this lonely stretch of road that cut through a desolate wasteland. Around him stretched nothing but barren earth, cracked and scorched, with no trees or signs of water for miles. The desert seemed endless, the kind of place that tested your will as much as your body.
Despite the harshness, his spirits remained surprisingly high. He reminded himself it wasn't the first time he'd been in such a situation—days spent rationing food and water, carefully calculating each step forward to maximize his chances of survival. Experience lent him a quiet confidence, a steady hand in a world that often felt unstable.
The truck rumbled on, the tires crunching over gravel as they barreled down the endless road. It took two more days before someone finally stopped to give him a ride. Many vehicles had passed him by without so much as a glance—drivers too busy, too wary, or perhaps just indifferent—but luck finally smiled upon him.
The pickup that stopped was unlike any Aren had seen before. It was rudimentary, a far cry from the sleek, advanced vehicles he was accustomed to. The engine sputtered faintly, and the bodywork bore dents and scratches as if it had lived through decades of hard use.
The driver was a kindly old woman, small and weathered, her skin deeply tanned from years under the sun. She carried a woven basket filled with fresh vegetables and fruits—likely a farmer heading to the market to sell her harvest. Despite the language barrier, she tried to communicate, using broad gestures and warm smiles. Her patience and kindness were unmistakable, and that was how Aren found himself sitting here now, cradled in the back of this ancient truck.
"This was close," he muttered quietly, eyes drifting toward his backpack. "Our water and food rations… barely enough to last another day or two." He tapped the worn fabric, feeling the reassuring weight of the remaining supplies inside.
[Your Majesty, you prepared well for this trip. The path out of the forest was straightforward and easy to follow.] Val's voice buzzed softly inside his mind, the SENTINEL glowing faintly beneath the sleeve of his coat, a constant, reassuring presence.
Aren smiled to himself. "Actually, Val… can she hear you? Your voice is pretty loud inside my head. I'm surprised she doesn't hear it."
[The system is designed to transmit audio frequencies directly to you, with no external output unless I activate the speakers. Would you like me to turn them on?]
"No, no. It's fine this way. It's like having a voice inside my head—kind of comforting, actually." He paused, his gaze drifting out over the barren landscape streaked with sunlight and shadow. "By the way, are you keeping track of where we're going?"
[Yes, Your Majesty.] A translucent map appeared floating in front of his eyes, updated in real time as the truck moved forward. Slowly, it revealed previously hidden areas—the barren plains stretching southward from the forest's edge.
[I'm also analyzing the language patterns I gathered from the cabin and our driver's speech. They seem to share similarities, so I'm keeping the dictionary open to learn automatically.]
"That's clever, Val. I like the initiative—please keep it up. Every bit helps on this journey."
The truck rumbled on for hours more, punctuated by brief stops at scattered gas stations. Despite the world's backwardness in some ways, these vehicles still ran on gasoline—a fossil fuel Aren thought was a thing of the past in his former life.
His mind drifted for a moment, reflecting on the clean energy patent he had worked so hard to develop. Years of research and countless sleepless nights had gone into it, but somehow the world had moved on without it.
Nothing is really lost as long as I hold the idea in my mind, he reassured himself, pushing the bitter thoughts aside.
At last, the truck pulled into a small city. It was nothing like the sprawling metropolises Aren had once known, but it was alive and bustling in its own way. Concrete buildings stood side by side with wooden doors and windows, their facades weathered but sturdy. The city's heart was a lively street market, colorful stalls crowded with vendors hawking fresh produce, handmade goods, and curious trinkets.
The truck slowed and came to a halt at the edge of the market. Aren's heart beat a little faster, anticipation mingling with exhaustion as he prepared to step into this new, unfamiliar world.
⁂
As the pickup came to a halt, Aren immediately jumped down to help the old woman unload the heavy wooden boxes. She moved slowly but with purpose, arranging fresh vegetables and fruits on her makeshift stand. Without thinking, Aren reached into his pocket and offered her some coins. The woman's eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her head gently, a shy smile touching her weathered face. It was clear that such a gesture was unexpected, perhaps even rare in these parts. Aren nodded politely, understanding that this was her way of saying thanks without accepting charity.
After a brief farewell, Aren stepped away and began to wander through the bustling market. It's a shame I never learned her name, he thought, watching her carefully adjust a faded cloth to shield her produce from the sun. But now's my chance to explore — gather as much information as possible. I have to make this moment count.
The market was alive with noise: laughter, haggling voices, the clatter of wooden carts on cobblestone. It was loud enough to drown out most conversations, which suited Aren well. Keeping his hood pulled low over his head, he stayed mostly unnoticed. His silver hair and striking pale eyes were unmistakable traits — a beacon to curious onlookers or worse, trouble. Blending in here required subtlety, especially in a land so foreign.
The market was large, a labyrinth of narrow stalls and alleys. The woman's stand clustered among other food vendors, their scents mingling — fresh bread, ripe tomatoes, pungent spices, smoked meats. Beyond them, stalls offered textiles, trinkets, tools, and pottery. Aren noted the variety of people around: merchants and customers alike, their faces and clothing betraying different ethnicities and distant origins. Some looked like seasoned traders who had traveled far to sell their goods.
He observed the exchanges carefully, trying to understand the currency system. Most deals were done with small gold coins, gleaming faintly in the sunlight — something Aren did not have. His eyes drifted across the stalls until a bookstand caught his attention. Books were rare in this world, and he wondered if they might offer clues about his whereabouts.
Approaching cautiously, he saw a large map displayed prominently. The elderly vendor, a frail man with spectacles slipping down his nose, attempted to speak with Aren. Though his language was unintelligible, his tone was gentle, inviting him to bargain.
Let's see if this map can at least tell me if I'm still on my home world...
[Your Majesty, I believe I have gathered sufficient data to enable live translation. While not perfect, I can interpret much of the language's sounds and characters. Shall I activate it?] Val's voice echoed softly inside Aren's mind.
Aren nodded silently. Instantly, text appeared before his eyes, translated and adapted into a language he could read. Words flowed effortlessly, matching the vendor's speech. It was astonishing. This would have made diplomatic meetings in my previous life infinitely easier.
"Maybe you're interested in some adventure books? Feel free to browse," the vendor said, gesturing toward a box of worn volumes.
[Do not worry, Your Majesty. Everything you see here is being scanned and stored in my memory, including the map.]
Aren hesitated. Pirating knowledge felt wrong, but he was a traveler in need, not a rich collector. He picked up a few books, flipping through pages filled with stories and myths, but found no useful information.
He moved on to another stall — a simple grocery stand — and bought essentials: toothpaste, a toothbrush, even some soap. Up until now, he'd been reusing what little he had salvaged from the lumberjack's cabin, but it was time for something fresher.
Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the market's rhythm. Voices rose in anger and alarm, drawing the crowd's attention to the far end of the street. Aren's heart quickened as he moved toward the commotion, recognizing the woman who had given him the lift.
She stood, tense and defiant, facing a menacing group clad in leather jackets bearing a skull with crossed swords — the insignia of the notorious gang called the Dune Reapers. They had already wrecked several stands, and now their leader demanded "protection fees" with a cruel grin.
"Give us our money! It's part of the protection fee," snarled a man with slick black hair, his voice cold and cruel.
The old woman's voice trembled but her words were fierce. "Protection? From you? I just arrived, and even if I had anything, I wouldn't give you a damn thing!"
One of the women in the gang stepped forward, her eyes cold. "This isn't a request, old hag. You've heard of us — the Dune Reapers."
Another vendor whose stall had been trashed shouted, "You're nothing but bandits! Wait until the knights hear about this!"
The gang laughed, a harsh sound that sent a chill through the crowd. The townsfolk looked away, defeated and fearful.
"Knights? Ha! The king has forgotten these lands. His knights are too busy guarding him from the war. This town's up for grabs — and we're here to take it," the leader spat, biting into a rotten apple he'd found on the ground. He drew a sword and slowly advanced on the trembling woman.
"We're all armed," he sneered. "We've watched this village. No one here can fight back. And if you try… I am an Adept." Suddenly, a sinister purple glow burst from the back of his hand, forming the shape of a cobra baring its fangs.
"An emblem!" someone shouted. Fear rippled through the crowd. The old woman fell back toward her stand, her knees weak.
Aren's gaze darted around, searching. His mind raced. Spotting a nearby clothes stall, he moved swiftly and quietly, unnoticed in the distraction. He grabbed a black scarf and a pair of oversized round sunglasses. Slipping behind the food stands, he gathered whatever sharp objects he could: kitchen knives, forks, even a rusty machete.
He dropped his bag in the shadows, wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck and lower face, and pulled his hood up, concealing his pale hair and eyes.
The woman's back was to the attackers, desperately searching under her table for something.
"We gave you a chance," the leader snarled, "this is on you now."
A sudden, sharp pain shot through Aren's arm. He looked down to find a kitchen knife embedded in his upper arm, blood trickling down his sleeve.
"Who did this?!" he demanded, scanning the crowd. No one met his eyes; no one made a move.
"Coward!" he shouted, but before anyone could respond, chaos erupted.
A fork flew through the air, piercing the forehead of one gang member. The man collapsed instantly, dead. Moments later, a knife struck another — a woman — silently and fatally.
Three bandits remained. The leader screamed as his cobra emblem flared, purple energy coiling around his arm. His comrades frantically searched for the attacker in the crowd but found nothing. Aren, with his smaller stature and agility, slipped through shadows and behind pillars, unseen.
The leader raised his sword, the glowing cobra energy crawling along the blade like a living thing.
"Strangle!" he commanded.
The sword detached from his hand, twisting and darting through the air like a serpent unleashed, striking and slicing the crowd mercilessly. People screamed, falling wounded or paralyzed by the venomous energy.
The blade returned to the leader's grasp, and he laughed cruelly. "Let's see how long you hide!" he snarled, aiming the weapon at a group of terrified civilians.
Aren stepped forward, placing himself between the blade and the innocent. The remaining two bandits charged him, hoping to catch him off guard.
Reacting swiftly, Aren flung a handful of sand into their faces, blinding them momentarily. His other hand gripped the axe tightly, swinging it in a wide arc. Both attackers crumpled instantly, clutching their wounded abdomens in agony.
Only the leader remained. Aren's dark emblem began to glow faintly, energy wrapping around his axe and dagger.
"You're going to die for this!" the man hissed, his cobra snake elongating, the sword aimed for a lethal strike.
Aren raised his axe, deflecting the blow with the flat side. The blade whipped around, aiming for his back, but Aren's dagger met it, parrying just in time.
He had trained for days to wield the axe one-handed, preparing for moments like this. Though imperfect, his skill bought him precious seconds.
"Little piece of shit," the bandit spat, his emblem burning brighter, purple mist rising from the blade — poisonous, deadly.
The sword darted toward the crowd, and Aren, thinking quickly, threw off his coat and smothered the blade beneath it.
He pinned the sword down with his weight, fighting to maintain balance as the toxic mist seeped through the fabric.
"Run!" he shouted, though he doubted anyone could understand him.
The blade writhed beneath him like a live serpent. Another snake-shaped blade lunged from the bandit's other arm. Aren deflected the strike but was forced to release the first blade, which shredded his coat before snapping back to its master.
Now, it was a deadly dance — the leader controlling two living blades, circling each other with lethal precision.
There was no escape. Only a swift and decisive strike could end the battle before the poison took hold.
Time to use it, Aren thought grimly. I have two hits. They have to count.
His dark emblem flared with renewed intensity, the energy wrapping tightly around his weapons. His eyes glowed fiercely beneath the sunglasses as he crouched, muscles coiled like a predator ready to spring.