I opened my eyes to a gray sky and the low murmur of distant voices. Pain thrummed in my temples, my limbs felt alien, and the world spun like a drunken carnival ride. Blinking against the harsh light, I realized: I was not myself.
Memories burned behind my eyelids—of late-night typing, desperate rewrites, and the crushing disappointment when my career had stalled. Then darkness. Death. And now this.
I sat up with a gasp, only to find myself sprawled on a dusty dirt path that led into a dense pine forest. My hand shot to my chest. The familiar ache beneath my ribs was gone—but something else was there, too: a dull, persistent thrum that echoed the rhythm of my pulse. I rolled over, careful not to draw attention, and peered at my new body.
It wasn't mine. Instead of the gaunt, bespectacled author I once was, I was dressed in simple peasant's garb: tattered leather boots, coarse woolen trousers, and a linen tunic dyed a lackluster brown. My hands were rough, calloused, and scarred—hands that had never held a pen but instead gripped a plow or lifted heavy crates.
Panic erupted in my chest. I stumbled to my feet, only to be nearly bowled over by a wagon littering the road. Two burly men sat atop it, barking orders at a pair of oxen that plodded along with stoic resignation. A voice behind me snapped me from my reverie.
"You okay there, friend?" said a gruff voice. I turned to see an elderly farmer leaning on a worn staff. Beneath his broad-brimmed straw hat, his eyes twinkled with curiosity.
I forced a shaky smile. "Yes, yes—just… dizzy from the ride, I think."
He hummed sympathetically. "First time joining the militia escort?"
My stomach dropped. Militia escort? I couldn't recall signing up for any such duty. But then: flashes of memory. This wasn't my world. It was the world of my late novel—a fantasy realm of sword and sorcery in which a shining hero roamed, vanquishing beasts and saving kingdoms. And I had become one of the countless mobs, the nameless background characters whose purpose was to dot the scenery and expire in dramatic fashion.
Calculating rapidly, I realized with horrifying clarity: I wasn't the protagonist. Not by a mile. Protagonists in this world wielded legendary swords, wielded magic, and drew every plot thread toward themselves. Cursed mobs like me died in droves—collateral damage in epic battles.
I swallowed, my throat tight. The old farmer straightened and squinted at me. "You look pale. Earth too rich for your tongue or nerves too weak?"
Nerves too weak, I wanted to say. But instead, I managed: "I—I'm fine. Just a moment's discomfort. Thank you."
He nodded and ambled back to the wagon. My heart pounded. I needed information—fast. I closed my eyes, trying to summon details: the faction names, the geography, the timeline. Snatches came: the Kingdom of Ardenia embroiled in war with the Dark Legions; the Great Hero's campaign to unite the realms; this particular escort bound for the frontier town of Fenwood, where rumors of orcish raiders stirred.
Fenwood. If I could reach town, I might find a tavern and learn my part in events—if I could survive long enough.
I edged around the wagon and walked with the farmer's cart, keeping my head low. Rolling hills gave way to towering pines; mossy stones flanked the road, and birds with iridescent plumage darted above. This world was beautiful—and lethal.
After an hour's travel, the cart slowed near a clearing. The farmer called, "Rest stop, lads! Let's stretch a bit before we hit Fenwood proper."
Militia recruits spilled out: young men with hopeful eyes, hardened veterans scowling beneath battered helmets, and a handful of others like me—faceless, unremarkable. They chatted, cracked knuckles, and inspected their crude weapons: wooden spears, patched leather shields, and the occasional sword. I blended in among them, though every fiber of my being screamed that I didn't belong.
I approached one of the recruits—an eager youth no older than sixteen. "Excuse me," I said, trying to sound confident. "What's our mission here?"
He puffed out his chest. "Fenwood's been hit by orc raids the past fortnight. The Dark Lord's minions are testing defenses. We're here to bolster the garrison and repel any attacks."
"Orc raids," I muttered. Memories of my previous life's climax flickered—an epic battle where swarms of orcs fell before the Great Hero. Most mobs in that scene had died gruesomely. I shivered.
"Everything all right?" the boy asked.
I forced a laugh. "Just, uh, thinking about dinner." I glanced at my empty hands. No coin pouches. If I had no money, no supplies, I was at their mercy.
The cart groaned as the farmer struggled to stow his staff. "Who's this one?" barked a grizzled sergeant stepping forward.
"Gentleman volunteered late," said the youth. "Says he's keen to help."
The sergeant eyed me. I braced myself. Instead of a scold, he offered: "Name and origin, recruit."
I swallowed. "Roland… Roland Farter. From Westmarch Village."
He snorted. "Westmarch, eh?" That was a tiny hamlet nowhere near here. Even better: obscurity. "We'll see how you handle yourself, Farter. Keep your eyes open."
As he strode away, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Roland Farter—a generic enough name. If I could maintain this façade, maybe I'd slip through the coming storm.
The cart resumed its journey, and I trailed behind, mind ablaze. My head throbbed as I considered my options. In my old life, I'd been a failing author, haunted by the knowledge of my one success—and the sequel that never sold. Here, I was a living footnote in my own story. Why had I been sent to this world? Was it chance, fate, or some cosmic joke?
The sun dipped low as the pines thinned, revealing Fenwood's wooden palisade in the distance. Watchtowers crowned with torches stood sentinel. A paltry choir of crickets rose in the air.
We entered under yawning gates. Guards with stern faces challenged each cart. The farmer's companions unloaded crates of grain, barrels of salted meat, and bundles of arrows. I followed the sergeant's orders: carry an armful of arrow shafts and store them in the armory. My back ached by the time the work was done, but I didn't care—I was alive.
Nightfall settled over Fenwood as torches flickered. I wandered the camp perimeter, noting the soldiers' positions and the layout of the keep. Danger lurked just beyond these walls, in the whisper of wind through the pines.
A shout rang out, beckoning all to the large mess tent. I joined the huddle of recruits, ravenous from the day's labor. Stew, stale bread, and watered ale awaited. I ate greedily, scanning the soldiers for familiar faces: none. In this world, I truly was anonymous.
As I finished the last of my rations, I felt a strange surge of relief. I wasn't the protagonist. I wouldn't have to face villains, seduce princesses, or carry the world on my shoulders. I could survive in the shadows, avoid calamities, and—hopefully—make it out alive.
Quietly, I slipped away from the crowd and found a secluded nook behind a stack of crates. Pulling out an imaginary pen, I made a vow to myself: this time, I would live. I would remain unnoticed. I would not be the hero.
Because heroes died in dramatic fashion—and calamity magnets fared even worse. And I intended to have a long, stable life in peace.
But as the wind sighed through the battlements, I felt a chill in my bones. Fate had other plans…