"Ugh… that dream again."
I blinked my eyes open, half-expecting to see the orphanage ceiling with its creaking wooden beams. Instead, I saw—iron bars.
"Wait… what?"
I was lying on something hard, cold, and swaying. My body felt like it was pinned down by a mountain. I tried to push myself up, but the moment I moved, an explosion went off inside my chest.
Air. I couldn't breathe. My lungs burned as though someone had filled them with molten lead. I gasped, wheezed, and then coughed so violently it rattled my ribs. A wet, metallic taste filled my mouth, and when I spat, it was blood.
"What the hell's happening to me… Did I get pneumonia overnight? Or tuberculosis DLC unlocked?"
I collapsed back down, clutching my chest, letting the pain run its course. Every breath felt like it might be my last. I didn't dare move again.
Then it hit.
The ground trembled. The cage shook, and with that jolt my brain finally started paying attention.
I wasn't lying on the floor of my dorm. I was inside a caged bullock cart. The iron bars rattled with every bump of the uneven road. And I wasn't alone.
Beside me, half-slumped and lifeless, was a boar. Or… what used to be a boar. Its thick hide was riddled with neat holes, the kind only arrows could make. Blood had dried across its tusks and snout.
"Okay. Dead animal as a roommate. That's… new."
I forced my gaze beyond the bars. There were three men. One sat at the front, holding the reins of the bullocks. The other two walked alongside, talking casually to each other in a language that made zero sense to me.
"Grash-tena vorim talar!" one barked.
"Eshnor valka! Hrran-tovesh!" the other laughed in reply.
Their voices sounded rough, guttural, with strange lilts I'd never heard before. And their appearance—pale skin, sharp noses, light-colored hair didn't match anyone I'd seen back home in the city.
I blinked at them, then at the cage, then back at my own hands.
"…Nope. This doesn't look like Tokyo. Or literally anywhere I've ever been."
I swallowed, ignoring the sting in my chest as my thoughts spiraled.
"Don't tell me… I'm still dreaming? This has to be one of those messed-up fever dreams. Right?"
The cart jolted again, and my body screamed at me for even existing. Every nerve felt raw, and my chest was a furnace ready to collapse in on itself.
That's when I noticed the men properly.
Three foreigners. Definitely not Japanese. Their features were sharp, skin pale, and their hair lighter than anything you'd usually see in Tokyo. Two of them wore cheap-looking armor iron plates strapped over rough leather. Not knights, not samurai, more like… cosplayers who lost their budget halfway through. Each had a sword dangling in a scabbard, and one carried a bow slung lazily over his shoulder.
They didn't look like mercenaries from a drama set. They looked… real.
I shifted slightly, groaning, my ribs protesting. That tiny movement was enough to draw their attention.
"Grash-tora vinneh!" one of them barked, pointing at me with a laugh.
The other chuckled, shaking his head. "Morashka, talon-ven!"
I had no idea what they were saying, but judging by their faces… it wasn't exactly compliments.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," I croaked under my breath, though all that came out was a weak wheeze.
Another wave of coughing shook me. I hacked up more blood, the taste metallic and bitter. My throat burned raw.
One of the men walking alongside the cart smirked at my pitiful state. He uncorked a battered flask and, without warning, tilted it toward my mouth through the bars.
Water splashed down my lips. Lukewarm. Dirty. I coughed violently at first, half-choking on it, but then managed to swallow a few gulps.
Relief. It wasn't clean, and it had this weird mineral taste—like licking rust—but it cooled the fire raging in my chest just enough to breathe again.
For the first time since I woke up, I wasn't gasping for air.
The man muttered something, "Voro-tesh nal." His tone was casual, as if I were just some caged animal to keep alive.
I wanted to ask a million questions, but the pain dragging me down was too much. My eyelids felt heavier than lead.
"Screw it… maybe when I wake up, I'll be back in my bed in Japan. Yeah. Just a nightmare. Just a weird fever dream…"
My vision blurred, the rhythmic creak of the cart rocking me to sleep. The last thing I felt was the steady rattle of the iron cage before darkness claimed me again.
Darkness again.
But this time, the dream wasn't filled with voices. No pleading, no "help me." Just silence.
Except… those eyes.
Huge. Luminous. Dark blue. They floated in the void, unblinking, dripping tears that seemed to fall endlessly into nothingness. Each drop shimmered like glass, vanishing before touching the ground that didn't exist.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. The silence pressed down harder than the pain in my lungs. No words. No explanations. Just the eyes watching me.
Then—like before—I felt myself drifting upward, weightless. And when I blinked…
I was awake.
Still too scared to open my eyes, I muttered under my breath,
"...Okay. One, two, three… Tokyo."
I cracked one eye open.
Bars. Rusted iron. A dead boar stinking up the corner of my prison.
Not my futon. Not my apartment. Definitely not Japan.
My heart sank. "...The fuck?"
I sat there for a second, staring blankly at my roommate. Its stiff body leaned against the cage wall like it was mocking me. My chest tightened, panic bubbling up.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" I hissed, my voice cracking.
Hallucination? Had the earthquake messed me up? Brain damage? Schizophrenia?
Or maybe… maybe I'd finally lost it.
The metal bars dug into my back as I slumped against them. My breath rattled, uneven. Tears pricked my eyes—not the cinematic kind heroes shed when they vow to get stronger. No. The ugly kind. The pathetic kind.
I buried my face in my hands. "Shit. I've gone mad. First voices, now glowing eyes. This isn't real. It can't be real."
But the cage was solid. The stench of blood was real. The ache in my ribs was real.
Too real.
And that scared me more than anything.
Rubin wiped his tears on his sleeve, forcing himself upright.
"Okay… okay, get it together, Rubin. Cry later. Survive now."
He sucked in a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves—
Bad idea.
The air scorched his throat like he'd inhaled fire. His lungs screamed, his chest convulsed, and blood splattered onto the straw beneath him. He doubled over, hacking until his vision blurred.
"Ghhhk—! Shit—!"
The pain eventually dulled, leaving him trembling, lips wet with iron. He pressed his forehead to the cage bars, panting.
"…Note to self. Breathing—dangerous. Try not to."
For a long time, he just sat there in silence, staring at his reflection in the red smear on the iron. His thoughts circled like vultures.
Earthquake. Strange voices. Now this…
No. There's a logical explanation.
Kidnapping. Human traffickers. That had to be it. He'd been drugged, dragged halfway across the world, dumped in some godforsaken rural backwater where people still thought swords and bows were cutting-edge tech.
Rubin winced as another coughing fit racked his chest. "Yeah… makes sense. Just human traffickers. Nothing supernatural. Nope. Nothing at all."
He glanced toward the men walking beside the cart. One had a bow slung lazily across his shoulder, while another tapped the scabbard of his short sword as he laughed.
"Zarven trath ekos, ha!" one said, grinning.
"Fjor venna, hrosk!" the other barked back.
Rubin blinked. The sounds were harsh, rolling off their tongues in a rhythm that wasn't Japanese, wasn't English—hell, wasn't anything he'd heard on TV dramas either.
"…European? Sounds European," he muttered, squinting. "Maybe… Eastern European? Yeah. That's it. Great. I got trafficked to… Poland or some shit."
The driver up ahead snorted at something and spat into the dirt. The cart jolted forward, making the dead boar in the corner flop onto its side with a dull thud.
Rubin stared at the corpse, then at the sky above the bars.
"…I swear to god, if this turns out to be Romania, I'm suing somebody."
The cart creaked along the dirt road, wheels groaning like it was carrying a mountain instead of a half-dead teenager and a dead pig. Rubin leaned back against the bars, too exhausted to move.
That's when he noticed the shadows approaching.
The two men walking beside the cart had slowed down, their eyes glinting with curiosity. One had a patchy beard and crooked nose, the other a nasty scar running down his cheek.
Patchy Beard jabbed a finger through the cage bars, smirking.
"Ska venor, vrosk!"
Scarface chuckled, tapping the bars with his sword hilt like a kid poking a caged animal.
"Hahh, draven koss!"
Rubin didn't understand a word, but the tone was crystal clear.
"Oh, good. Human traffickers and bullies. My favorite combo."
Patchy Beard shoved his finger closer to Rubin's face. Instinctively, Rubin tried to swat it away, but his arm barely lifted before his chest screamed in protest. He collapsed forward, coughing up another mouthful of blood.
Both men laughed. Loud. Ugly. Cruel.
Scarface leaned in, sneering. "Fjora, fjora!"
Rubin wheezed, glaring up at them between coughs. "Yeah? Well—cough—your mom's a fjora, too, asshole."
They didn't understand him, but his tone made them laugh harder. Patchy Beard reached down and yanked Rubin's hair through the bars, forcing his head back. Pain shot through his scalp, and he gritted his teeth.
"Ghhhk—let go, you medieval cosplay reject!"
The man barked something at his partner, who snorted and raised his waterskin. For one blissful second, Rubin thought maybe—just maybe—they were being merciful.
Then the lukewarm, metallic-tasting water splashed into his mouth, choking him. He coughed violently, water spraying everywhere, collapsing onto the wooden floor of the cage.
The men howled with laughter.
Rubin lay there, chest heaving, the taste of rust and blood mixing on his tongue. His vision blurred. His pride screamed at him to shout something back—but his body couldn't even lift his head.
"…Awesome," he rasped. "I always wanted to be the comedy act at a medieval circus. Dreams do come true."
I lifted my head just enough to glare at the two guys walking beside the cage. My ribs screamed in protest, but my middle finger had other plans.
I raised it. Slow. Deliberate. "Yeah. This," I rasped, voice cracking, "is the universal screw you symbol. Works in Japan. Works here. Probably works on Mars too."
The men froze. Their heads tilted. And then—oh no—they got it.
"Vorrak zhenka!" Patchy Beard hissed.
"Thalruk eshvar!" Scarface barked, teeth clenched.
They lunged. Hair yanked. Chest banged against iron bars. Fists rained down. Pain blossomed like fireworks, only without the fun colors. My blood taste was back in full force, and I tried not to scream. Tried not to pass out. Tried not to die from sheer humiliation.
"Zherak-fon, blikka!" Patchy Beard growled, voice sharp as broken glass.
"Fronk-et, vashra!" Scarface added, voice booming, the anger unmistakable.
Somewhere between coughing up blood and mumbling sarcastic threats back at them, I noticed something… off. The landscape was changing. The rolling dirt road I'd been cursing was now giving way to jagged stone outcrops. Trees thinned. Shadows stretched in ways that didn't make sense.
And then I saw it: a rocky wall, roughly stacked and barely holding together, stretching across the horizon. Timber and crude iron reinforced the structure, but it looked like it had been thrown together to keep enemies out rather than withstand a proper siege. At its center, a main entrance yawned like a jagged mouth, the sort of gate meant to protect a village rather than impress anyone.
I squinted through the haze of pain and confusion, muttering,
"Oh… great. Even worse than I thought. Some backwater village hell. Cool. Totally normal Tuesday."
The men didn't hesitate. Their anger hadn't faded. They leaned closer, fists ready, eyes hard. The sight of the wall didn't slow them down, and the weight of the situation pressed down on me like a lead blanket. No hope, no curiosity—just more fear.
"…Alright, Rubin," I wheezed, tasting iron and dust, "let's see what the next 'level' looks like. Spoiler: I'm not saving the princess. I'm just trying not to get killed."