The Boapede's egg, which had been leaning precariously on the chest, suddenly toppled with a heavy thud, brutally cutting short my moment of triumphant excitement and plunging the imaginary light shining from the box into instant darkness.
Well, inside it was a skeleton. A skeleton wearing a cowboy hat, no less. It looked like it had decided to take a nap in a knee-chest position, forever frozen in a posture of resigned discomfort. All my hopes and dreams of shimmering loot shattered into a million invisible pieces. Yoo-hoo! I could practically hear a sad trombone sound playing inside my head, mocking my dashed expectations.
Who could've thought hiding in a chest was a good idea, surrounded by big and small critters that wanted you dead? Or was it a disappearing act done by a criminal gang, tying up loose ends, taking down one of their own to save themselves from their eventual downfall?
My mind, unbidden, conjured a scene: "Lukas," said the man in a dark red tuxedo, wearing brown-tinted sunglasses. He crossed his leg with casual menace and rested his hands on his knee while the smoke from his cigar created ripples of ethereal smoke in front of him, momentarily obscuring his face. He looked wise beyond his years, deep folds etched onto his forehead, but his eyes were unshakably sharp, glinting with cold calculation. He stared at a man, a person he knew for a long time. "You know this is nothing personal?" His mouth was moving differently to the words coming out of him, a disconcerting misalignment. It was an English dub, just like those cheesy Spanish telenovelas my mom used to watch. "Say whatever you want, Don Juan, you and your cronies' days are numbered!" Lukas defiantly exclaimed, his voice filled with righteous fury, while being held down by the arms by two black-tuxedoed goons, their grip like steel. "You don't seem to know what's going on here, do you?" Don Juan puffed, a slow, deliberate exhale, blowing the smoke into the defiant man's face. He smirked villainously and waved his hand, a lazy flick of his wrist, then another black-tuxedoed brute, Goon Number 3, emerged from the shadows, holding a gleaming Beretta. Goon Number 3 pulled the hammer on the gun with a distinct, chilling click. "No, Don Juan, you don't know what's coming!" Lukas shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. Then, blam! Darkness.
"What am I thinking?" I mumbled to myself, shaking my head to clear the vivid imagery. "Am I so isolated for how many days that I am becoming delusional?" So my brain just created a whole scene to justify the presence of a skeleton inside this chest. But, I can't complain, it's a cool plot; I'd definitely watch it if you'd ask me."Sorry, Mr. Lukas sir," I said apologetically, addressing the skeletal remains with the name of the character from my mob flick imagination, a faint sense of guilt prickling me. "I'll be just taking your things respectfully." Under his cowboy hat was an amazingly preserved black leather armor. It looked less like traditional armor and more like a dark muscle shirt, but instead of flimsy cloth, it was crafted from flexible, supple leather. It had rectangular scales, meticulously layered and facing down, overlapping, though the scales were only present on the front, extending up to half of the side from the armpits going down.
In the skeleton's hand was a tiny golden apple, no bigger than an acorn, resting delicately between its bony fingers. "Aww, so cute," I said, my eyes actually twinkling with genuine delight.
General Awareness:
An Apple a Day: Action: Consume for a 1-Day Free Pass to the Waking World. Once consumed, game mechanics will be revealed.
"Consume for a day to the waking world?" I read aloud, my brow furrowing in confusion. "What does that mean?" It also has game mechanics once I eat it. I need to know more about this item before I do anything with it, but consume it I decided. I placed the miniature apple in my satchel with almost absurd care, 'coz it's so cute and potentially game-changing.
"What!?" I said, my voice rising in surprise. "It's just using a loincloth!" "Aw, come on, how did Lukas end up using a loincloth?"
My mob flick imagination continued, unbidden, playing out the scene: Goon Number 3 fell down to the floor with a loud, sickening thud. Don Juan immediately ducked beside his massive mahogany table, reached out into one of his drawers, pulling out a gleaming silver revolver with intricate gold inlays creating delicate patterns on its grip, barrel, and cylinder. He began reloading it one bullet at a time. "I should've bought the Glock instead," he muttered under his breath, a hint of desperation in his voice. He cocked the cylinder and pulled the hammer. More shots were heard at the scene, then Goon Number 2, at the right of Lukas, suddenly convulsed and fell down. Lukas saw the opportunity and used his weight to pull Goon Number 1 lower and brutally elbowed the goon in the face. He yelled, "Ouch, come here, you!" accompanied by conspicuously bad acting from an extra and an English dub on top of it. It was funny, but action-packed, in a low-budget sort of way. Lukas delivered a powerful front kick, which Goon Number 1 received squarely on the chest, sending him flying to the other side of the table with a crash. Don Juan, startled by the flying goon, immediately pulled him back, shouting, "I'm not paying you to make me look bad!" A symphony of gunshots erupted, louder now. "Don Juan, the traitor is killed. It is I, Emanuel, who killed him," said a voice, chillingly calm, coming from the outside.
Don Juan smiled, his gun to his side, and shouted, "Great job, Emanuel!" He laughed, a low, guttural sound. "You will be rewarded handsomely." He stood up, pointing his revolver to his front nervously, his goon right behind him, oddly close, but nobody was actually there in the empty room. "Where is Lukas?" Don Juan shouted, his voice laced with sudden unease. "Not here, señor, no one but Emanuel, señor."
Don Juan slowly and nervously walked around his home office, his eyes darting to every direction he faced, finding no trace of Lukas. Then he saw it: out on the veranda, caught on the railing, was Lukas's torn pants. "Lukas!" He shouted, his voice echoing with disbelief, as Lukas's torn pants, a final defiant flag, were being blown by the wind, stuck on the railing of the veranda.
"I know that's not what it looks like, but maybe Lukas fell down into the chest and was shipped to this Isekai world? Totally possible, look at me." I rationalized, gesturing vaguely at my own improbable existence. "Okay, okay, he should be wearing briefs or boxers, but here's my argument: maybe Lukas was old school, preferring a loincloth over new stuff like briefs and such. Look, he is wearing a cowboy hat, a leather vest, and a loincloth; everything is possible, you see?" My mental gymnastics were getting good.
That aside, I found a small coin purse that was exquisitely made of leather, surprisingly supple. It contained fourteen gleaming gold coins and two silver. I'm not sure if that meant wealthy in this world, but it's always better to have pocket money wherever you go, so kudos to you, Lukas. My fingers then brushed against something else. You can't believe what I found next: it was a dagger in pristine condition. It had a scabbard made of smooth, dark wood, warm to the touch. The blade, a sleek tanto, had no hilt guard like my sword, but it had not corroded with time; it shone under the dim light, glinting with a deadly, clean edge. My doubt on what I got from the chest faded away fast, replaced by a growing thrill.
"Hello, sir! Are you still there!"