"Kesmorv, what are you doing?!"
"Still so young, and already slacking off? When I was your age, I didn't waste a breath —
and I wasn't paid 2 bronze a day either. You should be grateful to me!"
The man looked at the old woman with hollow eyes.
His gaze was heavy, his mind foggy.
He had eaten his fill only twice since he arrived here.
Each day, he barely sustained himself —
working four jobs, some in the morning, some deep into the night.
He barely slept.
And now, he was back to this job —
a waiter in a dingy inn,
where the only shelter he had was a small room in the back —
the only thing he'd found since being cast into this foreign world.
> "I'm sorry, Madam Halu… this won't happen again."
But as he spoke, his toe caught the leg of a chair,
and the hot soup in his hands spilled —
right over a customer.
> "AAGHHH! You maggot!"
"Look what you did!"
Kesmorv bowed in apology,
his voice trembling.
> "I'm sorry… really… has this… happened before?"
But his words weren't answered with forgiveness —
only with a fist.
The punch hit him square across the face.
He fell onto the wooden floor,
his body landing over shattered plates and a broken cup.
Kesmorv sat on a chair,
his face bruised and battered,
his palm cut from picking up the broken shards of the plate.
In front of him stood Halu,
her stance firm —
ready for confrontation.
> "Unacceptable!
It's been what — a month since you started working here?
I thought you'd learn how to work.
I ignored your lack of focus, thinking maybe you'd improve.
But no.
You're not useful.
You've caused more harm than good.
You shall leave."
Kesmorv didn't argue.
He didn't look back twice.
He simply walked to the small room where he had stayed.
With a sigh,
he took his last pouch of money and a handful of dried seeds —
the only thing left to satiate his hunger.
He stepped outside.
No one stopped him.
No one looked back.
Not even the pretty waitress who had once smiled at him in passing.
Not the old woman who had, once upon a time,
reminded him of his grandmother.
But what relation could he have in this world?
He was not born here.
He had simply appeared —
like an orphan,
whose existence or disappearance meant nothing to anyone.
He sat under a tree,
legs folded, fingers trembling slightly
as he began counting his belongings.
> "Twenty-six… twenty-eight bronze, and two silver."
It might be enough to sustain him for two more months —
if he was careful.
He could've paid the owner of the inn and stayed longer,
but he chose not to.
He was already in his late forties.
His body could no longer handle the harsh physical labor
that used to get him by.
It had been nearly three decades
since he first found himself in this strange world.
Five years —
that's how long it took him to understand the language.
Three more to become fluent.
And then another five to finally understand
how the world actually worked.
He had lived like a beggar for the first half of it.
Eventually, he realized that physical labor was his only option.
From his late twenties to early forties,
he worked — lifting crates, hauling stone,
breaking his back for scraps.
In between, he drank,
he chased women,
he tried to forget.
Those years passed in a blur —
until one day he looked in the mirror and saw an old man.
Weary. Spent.
And that's when he started seeking jobs
that didn't rely on strength.
"Hey, what do we have here?"
Kesmorv's pupils dilated.
(Has it happened before?)
Yes. Too many times.
Three young men, brimming with vitality,
looked at the coins in his hand with lustful expressions.
> "Guess it's gonna be like that, huh?"
"What do you say, old man?"
One of them pulled out a dagger,
pointing it straight at him.
Without a second thought,
Kesmorv gave them what they wanted.
But then… their eyes shifted toward the pouch of dry seeds.
One of them reached out and snatched it.
> "No! No, please— it's just… it's nothing."
He raised a hand half-heartedly,
but the stare they gave him was enough.
And why shouldn't it be?
He had been stabbed, cut, beaten before.
He didn't want his old and battered body to feel that pain again.
So he let go.
> "Hey, look at this!"
"What's this? He planning to farm them or something?"
"No, you idiot — he eats them!"
"Ha ha ha! Are you serious?"
They threw the seeds on the ground,
laughing as if it was the funniest thing in the world.
Kesmorv stared,
his teeth gritted,
his jaw tight —
but he didn't move.
Because what could he do?
He was weak.
He was pathetic.
He was old.
What can a man like him even do?
He couldn't go to the city guards —
they'd ask for identification,
and if they found out who — or what — he really was,
he'd be sent to prison, or worse — execution.
So he did the only thing he could.
He looked up at the sky,
eyes empty.
He closed them in despair.
And then —
he knelt.
And began picking up the seeds,
one by one.
After half an hour, he finally succeeded.
He gathered what few seeds he could,
cupped some in his palm,
and ate them.
He munched slowly,
even though they tasted like dirt, like soil—
dry, bitter, dead.
Still, he swallowed it.
> "Why does it feel like I've lived this before...?
Has it… happened?"
A strange sense of déjà vu clung to him like fog,
whispering silently in the back of his mind.
It had saved his life,
countless times —
guiding him when nothing else could.
He closed his eyes.
Took a breath.
Opened them again—
And his body froze.