"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.
"Haha haa hahaa!!
How amusing!
I've been watching you for quite a while, outsider —
and a mortal like you never seems to disappoint me!"
A voice echoed —
dark, eerie, and ethereal.
As pleasant as roses,
and as horrifying as hell itself.
Something a mortal mind could not hope to endure.
Kesmorv's eardrums burst,
blood trailing down his neck.
He coughed, choking as blood spilled from his mouth,
his lungs suddenly flooded —
as if something had squeezed his heart
and forced air into his chest.
His vision blurred,
his mind spiraling,
as though it would explode at any second.
He saw nothing —
only darkness.
He was no longer under the tree.
He wasn't on the ground.
He couldn't feel anything —
not even the sensation of lying down or falling.
He just existed in the void.
> "It's your 105th cycle,
and it seems to me…
you're starting to get aware of it."
> "A gift? Or a curse?
You mortals really are something —
the ones who don't belong here…"
> "Mortal… how about I give you an offer?"
> "Ahh… I almost forgot —
I'm not in my suppressed form!"
The void turned white,
and now Kesmorv could finally feel the ground beneath him.
He could feel himself —
sitting on a chair.
A hand reached out to him,
and in a split second,
his vision returned — vivid and sharp.
His lungs relaxed,
his heart no longer under pressure.
He could breathe again.
> "I'm Jest.
You can call me that!"
> "And you're lucky —
I'm not asking for any sacrifices like those others..."
"Let's not talk about that for now."
In front of Kesmorv stood a clown.
He was dumbfounded —
speechless at what he was looking at.
It was a mirrored version of himself,
painted in makeup like a fool:
purple, red, yellow, and green all clashed across its clothes,
a wide, painted smile,
a round red nose,
and strange designs crawling across its cheeks.
It was mocking him.
Staring at him with playful malice.
Kesmorv felt no comfort in its presence.
His legs shook,
his breath shallow, uneven.
The entire scenario —
this place, this thing —
it disturbed him to his core.
Kesmorv didn't speak.
He just looked down —
because that feeling… that something was wrong,
or something could happen —
it didn't come.
His gut — the very instinct that had saved his life countless times —
was silent.
> "Amusing, mortal,"
the clown sneered,
"You don't know what will happen to you?
Can't sense where this might lead?"
The clown burst into laughter,
a sound like bells scraping against bone.
Kesmorv felt something wet on his pants.
He was trembling — helpless in fear.
> "I can tell you this, for now,"
the clown continued, pacing with jittery grace.
"Cycles repeat.
Things happen.
And when they happen once…
they happen again."
> "To make it easier for your little mind —
if something occurred a century ago,
it will recur under these cycles.
Or eternity. Or whatever word makes you feel smarter."
> "It's like a time loop,
if I had to simplify it —
and yes, I peeked into your memory."
The clown chuckled again,
tilting its head so far sideways it almost didn't look human.
> "And do you know why I'm telling you all this?"
The grin widened.
"Because the things that occur are fixed.
No matter what anyone does —
they don't change."
> "But in your case…"
The clown began to jitter,
body trembling with excitement,
its gaze locking onto Kesmorv with wide, unblinking eyes.
"In your case…
it's different."
Soon, Kesmorv saw a scene.
The same one —
himself sitting under a tree,
counting coins in his hand.
But this time…
something was different.
He wasn't in control.
He wasn't inside his body.
He was watching from a third-person view,
as if observing a stranger…
yet knowing it was him.
The Kesmorv in the vision sat just as before —
but his eyes weren't hollow.
No.
He was gritting his teeth, face twisted with frustration.
> "F**ck! Why…?
Damn it… what can I do…
What did I do wrong?!"
He screamed —
then burst into laughter,
loud, broken, almost mad.
The kind of laugh that shakes the soul.
It echoed through the street,
drawing the attention of three young men walking nearby.
One of them smirked, nudging the others.
> "Ohh, what do we have here?"
Friends, looks like this mad beggar's stolen someone's coins!"
The three young men looked at the pile of bronze and silver
scattered beside the other Kesmorv
and grinned.
But then,
the Kesmorv in the scene snapped.
> "Who you calling a beggar, you son of a whore?!
Your father must've been one too!
Tell you what —
I was the one who fucked your whore mother!"
The words landed like stones.
The men's expressions twisted with rage.
The real Kesmorv — watching —
was flabbergasted.
> He… said that?
I never… I never approached things like this.
Not in this life. Not in any.
> "You damn beggar! Hold him!"
One lunged forward —
but the other Kesmorv was already moving.
He grabbed a stone and smashed it
right into one man's head —
once,
twice.
Blood spilled.
But the force of it made his shoulder twist —
the joint dislocated with a sickening pop.
His body was old.
Weak.
He hadn't looked in a mirror in years,
but now… now he saw it all:
A frail old man
with streaks of white in his black hair,
dark circles under pale, sunken skin,
and a wildness — a madness — in his eyes.
He gasped for air,
clutching his wounded shoulder.
> "This isn't bravery," he whispered.
"It's foolishness."
And somewhere in the void behind him,
the clown burst into laughter.
> "Look!" Jest cackled.
"And it's not even the best part!"
Blood streamed from the young man's head,
but his friend —
eyes wide with vengeance —
pulled out a dagger.
> "You worthless dog! Die!"
He stabbed Kesmorv —
again.
And again.
And again.
Kesmorv spat out a pool of blood,
his body twitching in agony.
And then —
he died.
---
> "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…"
Her voice echoed.
But this time —
Kesmorv cut her off mid-sentence,
his lips trembling into a smile that carried
both sadness and madness.
> "Young, you say, Madam Halu?
I'm a middle-aged man, never even married.
You say I'm young?
I wish… I really wish I was."
He laughed —
and while laughing, he tripped on a chair leg,
and the soup and plate in his hands
flew into the air —
landing on the head of a customer.
> "F**ck! Shit! What the hell?!"
The man cussed in burning agony.
> "I'm so—"
But before Kesmorv could finish,
a fist landed on his jaw.
He hit back instinctively —
damaging his own wrist in the process.
Then, rage overtook him.
He grabbed a chair —
and smashed it against the man's head.
---
In the void,
the clown was rolling on the floor,
dying of laughter,
tears of amusement in his painted eyes.
Kesmorv — the real Kesmorv —
stood there, shaken.
> "Is… is that really me?"
"Am I watching myself… lose it?"
---
Vision shifted again.
He now saw himself, mid-brawl,
cursing,
kicking,
hitting the man who had first punched him.
> "BASTARD! I APOLOGIZED!"
Jest giggled with manic joy.
> "Ah yes — the 35th cycle.
One of the first times you acted on your impulses.
Intrusive thoughts…
acted out loud.
Want to see how that ended?"
---
The scene shifted again.
Now, Kesmorv stood in front of Madam Halu,
her face twisted in disbelief.
> "GET OUT! GET OUT! I SAID!"
Even the waitress —
the one who once smiled at him —
looked at him now with cold contempt.
Then,
the city guards barged in.
Heavy footsteps. Metal armor.
They grabbed him.
No questions.
> "On charges of heresy,
and acts of violence against civilians —
you're coming with us."
The last thing Kesmorv saw in the vision
was his own face —
tired,
empty,
lost —
as they dragged him away.
The clown laughed and laughed,
its voice shrill and cruel —
and Kesmorv stood there,
shaken, eyes wide in disbelief.
> "There's another one — ha… ha… hah!"
---
In the inn,
Kesmorv looked at the pretty waitress.
She was in her mid-thirties,
green eyes, soft brown hair,
a calm weariness in her face.
She had two children.
Her husband had died in the war.
A widow.
Kesmorv held his breath,
gathered his courage,
and walked up to her.
> "Fedrovika… um…
I was thinking…"
"Would you… would you marry me?"
"I work hard. I could provide.
I think… it could be good for your kids too."
She looked at him —
not with kindness,
not with cruelty,
but with utter disbelief.
And at that moment,
in the void,
two figures pointed at Kesmorv:
The clown,
and the woman.
One laughed.
The other just stared.
> "This was you in the 13th cycle,"
Jest cackled,
mocking every trembling syllable.
"Pathetic!
Look at yourself…
I can barely… ha… ha…"
---
Fedrovika blinked in confusion.
> "Are you drunk, Mr. Kesmorv?"
> "You may want to take care of your own wife and children, shouldn't you?"
"My eldest son is about to marry in two months."
"I'm expecting a grandchild."
> "You really shouldn't joke like this… not at your age."
Kesmorv — the one who had just confessed —
froze.
> "But… I…"
He couldn't finish.
He looked down —
his hands trembling.
A sadness filled his eyes,
too old for tears.
> "Haha… ha… hahhh..."
Jester keeled over laughing,
his voice shrill and choked.
> "And you wanna know the funniest part?"
"In your 59th cycle, you beat her to a pulp…
and almost assaulted her…"
The clown tilted his head, eyes wide with mock sympathy.
> "You should check that one out too…"
---
> "Stop."
Kesmorv's voice was low —
almost a whisper.
He looked down, eyes shadowed.
His whole body was still.
> "Humph."
Jester straightened up, waving a hand dismissively.
> "Okay, okay… let's talk business."
He smiled with painted lips that twitched unnaturally.
> "I'm Jester, as you already know."
"And I've got this… authority — very similar to yours."
> "I can play around, twist things,
make them more interesting…
but I can't change certain events."
> "Just like you."
Jester walked in slow circles around Kesmorv now, almost gleeful.
> "Like those burglars who stole your coins…
or the soup you spilled on that guard…"
> "You can't change that.
I can't either."
> "But I can make it theatrical."
He spun like a dancer — arms out — before stopping abruptly.
> "The outcome always remains the same."
"It's been eternity since I've been watching…"
> "And now — again — in this cycle…"
His voice softened, but the grin remained.
> "I remembered something."
He crouched to eye level with Kesmorv.
> "You're the one who managed to extend a life that should've ended in three years."
"You dragged it out to a decade... then two…"
He leaned in, chuckling.
> "Tell me…"
> "How is that not amusing?"