Conversus, Chapter 1: "A Curse Is Born."
Warm, slightly humid, quite beautiful weather. The wind was blowing softly, and Skyrealm's strange ecosystem continued its life.
A young man with black hair that reached his brows, somewhat styled; around 1.85 m tall, looking about 19–20 years old, pale-skinned with black eyes. The clothes on him were a bit old—clearly stolen or given to him by someone who pitied him.
Even though it was hot, the comforting breeze allowed him to keep walking along the dirt road. It was obvious that he didn't really know where he was going. In his hand was a map—and clearly he was trying to follow it without knowing how to read one. On the map was a low‑quality road drawn with a poor black pen. At its end was likewise a castle—or perhaps a temple or something—poorly sketched with the same pen. It wasn't even clear what it was.
The road was long and difficult. Hills, small rivers, and Skyrealm's strange, unbalanced, absurd creatures filled the path. The map's crude black‑pen road had been drawn so strangely that he could no longer understand anything from it. As he buried his head in the map, trying to figure out where to go, he suddenly hit his head hard on a wooden object and lost focus.
Looking at what he'd struck, he saw a horse‑drawn wagon, its carriage completely covered by a gray sheet. He circled around and looked to the back—there were about 10–15 of those wagons. Apparently he'd stumbled upon some kind of merchant caravan.
He slowly inspected each wagon. They were full of whiskey, wine, rum, other alcoholic drinks, and grain‑type goods like bread—but no one was around. Leaving such loaded wagons unattended was not something a caravan of 10–15 carts would do. Hoping to find a person or something, he checked them all until the last one. Not a single one was empty. When he pulled aside the heavy gray sheet to peek in, he paused—as if a voice inside had whispered his name: "Ken, stop." It was trying to protect him.
But he, not caring much about the voice, slowly lifted the cover. Inside, there was nothing. No food, no people, no trade goods. Where had all the merchants gone? It wasn't a robbery—the goods remained, except in this one cart. They couldn't have stopped to rest without guards—and there was no river or lake nearby to rest by.
As Ken thought on this, he smelled something revolting: the stench of rotten corpse, rust, and strangely, meatballs?
He felt the smell coming from behind him—and at the same time sensed a hot, sharp breath carrying corpses' odor on the back of his neck.
To protect himself, he lunged into the wagon, pressing his back against the wood and looked behind.
Right before him stood a dark green, half-rotted body, with three bright red eyes—two on the right, one on the left—and two huge yellow fangs emerging upward from its chin.
It was unmistakably a goblin type called a "Raider." From its massive body and armor-like clothes, it was clearly a kind of commander. Its right muscle-arm slowly lifted as it drew an axe strapped to its back. The goblin aimed the axe at Ken's throat. Reflexively, Ken dropped to the ground, protecting his head. When he looked up, he heard the chain of the axe handle rattling close to his ear—it was tied to the goblin's hand. The goblin grinned widely and pulled the axe back. The metal blade was sharp on both sides, cracked and broken in places, filthy with dried blood and mud. Obviously never maintained. Still deadly. Ken knew this—and saw the goblin was unarmed momentarily. Seizing the chance, he darted out from its left side.
Ken reached inside his old clothes and pulled out three small silver balls. The goblin stood in front of him, preparing to fling the axe again. Ken faced a far stronger opponent—but he had already found its weakness: it was clumsy. And Ken was flawless in exploiting opportunities.
He hurled one silver ball quickly to the creature's feet and covered his eyes with his left hand. The flash from the ball momentarily stunned the goblin. Ken took the moment to grab the rope tying the wagon's sheet and threaded it through the right rear wooden wheel of the wagon behind him, tightening it.
Once the goblin recovered, it chased Ken, who had deliberately made himself an exposed target. Ken never gave it the angle to throw the axe, weaving between wagons and making the goblin circle 2–3 times. Eventually, they stood face to face. The goblin glared—unhappy. It had intended to finish him off with the first strike. But today, it would have no heroic tale to return with.
The goblin stepped forward impatiently. The moment its foot landed on the rope, it heard a creak—it noticed the rope underfoot and that it was tied to the adjacent wagons. As the rope tightened, two wagons collapsed onto the goblin in a blinding explosion—the same attack Ken had used earlier. The creature tried to lash out, but couldn't even step before being crushed beneath the carts.
Ken smirked, looking at the wreckage. He opened his right palm and drew a circle in the air. When it closed, a spark flickered and bursts of flame formed a dagger in his hand. Unlike the goblin's battered axe, this dagger appeared well-maintained and brand new. He placed it atop the wreckage. The blade ignited on contact, setting the wooden wagons ablaze.
Ken wanted to revel in his victory—but soon realized the fire had spread to other wagons. Anxiously, he checked his pockets. Useless—his cheap map had fallen somewhere inside one of the wagons. He looked around, hope fading; the flames spread quickly. Even he hadn't expected such a fire.
...
Ken exhaled deeply, gazing at the dirt road. "Shit…"
...
Skyrealms; Hell, Floor 0. Time: 4:30 PM. Scorching heat, suffocating humidity, the grueling road felt endless. How long had it been since any sign of life?
Perhaps 2–3 hours of walking. No proper map. He had been following the main road, hoping for a town—or even a single person—until he glimpsed a reflection in the distance. A glass-like gleam from a clock tower. Finally, a town.
After another 10–15 minutes, he arrived. It was silent—as if the road had never been left. The same silence, the same loneliness. Except for a distant windmill creaking on a field outside town, no sound.
Ken wandered slowly through the town. Turning right down a street, he found a market square—completely deserted. He checked fruits and fish—they were fresh. Yet left behind just like that. A strange situation, just like the caravan he'd found earlier.
He wandered until a breeze brushed the back of his neck—just like the goblin's breath. But this time, not corpse-smell—more like aged whiskey.
When he turned, he saw the door of an inn creak open. The inn was called Golden Way, its entrance evoked classic cowboy films. One of the double doors swung swiftly—it had been used recently.
Hopeful for life, Ken approached the inn.
Upon entering, he paused. His nostrils burned. He stood still, letting himself collect himself and scanned the room. The smell of wine hung thickly. He covered his face with his collar. Then crept toward the counter. Inside was very dark—some windows boarded, others shut.
On the counter: three full glasses, two half-full, three empty—lying randomly before chairs. Evidently a group had been drinking here.
Then he heard clinking dishes from behind the counter. He froze. Now, his priority wasn't hope—it was survival. Feeling danger, still choosing confrontation, he moved behind the bar.
Behind it was a small room—its door shattered. He tentatively pushed it—it fell apart with a bang. Inside was a store room with small barrels and bottles, and the sound was coming from under a barrel. He pushed it aside and found what looked like a sealed trapdoor. A firm kick and it cracked open easily. It had not been made strong.
And the smell—it wasn't wine. Worse.
Ken's vision momentarily dimmed. He hesitated, then curiosity overcame him. He descended the wooden stairs slowly.
The darkness pressed in. He snapped his fingers—fingers sparked, flame appeared in his palm illuminating the room. Rotting bones, corroded fish, even tadpoles lay on the floor. He recoiled and stepped over them. At the corridor's end was a wooden door—ancient. The smell intensified, but he continued.
He entered a round chamber. Thick green mist latencyed the air. The odor switched from revolting to strangely pleasant—like knowing a cigarette is harmful, yet craving its taste. He dropped his collar and looked around. Alchemical tools, cages, odd contraptions, a large cauldron. A black cat lay curled near a green flame.
It seemed like a witch's lair.
Ken took a step forward—movement in the mist. Without hesitation, he flung his flame at it. Then—
"AAGH! What's happening!" a thin, shrill voice cried.
The green mist dispersed to reveal a frog-headed figure in witch's robes, arms aflame, staggering. Ken let loose of the flame.
"Put that out, you bastard!" came the high, piercing voice.
Realizing she wasn't a threat, Ken flicked his hand and extinguished the fire.
The frog-witch composed herself and glared.
"You're not going to apologize, huh?"
Ken stared, stunned. A frog-witch?
"HELLO!? At least tell me your name!"
Ken wavered, gathered composure, then replied: "I'm Ken. Just Ken. And you?"
The frog approached, inspected his face, and slapped him—leaving a sticky red imprint.
"You ask a lady's name first, you brute!"
Ken blinked—lady?
She slapped again. "Stop staring at me like I'm some monster!"
She huffed and returned behind her counter.
Ken remained silent, bewildered. She snapped at him: "You still here? Don't you have anything to do?"
Ken spoke softly: "Just... curious. How does a human become like this?"
The frog sighed: "I used to be a beautiful witch, working for the king. Then one day, while gathering frog eyes in a swamp, one frog told me if I kissed him he'd turn into a handsome prince... you know how it goes."
Her voice trembled.
"...it's been lonely for a long time."
She straightened, assumed seriousness: "I kissed him—and he turned into a short, ugly, disgusting thug! I was shocked. Everything seemed normal on the way home—until people started running from me. When I saw myself reflected in water... I screamed."
She paused.
"The innkeeper helped me—he owed me a favor. I'd give him drink recipes and he'd get ingredients to restore my beauty. So here I am."
Ken thought, then asked: "And the town?"
"The town?"
"Yes—abandoned. No one around?"
She frowned: "How...?"
"Like... no one."
She reacted: "Seriously? No one?"
He replied: "Yes."
She: "How? Where'd they go?"
He answered: "I was about to ask you that!"
They stared. Ken sighed: "Maybe a goblin gang raided it—and you didn't notice."
She shook her head: "If that had happened, I'd hear it. Or the innkeeper would've."
"He dropped these supplies just half an hour ago."
Ken eyed the bottles and shrugged: "Witch work, weird as usual."
He sighed again, looked to her: "So... can anything be done? The whole town vanished. Something's clearly wrong."
She took a deep breath: "Wait a second."
She mixed 6–7 potions into a bright green liquid. The smell was awful, but without hesitation she drank it all. Then she started coughing violently. Ken moved to help but a green smoke burst from her mouth and pushed him back. She vanished in the swirling mist. 10–15 seconds later the mist cleared—and his eyes nearly popped out.
Where once stood the frog now stood a breathtaking woman: long black hair, cat-like eyes, pale flawless skin, unclothed. She covered herself with both arms.
Ken thought: She wasn't kidding...
As he stared she snarled: "Pervert."
She pointed to clothes hanging nearby: "Give."
Ken tossed them. She told him to turn away. When he had his back turned, she dressed. They looked at each other again.
Ken asked: "You're not wearing underwear?"
She threw a bottle at his head, ducked another: "Too tight. And who said you'd get to see them?"
After avoiding another bottle, she muttered: "Pervert... anyway. What now?"
Ken lifted a fallen stool, sat, and looked at the cat—it was still asleep. He turned back to the woman: "You never told me your name."
She pulled another stool near her alchemy bench and sat: "No one asked."
She fills a glass with what he hopes is water and hands it to the Tick. As Ken sips what she hopes is water, the witch says, "Lissalia. But the king prefers to call me Lisa. You too, Lissalia, she's very tall."
When Ken realizes that what he hopes is water isn't really water, he spits it all out onto the floor. He then hurries to clean his tongue with his hand. Angrily, he says, "What the hell is this!"
She smirked: "Payment for your rudeness—and my broken bottles."
Her smile was dangerously charming—like someone you'd fall for despite knowing it was hopeless.
She leaned back: "I guess I have no choice but to go to the capital. It's been too long since I've been home. Maybe I'll find answers."
Then curiously: "And you? Who are you? What are you doing in an abandoned town?"
Ken paused. Instead of detailing everything, he summarized:
"I don't know. I woke under a tree on a hill with only this simple map. I didn't know where I was or who I was. A kindly merchant gave me clothes—said he had better but gave these out of pity. Then I lost the map, so I followed the road. It brought me to this town. And now... here I am. You're the first being that hasn't tried to kill me."
She gave a half-smile: "Thanks."
She stared at the open door: "Damn. I'm too kind. I'd go alone, but I took pity on you. Come with me to the capital—we'll figure things out from there. Two people are better than one, right?"
Ken smiled gratefully: "Of course. Two heads are better than one."
---
To be continued…