Dawn broke over the desert camp with a soft golden light that painted the dunes in shades of amber and rose. The caravan had pitched itself beside a small oasis—a rare pocket of life in the endless waste. A handful of date trees stood clustered around a modest lake, their fronds rustling gently in the morning breeze. The water looked clean, reflecting the brightening sky like polished glass.
Raymond woke and tidied himself up as daylight spread across the camp.
Last night, he'd thought a lot about his previous life and what to do next. He'd decided he shouldn't try to gather much information from this caravan—asking too many questions would only bring suspicion. He needed them to offer safe passage to civilization. Once in a town with many people, it would be easier to gather intel about this world without drawing notice.
His eyes darted around the camp. The campsite was well-maintained. The tents were made of some sort of fiber that seemed designed to block sand—it didn't look like typical cloth. The material had a strange sheen to it, almost synthetic.
What astonished him more were the camel-looking animals. While similar to Earth camels, these had distinctive features—larger heads with two curved horns like a bull, and backs that were broader, more muscular. Their legs looked thicker, built for carrying heavier loads.
This really is another world.
The thought settled in his mind with quiet certainty.
His observation was cut short by the man with the sword from yesterday, who approached him. Now with clear morning light, Raymond could see him properly—dark skin, coarse synthetic linen-like clothing that seemed practical for desert work. The sword was strapped to his back, but unlike regular swords this one resembled a saw more than a blade. Jagged chain edges were encased within metallic sides, the teeth gleaming dully in the sunlight.
The man neared and gave Raymond a scrutinizing glance.
"Our employer wishes to meet you."
He beckoned with his hand, turning around.
"Come on!"
Raymond followed, keeping his eye on the chain sword strapped to the man's back. How did it work? Spring-loaded? Motorized? The design suggested it could tear through more than just flesh.
While walking, the man glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh! Raymond, right? My name is Sayeed, by the way."
They walked through the camp towards a tent that stood apart from the others—larger, with reinforced guy-lines and fabric that looked newer, less weathered. Two guards flanked the entrance, rifles slung across their chests, eyes tracking Raymond's approach with the kind of casual alertness that came from experience.
Sayeed stopped a few paces out and gave them a curt nod. The guards returned it, but neither moved aside yet.
Sayeed turned to face Raymond, his expression hardening.
"Look, I warn you—no funny business when inside, alright? We take our employer's safety very seriously. It doesn't matter how pitiful your circumstances are, I won't show mercy if you intend to cause any harm. Got it?"
His hand didn't move towards the chain sword on his back, but the threat was clear. Professional. Direct.
Raymond met his eyes and nodded.
The warning carried weight, but not malice. No posturing, no unnecessary threats—just a man doing his job properly. They'd taken him in despite the risk, fed him without obligation. Most mercenaries Raymond had encountered would've left a stranger to die in the sand without losing sleep over it.
Competent. Disciplined. And surprisingly decent.
Raymond and Sayeed stepped into the tent.
Inside, the space felt both familiar and alien. A large desert cooler hummed in one corner, hooked up to what Raymond could only describe as a battery—but nothing like the lead-acid cells or lithium packs he knew. This one looked like something out of a laboratory. A semi-transparent cylinder contained what appeared to be glowing blue liquid, pulsing faintly with its own light. Cables ran from it to the cooler, sleek and insulated with material that didn't look like rubber or plastic.
In the centre of the tent sat a proper bed—not a bedroll or cot, but an actual frame with a mattress that looked surprisingly comfortable for desert travel. A wooden table had been placed to one side, with two chairs positioned across from it. Simple furniture, but well-maintained.
A man sat on the bed facing the table. Fifties, maybe, though it was hard to tell. His face was weathered, but not from age alone. Golden lines skittered across his skin in intricate patterns—thin, deliberate, almost circuit-like. They traced from his temples down along his jawline, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The lines caught the light from the cooler's glow, shimmering faintly as he shifted his weight.
His eyes lifted to meet Raymond's. Sharp. Assessing.
The man extended his hand towards the chairs, the gesture clear.
Raymond and Sayeed walked forward and sat down, the wooden seats creaking slightly under their weight.
The man opposite wore a smile that felt practiced, almost business-like. Professional courtesy rather than warmth.
"Hello, traveler. My name is Rakheel Abu Al Bakar. I am a humble merchant who runs this caravan, all the way from Safira City to Rocky Town."
His voice was smooth, measured. The kind of tone that came from years of negotiation.
Raymond caught the cue and launched into his story. Same one he'd given Sayeed—he and his friends had come as tourists for sightseeing, got caught up in an attack by hounds, ended up escaping alone and separated from his group in the chaos.
Rakheel didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on Raymond, studying him with the kind of attention that made the air feel heavier. The golden lines on his face seemed to pulse faintly, though that might have been a trick of the light. Seconds stretched. The silence thickened.
Raymond kept his expression neutral, his breathing steady. Inside, his mind raced. Does he know? Did I slip somewhere?
Just as the staring was about to become unbearable—just as Raymond was calculating whether he could take both Rakheel and the guards outside—Rakheel turned to Sayeed.
"Step out. I wish to speak with our guest alone."
Sayeed's posture stiffened.
"Sir, I don't think—"
"Out."
The word came flat, final. No room for argument.
Sayeed's jaw tightened. He shot Raymond another warning glance—don't try anything—then pushed himself up and stepped through the tent flap, letting it fall closed behind him.
Rakheel reached into his robes and pulled out a small device, placing it on the table between them. His thumb pressed a button on top. A faint hum filled the air, barely audible, vibrating at a frequency Raymond felt more than heard.
Raymond's eyes narrowed. What is that?
His confusion must have shown on his face—the furrow between his brows, the slight tilt of his head—because Rakheel just smiled. He waved his hand in dismissal.
"It's just a sound isolation device. Nothing fancy."
Raymond tried hard to keep his expression neutral, but his surprise leaked through anyway. Damn this teenage body.
Every thought, every reaction seemed to write itself across his face before he could stop it. Years of training overridden by hormones and underdeveloped muscle control.
Rakheel gave a knowing nod, his smile widening slightly.
"I know your excellency is not what he says he is. But I also know you are not ordinary by any means."
Raymond stiffened. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to move. His weight shifted forward imperceptibly, balanced on the balls of his feet. If Rakheel called for the guards, Raymond would go for the throat first—disable him before anyone could respond.
Rakheel caught the change immediately. His eyes widened. Panic flashed across his weathered face and he raised both hands, palms out, waving them frantically.
"Please! I mean you no harm. I can help you in your mission, but..."
His voice trailed off. He hung his head, the golden lines on his face dimming slightly in the tent's filtered light.
"I only wish that you help me in return."
The words came out almost pleading, stripped of the earlier confidence.
Silence hung in the air as Raymond tried to process what he'd just heard.
Mission? Excellency? What the hell is he talking about?
The merchant thought he was someone else—someone important, someone on assignment. Raymond's mind worked through the angles. He could deny it, but that risked more questions, more scrutiny. Or he could play along, use Rakheel's mistaken assumption to gather information.
After a brief moment, Raymond leaned forward slightly. He kept his voice low, striking, the tone he'd used countless times in interrogations.
"What do you know about my mission?"
Rakheel's head lifted. Relief washed across his weathered features, the golden lines on his face seeming to brighten with it.
"I know your excellency wants to reach the nearest town and you have something big planned there. I can help you with that—transport, logistics, whatever you need."
Raymond's brows creased even further.
Not enough.
The answer was too vague, too careful. It told Raymond nothing useful—not about what Rakheel actually knew, not about this world, not about what kind of operations people ran through these deserts. If Raymond pushed harder, made the stakes clear, the merchant might give him something concrete.
Raymond decided to take a gamble. He let his voice drop lower, edged with menace.
"How do you know about my mission?"
He held Rakheel's gaze, unblinking.
"If your answer is not satisfactory, it doesn't matter if you can call those outside. Trust me—you will die sooner than they can enter the tent."
The temperature inside the tent seemed to drop, though the desert cooler continued its steady hum, blowing the same cool air as before. The chill came from somewhere else entirely.
Rakheel shifted in his seat, his weathered hands gripping the edge of the bed frame. Raymond's stare bore into him—unblinking, predatory, the kind of look that stripped away pretense and left only raw calculation.
He'd dealt with people like this before. But this one was tricky.
The merchant had made his fortune on reading desperation, on knowing when to push and when to yield. And right now, despite every instinct screaming at him to be careful, he couldn't help but wonder if the young man was bluffing. Stranded in the desert with nothing but the clothes on his back—perhaps the threat was all he had.
Rakheel decided to try once more.
His voice maintained that pleading tone, words tumbling out in a rush.
"Your excellency, please. I really mean you no harm. I bought the information from intelligence peddlers in Safira City—that you might be appearing in this part of the desert. I decided to come here for the sake of aiding you, and in turn getting some help for myself along the way. I have no other motives."
He dropped his head forward onto the table, forehead pressing against the wood in a gesture of submission.
Raymond watched every movement, every micro-expression that flickered across Rakheel's face before he bowed. The words sounded reasonable. Plausible, even. Intelligence peddlers existed in every world—people who traded information for profit. The story held together.
But something was wrong.
His instincts screamed it. Years of training in interrogation rooms, learning to spot the truth buried in lies, the lies woven into truth. Rakheel wasn't lying completely—some part of what he'd said was real. But which part? What was he hiding?
If only I had this body's memories. If I knew who the original owner was, what enemies he had, what this world's power structures looked like...
Instead, Raymond was flying blind. Reactive instead of proactive. Guessing instead of knowing.
Passive. Vulnerable.
He hated it.
Raymond moved.
One moment he was sitting across the table. The next, he'd surged forward, his body uncoiling with practiced speed. His fist drove into Rakheel's gut before the merchant could even flinch—precise, controlled, aimed just below the ribcage where the solar plexus sat vulnerable.
The impact folded Rakheel forward. Air exploded from his lungs in a choked gasp. His hands clutched at his stomach, fingers clawing uselessly as his diaphragm spasmed. He tried to inhale but his body wouldn't cooperate. Panic flooded his eyes.
Raymond stood slowly, circling around the table with measured steps. He placed one hand on Rakheel's shoulder—firm, almost gentle—and leaned in close.
"Breathe."
His other hand moved to Rakheel's chest, rubbing in slow circles, the gesture oddly soothing.
"That's right. In and out. It will be okay."
Rakheel's breathing hitched, ragged and shallow, but slowly his lungs began to function again. Each breath came with a spike of pain that radiated through his torso.
Raymond leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"If you don't tell me the whole truth, I have many other ways to make you feel pain."
He let the words hang in the air, giving them weight, letting them settle into Rakheel's fear-addled mind.
"Worse than this."
Raymond's glare intensified, his eyes boring into Rakheel with cold precision.
"Do you understand?"
Each word came out measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of absolute certainty.
Rakheel nodded frantically, tears welling up in his eyes. His breath still came in painful gasps, each one reminding him of what those hands could do. Would do, if he kept lying.
"I... I will tell you everything... please... don't hurt me."
The plea tumbled out desperate, raw. He'd seen Raymond's expression—the complete absence of hesitation, the clinical detachment of someone who'd done worse and would do it again without losing sleep. That realization sent ice through his veins.
"Since my father's generation, we knew this desert had people such as yourself descend from time to time. People not of this world."
He glanced up at Raymond's face, watching for a reaction.
"Some were good people. Some were not. But overall, they were not ordinary. They didn't fear death. They charged headlong into whatever situation arose at the time. Our family..."
His voice trailed off. Raymond's brows furrowed slightly—just a millimetre of movement—and fear spiked through Rakheel again.
"Our family made their fortune by using these people! The only flaw they had was they all kept saying that helping us would make their mission rating go higher, or something like that."
Raymond's mind whirled.
People not of this world. Descending periodically. Mission ratings.
The pieces didn't fit together. Other transmigrators? But they talked about missions like it was a game? And they came here regularly, generation after generation?
His thoughts crashed against each other, theories forming and collapsing in rapid succession.
What the hell is going on with this world?