We ended up running through a few more tracks on the jukebox before bed—Whitesnake, Rev Theory, Steel Panther, Black Sabbath, and Jon Bovi. Luthren was pounding the table like a war drum, Alzareth was simply bawling his eyes out while clapping along, and I was sitting there smug as hell on my high horse for introducing peak Earth culture to these medieval savages. By the time "Sweet Child O' Mine" wrapped, even the neighborhood cat was wiping his eyes like he'd just witnessed a holy vision.
Eventually, Luthren pointed us toward the bathhouse, a big stone room with steam rolling off like a dragon's breath. And holy shit—it had heated water, from a shower no less.
I'd gotten a taste of the fancy end back at that luxury hotel in Caldera. Hot baths heated with fire stones in the boiler. Street lamps glowing all night on thunder stones. Even goddamn air-conditioning running on ice stones—AC on demand. Hallelujah!
I was halfway through enjoying the steaming water when the door slammed open and Alzareth strode in like it was his goddamn birthright. "Move over."
"Bro, wtf—wait your turn!"
He waved a hand lazily, shedding layers of clothes and chocolate bar crumbles in one go. "No way I'm letting you hog the only bathroom with a shower all for yourself. Besides, dude. Relax. I ain't gay. Just a couple of guys sharing some water, right? Good for the environment."
I gawked. "The environment? You torched an entire forest yesterday!"
"Semantics," he muttered, stepping into the shower like he owned it.
I blinked. "…I'm surprised you even know that word."
He ignored me, letting the shower drops hit his face like it was holy water.
Damn, I thought. You wouldn't say it when you first look at him, but Alzareth is totally toned. Not to make a pun right now, but he's actually hiding a total sleeper build under that baggy shirt of hi—Wait, is that a giant fucking scar on his torso?
Yep, that's right—there was a massive, jagged line running right down the middle of his chest.
"Uh—dude. That scar. What the hell happened there? If you don't mind me asking."
"Oh, that?" He glanced down, almost bored. "That's from when the villagers stabbed me. Right after I was born."
I choked. "WHAT THE FUCK!? ARE YOU FOR REAL!?"
He glanced back, bored as hell. "Yeah."
"THEY STABBED YOU!?"
"Yeah."
"AS A NEWBORN BABY!?"
"Yeah."
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WHY WOULD THEY EVEN DO THAT?!"
"'Cause my dad's a dragon."
I froze. "…HUH!? So the rumors you're a dragon are true?"
"Yeah, kinda." He scratched his chest like it didn't even matter. "Mom was a human. Dad's a dragon."
My brain rebooted. "Hold on, how the actual—how does that even work? Like logistically? Biologically? You're telling me a fire-breathing skyscraper just… hooked up with a village girl?"
"Bro, I dunno." He shrugged under the falling water. "Didn't exactly get the birds-and-bees talk. Mom got murdered by the village right after I was born. Guess they didn't like dragon hybrids."
"Jesus Christ, dude! That's—that's like—horrifying! That's not even an anime backstory anymore, that's a full-on tragedy! I'm so sorry I even asked."
"Eh." He scratched his neck. "Most dragons do kinda destroy shit. So I can't really blame 'em for thinking I'd be the same. Stereotype, you know?."
"That's not a stereotype, that's—you know what, never mind." I couldn't believe what the fuck I was hearing. "They stabbed you as a baby. And you still remember everything that happened?"
He shrugged again, water dripping down his scar. "Sort of. I mostly recall loud noises, fire, getting stabbed, being thrown off a cliff, all that stuff. Next thing I know, some old man fished me out of a river just before I was about to bleed out. Then he kind of adopted me. I lived. So I guess it all worked out in the end."
"Worked out—?!" I threw my hands up. "You are insane. That's not how trauma works!"
He smirked faintly. "Guess I'm just… built different."
"I swear to god." I rubbed my temples. "…Look, I don't know what you've been through, but—uh—I hope you're doing okay man. Like, actually."
He side-eyed me, water dripping off his long luscious lashes (let a man compliment another man for once.)
"You're a good dude, Sam. Kinda weird, but good. Don't overdo the sympathy, though. Makes me itchy."
"Yeah, well, I just think the average inhabitant of this world is just a massive asshole. Luthren's cool, though."
"Yeah." He nodded. "I like Luthren. He makes good stew."
After a minute of silence, curiosity got the better of me. "Hey, by the way—how old are you, anyway?"
"Twenty-two."
I blinked. "Wait—you're only two years older than me?!"
He raised an eyebrow. "Why, you thought I was ancient or something?"
"Well, I mean… kinda. You're half-dragon. I figured you'd have that whole mythical longevity thing going on. Like, half-elf but with more fire insurance."
He shrugged. "Eh. Guess we'll see how that looks in fifty years or so—if I'm still alive."
I frowned. "You're depressing as shit, man."
"Thanks," he said flatly, like I'd complimented his cooking.
There was a pause, just the hiss of the water. Then I asked, "You still don't find it weird I'm from another world?"
"Oh yeah, you did mention that yesterday didn't you? Mwha, It's not that weird," he said, tilting his head back. "I just think it's funny. You summon weird clothes, tasty sweets, and music that makes grown men cry. Your world's either paradise… or a freakshow."
"Both. Definitely both."
He gave a single yawn, low. "I'm curious. What's it even like there?"
I took a breath, ready to explain skyscrapers, airplanes, Netflix, TikTok, all the good and bad of Earth—
But before I got a word out, I noticed his head drooping forward, his body slumping under the spray.
"…You gotta be fucking kidding me."
The narcoleptic bastard had fallen asleep. Standing. In a shower.
I had to drag his soggy ass out, wrestle him into clothes, and carry him bridal-style back to the room. And when I tucked him in, guess what he was clutching to his chest like a teddy bear? That guitar. Soulrender. Like, it literally spawned next to him after I put him into bed
I swear he was smiling.
By the time the scheduled hour hit, I had my magic radio on the table, tuning it. Radios here are still kind of a novelty—expensive, but not unreachable for the middle class. They run on thunder stones instead of batteries, sucking ambient mana and converting it into sound. Mostly they're for announcements, news, or those awful medieval pop ballads about sheep. But tonight, I had something better.
Static cleared. A voice like gravel wrapped in marinara hit me.
"Ey, kid. You alive over there, or should I start divvyin' up your wardrobe early?"
"Craig," I grinned. "Good timing."
We exchanged pleasantries, then I brought up the Glaciator. His tone shifted fast.
"That thing shouldn'ta been anywhere near Northrift. Too warm. Wrong terrain." A pause, then a hiss. "The monster's core crystal. You got it?"
"Yeah." I dug it out of my bag, holding it under the lamplight. Monsters grow those inside them — crystallized mana, condensed from years of absorbing ambient energy. The stronger the beast, the denser the core. Deeper color, brighter glow — means it's packed with more juice. Most folk will gut a monster just to sell that rock. Power source, alchemy fuel, hell, some nobles even grind them into cosmetics.
"Pretty, right? About the size of a grapefruit, mostly icy blue, smooth edges… though it's got this weird violet shimmer along the rim. Like the color's bleeding through from underneath."
Craig grunted through the static. "Purple bleed on the rim, huh? That's not normal. Those are residual traces — usually means it's been messed with."
I froze. "…Like, controlling it?"
"Exactly like that. Somebody was puppeteerin' that beast."
I filled him in on the Varkos incident too. That shut him up for three whole seconds before he exploded.
"VARKOS THE FUCKIN' ASHBRAND!? Are you outta your goddamn mind tellin' me this NOW!?"
I winced. "So, you don't mean—"
"Oh, I mean it. Somebody's targetin' you, kid."
My throat dried. "…It's not you, right?"
Craig snorted. "Kid, if I could make more profit by body-baggin' that funky little ass of yours, you'd'a been six feet under the day I met ya."
He wasn't lying. I was the only one who could use my skill. No me, no profit. Which meant only one logical conclusion: rival merchants. Someone didn't like how fast Craig and I were steamrolling markets with otherworld goods.
We spitballed countermeasures.
"Okay. First thing," Craig said through the static, "get yourself a mana-dampening charm. Keeps you off detection grids."
"Tried one," I said. "It burned out in twenty minutes and smelled like fried hamster."
"Then get two."
"Craig, that's not— never mind."
"Second option," he continued, ignoring me, "hire a decoy. Someone to run interference if you get tailed."
"I'm not exactly swimming in employees here," I said. "Closest thing I got to a bodyguard is a half-asleep dragon man with social anxiety."
"Eh," Craig grunted. "That's better than nothin'."
"Barely."
"Third idea—"
"Oh god, here we go."
"Stop pulling so much ambient mana. You're leaving a trail brighter than a tavern girl's perfume."
I frowned. "Okay, wait, how am I supposed to not pull ambient mana? That's like telling someone to stop breathing near oxygen."
"You just put up containment sigils."
"Oh yeah, the things that explode when it rains? Genius."
"That only happens if you use chicken blood."
I blinked. "…Craig, why the hell would anyone use chicken blood for magical insulation?"
"It's cheap!"
"Yeah, and so's tetanus!"
He groaned. "Then use monster blood!"
"Do I look like I got a monthly membership for that stuff? What, you think I just roll up to a demon butcher and ask for a gallon of Grade-A Cyclops plasma?!"
"Kid, it's not that complicated. Everyone does it."
"It's insane!"
"It's normal."
"It's a medieval OSHA violation!"
"What the hell's an OSHA?"
"It's an organization that prevents idiots from dying because some moron said 'just use chicken blood!'"
Craig let out a long, tired sigh—one of those sighs that somehow creates static.
"You're overthinkin' everything again. You gotta just… adapt to the world you're in."
"I am adapting," I said, already annoyed. "I adapted to swords, magic, taxes—"
"You still don't understand the taxes—"
"I understand them ENOUGH, Craig. And the jelly money thing—"
"That was a bribe, kid, not currency—"
"I adapted, okay? But I'm not—I'm not doing the whole 'stone-based Wi-Fi' thing."
"Stone-based—what the fuck are you even talking about?"
"This entire world is powered by shiny rocks that drain mana from the air, yet everyone still uses candles or oil lamps and thinks plumbing is optional."
"That's tradition."
"Then it's stupid fucking tradition."
"By the gods, kid, do you ever just—shut up and accept things?"
"Do you ever stop being wrong?"
He exhaled slowly. "You know what? You're hopeless."
"Hopeless, sure. But at least I'm the only one in this conversation who knows how to spell electricity."
Craig grunted, unimpressed. "You ever think maybe you're the weird one? Maybe the reason the world don't make sense to ya is 'cause you're walkin' around in weird shoes, talkin' into a glowing screen, and summoning random shit from thin air?"
"Okay. First of all, don't talk shit about my Jordans. Second, at least my glowing screen lets me play Bon Jovi."
"Who the hell's Bon Jovi?"
"Exactly."
There was a moment of silence. Static hissed. Craig muttered, "You're gonna die in the dumbest way imaginable, kid."
"Probably," I admitted. "But I'll look good doing it."
The radio crackled, then went silent.
I sighed, leaning back in my chair—only to feel the hair on my neck stand up.
That's when I noticed a shadow behind me.
I caught it flickering against the floorboards, a blur cutting through candlelight. My instincts screamed.
"HUH!?"
I twisted, barely dodging a blade that would've gutted me.
A hooded figure loomed, dagger gleaming. Fast. Too fast.
An Assassin.
Steel flashed again as he lunged—faster than thought. I stumbled back, chest slamming into the wall, plaster cracking behind me as I pushed off and hurled myself toward the corner. He followed with relentless precision, each strike a promise of death. I ducked, rolled, scrambled—survival powered by pure panic.
"WHY ME! WHY NOW! BRO, I'M NOT EVEN THAT IMPORTANT!" I yelled, voice shrill and cracking as I nearly tripped over a fallen chair nearly dodging another strike.
My mind raced. But there was one fact that still kept me together. I could react to him.
When I first got here, I did just enough training to boost my mana pool—self-preservation 101. Turns out everyone in this world has mana, even if they can't cast spells. It's basically magical protein powder; your body absorbs it when you train, helping exhausted muscles recover and grow stronger to the point of gaining superhuman physical abilities.
Push too hard, though, and you fry your mana flow permanently. "Mana deficiency syndrome." Not fun. So yeah, progress here means steady work, not anime time skips.
However I had one advantage that others had not. My weird Wamazon interface lets me assign stat points manually whenever I 'level up'. Everyone else's stats rise evenly. Except for me. And I put everything into speed and agility. Both speed and reaction movements risen to new heights. Because when shit hits the fan, running away seemed smarter than trying to punch dragons.
"And I know what you, my dear reader, might be thinking right now," a narrator would've said if my life were a book. "Should you be impressed? We've seen A-class monsters, S-class criminals, even a Z-rank monstrosity show off the destruction of the ecosystem. Why would a mere assassin matter?"
Easy. Because I'm still a bitch. And I will fucking die if nobody saves me.
I dodged another strike. My lungs burned, heart pounding. I could keep up—but barely.
Restless thoughts went through my head:
This guy is probably C-class. Superhuman speed, killer precision. And me? One hit and I'm meat paste.
"ALZARETH, WAKE THE HELL UP!" I screamed between dodges.
From the bed, Alzareth snored. Hugging Soulrender.
"…chicken… chicken nuggets…"
"ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!?"
Then it hit me. Yesterday, when Ashbrand's crew came at us, Alzareth woke instantly. But now? Nothing.
I stumbled back, realization sinking like ice water.
Hold on, I think I get it now. Yesterday Varkos was threatening the both of us. Which means he only wakes up if the hostility's aimed at him. If I'm the only target, he'll just keep on… sleeping.
"YOU USELESS FUCKING BODYGUARD!"
The assassin lunged again, faster this time—his blade slicing through the air like a whisper.
I ducked, the edge nicking my hair clean off the top like a budget barber.
"MY FADE!" I screamed, flailing backward into the table. My radio crashed to the floor, crackling static. "CRAIG, IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS, SEND HELP OR A COFFIN!"
The assassin just kept coming—silent, efficient, definitely not paid hourly.
I threw a chair. He sliced it in half. I threw a plate. He sliced that in half too.
"Fuck."
The guy finally spoke, voice cold and weirdly formal. "Your head shall be mine, merchant."
"Oh, cool! A talking cliché!" I dodged again, high on adrenaline, as his blade grazed my sleeve. "Do you assassins take classes on edgy one-liners, or does that just come with the cloak?"
He didn't respond—he just kicked me in the chest. Hard. I flew backward into the wall, gasping. My broken ribs screaming in pain.
Okay. That's it. Plan A: panic. Plan B: more panic. Plan C—improvise.
I flung open my Wamazon interface, scrolling with trembling fingers. Come on, come on, think!
What can I buy that'll save my ass in ten seconds or less? Sword? No time. Shield? Too slow. Gun? Too expensive.
Then I saw it.
Item #934—"WAMAZON Prime™ Tactical Pepper Spray: Bear-Grade."
In stock.
Instant delivery.
I slammed [Purchase].
With a fwump, a little box appeared mid-air and smacked into my chest. I caught it on reflex, eyes darting between the assassin and the cardboard.
The assassin blinked. "What in the name of Galdorr—"
"Oh Christ," I muttered, "I forgot I have to open it first."
He lunged.
I threw myself sideways, ripping the box open with my teeth, sliding under the table as the blade carved sparks off the floor where my neck used to be. The mace—which flew out of my hands due to panic—lay just a few feet ahead.
Another slash—vertical this time—splintered the table above me.
I kicked off the leg, skidding across the floor toward the mace, snatching it just as a strike came down from behind.
But I'd seen it coming.
I twisted, rolling out of the way in the nick of time, the blade slicing through air and missing me by a hair.
As the assassin raised his weapon again, I popped the cap on the canister.
"Eat capitalism, motherfucker."
A jet of bright orange mist blasted straight into his mask. The guy screamed like his soul just got baptized in hot sauce.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH—FUCK—SHIT—SHIT—SHIT!"
I blinked. "Wow. Didn't expect him to have such a foul mouth."
He staggered, clawing at his face.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU HORSE-COCK-SUCKING—AAAGH—WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY FACE, YOU—YOU—(incoherent shrieking that would get censored on MTV)!"
"Jesus Christ, dude!" I yelled, stepping back.
"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCK THA—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH IT KEEPS BURNING—FUCK—FUCK—SON OF A *********** ******** ************!"
I stared in disbelief. "Holy shit, this dude's getting censored in real time."
"IT'S IN MY EYES! IT'S IN MY EYES!" he bellowed, thrashing blindly before crashing backward through the window. Glass exploded outward in a rain of shards as he vanished into the night, howling profanities that probably violated several divine broadcast codes.
Silence fell. My heart hammered.
I stared at the broken window, at the empty space where a literal assassin just rage-quit my room.
"Ha… ha… haaaa holy shit I'm alive."
From the bed, a soft snore.
"...ca-caramel layered biscuits…"
"Fuck you, Alzareth."