To those who dream to flee to somewhere, may your wish be granted.

If I were to be asked if I would agree to be isekai'd, my answer would be no, not because the act of getting reincarnated would be scary (it in itself would be something somewhat desirable), but because reincarnation would imply that I would have to die, which, even if momentary, is not something I would like to experience. Additionally, I would feel guilty if, by my decision, I got transported into this magical world and my family and friends were left behind with no explanation of why I left.

Of course, now that I find myself dumbfounded by the use of magic in the world I just appeared in, it doesn’t really matter all too much how and why I got here, and from what I could tell from the quick scans of the small city street around me, they should at least have control of the elements and or more things, as passersby did not blink twice or react to my sudden appearance. Of course, to make sure they didn’t suspect a thing, I quickly put my hands in my pockets, making sure I didn’t accidentally drop my wallet.

Walking and walking, I eventually reached a place that appeared to be a convenience shop. At that point, I finally realized that I was penniless, or, well, to put it more accurately, whatever this world’s currency was, I was (insert their currency)-less. Penniless I was not, for I still had my wallet and trusty wrapper from food I already ate. (If only I wasn’t an iPad kid and brought my cellphone.) Alas, we must look forward, even if I am now lost, (insert their currency)-less, and probably unable to find a job because of my age.

So, I should talk to people. Yes, I should. I make sounds as if I’m clearing my throat and head for the prettiest person nearest to me, and that so happens to be a girl inside what is the aforementioned new world convenience shop.

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Why the prettiest person nearest? Well, it’s because I find people who are prettier to be easier to talk to. I also find that, even if they are meaner, they are nicer than ugly ones. She had beautiful brown hair that was tied back in a little ponytail, and she had a small necklace of a rose that could be used as an alibi to stare at something else. Her eyes were blue; the rest of her appearance was unremarkable, overshadowed by those two prominent features.

As I approached, again making a noise that tried to replicate that of clearing your throat, I got up the nerve and kind of stared into the necklace a little as I said, in an out-of-character shout, “Hello! Can you understand me?”

I could quickly tell by the way she looked at me, puzzled, and the way she somewhat covered her necklace, that she could not understand me. As all hope seemed lost, the convenience store employee said in a not-English-but-understandable-in-a-way-of-how-Spanish-and-Portuguese-understand-each-other, “Are you from Tractor?” she suggested or something like that.

“Maybe,” I replied.

“Oh, you have a weird accent,” again, I somewhat guessed what she was saying.

“Yeah, could you give me a job?” I blurted.

“Oh, another one without a passport,” she angrily, or maybe regrettably, whispered.

“Sure, but you won’t get paid much,” she finally replied.

I was shocked, but as the situation was clearly favorable, I did not question it.

“So, are you an escaped slave or a refugee?” she asked, or at least that was what I deciphered.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I won’t give you a place to stay, and I’ll pay you in store credits,” she exclaimed.

She went on explaining this continent where we were, but between all the country/city names and how she spoke, I didn’t learn a thing. Of course, there were observations I made on the spot, like magic and the fact there were people with heads of animals.

“What I will give you is that chair over there,” she pointed at a little chair that was just outside the shop.

And so, my days as a cashier began.