Beyond the gate lay a cobblestone road surrounded by cornfields. In the far distance to his left, the road turned into a forest, its oak trees looming bare from the cold, while to his right, the fields stretched to the horizon.

He shivered, stripping the robe soaked in blood. His attire beneath was only slightly more dry, but he’d take every advantage he could muster.

Although snow didn’t yet cover the landscape, he guessed it was around winter. And yet, the corn was nearly ripe, withstanding these tough temperatures. However, he soon averted his thoughts, as there were more important matters to tend to.

He didn’t know why this world would resemble his previous one, but since there were fundamental differences such as the irrefutable existence of supernaturality — for all he cared, it’d be surprising if both biospheres didn’t differ at all.

There weren’t any signs of life on either path, so he chose to turn left. Chances were, these fields would be in closer proximity to some kind of settlement while the corn would resolve any hunger crisis that might arise.

The fields of corn stretched endlessly, almost as if he’d truly returned to the world of endless fog. By the moon’s drift, he’d estimated it had been around two hours. Meanwhile, the infant had begun crying again, but he hadn’t figured out how to calm it down.

Is he cold? Does he miss his mother? Is he hungry? At the word ‘hungry’, Deus’s stomach rumbled and he turned right. Raw corn was not very nutritious and wouldn’t help against his exhaustion, but it would fill his stomach.

He walked up to a corn plant, attempting to pluck an ear of corn, but it was too tightly conjoined with the stem. He retried, and when it didn’t work, he opted for another technique. Twisting instead, Deus finally managed to split the ear and dangled it above its mouth.

He didn't dare feed it directly, the scene of his hand being mauled imprinted into his mind. A short breath later, and he exhaled deeply, glad that he still hadn’t lost all reason. The infant’s cries had stopped instantaneously, chomping down the entire ear.

He twisted another ear and awkwardly munched it down. It was very bland, but the remnants of blood which still lingered on his taste buds eased the experience. It was difficult to chew, and he swallowed it down in chunks, which made him wish he had similar fangs as the infant.

This corn shouldn’t be meant for human consumption, but fodder for livestock such as pigs, cows or whatever people eat in this world. Deus gulped, then added half-jokingly, I’m lucky this guy isn’t a picky eater. Based on his teeth, you’d have guessed he’s a strict carnivore.

Just as he turned to return to the path, a severe fatigue washed over him, his thoughts turning sluggish abruptly. He plunged to the field’s soil, his vision twisting as dizziness assaulted him.

He tried to catch himself, but his body barely responded to his commands.

Thud.

He landed onto the ground, his body cushioning the fall of the infant. Just as before, the infant didn’t respond. Was it thick skin? Or was it this abomination’s mentality?

Is this how far I’ll go?

He had not even slightly come close to attaining freedom. Although he was calm inwardly, he wasn’t content. If it had been anyone else, they’d have complained it was rigged from the very beginning, that they were doomed. After all, his navel was gouged within the moment he transmigrated, setting him up for failure.

Deus blamed only himself — though not in a self-deprecating manner. It was his weakness that was at fault. Similarly, everyone born would die, they were doomed from the very beginning. Yet on their deathbed, would they complain that life was rigged?

No. As you’d grow old, the body would grow weaker, more susceptible to damage. By then, nearly everyone had accepted this weakness, that they could not prevail against what would eventually be the end of them.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

At this moment, an intense surge erupted within him, fueled by the intense desire for strength. In a last-ditch effort, he took hold of a stone within the road, and pulled himself in the middle of the path, while ignoring the infant.

If anyone were to cross this road in the dead of the night, it was highly likely they’d overlook him and ride right over him, snapping his neck. Only with the rise of the sun would they notice him.

His exertion had expended all his energy, and his vision faded.

…

Deus awoke to the mellow tunes of deep organs. The rays of midday basked him in a brilliant light. However, the woolen blanket covering him was drenched in sweat while his heart was pounding.

A nightmare? He thought of the day prior, wondering how much of it was reality or dream. When he recalled his injury, he pulled aside the blanket.

Beneath, his waist was swathed in several layers of bandages. Whereunder his navel lied, a red spot stained the white fabric, while it ached lightly.

He frowned as he realized that it’d all been real. His transmigration, the ritual, the brawl, and his death and revival. He fell into deep thought as he combed his memory for further details.

It took him a couple of seconds to complete his recollection, and his attention was cast onto a particular problem — the half-monster infant. Someone had discovered him lying on the road, bleeding profusely. If so, they had to have disembarked their carriage, likely upon dawn. Therefore, it was well within the realm of possibility for them to have noticed the infant as well, simply tracing back the blood trail left behind.

He’d already guessed this world wasn’t as advanced as his original one — perhaps similar to that of the Early Modern period of Europe — while supernaturality clearly existed. What did that imply?

Even if the person that had saved him didn’t know of this supernaturality in detail, it was practically certain there was some wide-spread belief of superstition ingrained into this world’s citizens. Therefore, it was probable they’d regard it as a spawn of evil.

And while his analysis might not be flawless, it was likely they’d definitely regard this infant as the carrier of a disease, despite not being contagious due to a lack of medical development.

Sighing, he directed his attention to his surroundings. He found himself in a room with walls of bricks, culminating in an arch. It was frighteningly similar to the underground chambers of the manor. However, the windows embellished with a tilted horizontal grid of tracery coupled with the ceiling’s low height proved otherwise. On his left-hand side stood a wooden locker and in front was a desk, a metallic inkwell embedded inside.

“Hey!” a high-pitched voice called out behind him, carrying a sense of concern.

Deus turned his head and set his eyes on a pale woman in her mid-thirties. She wore a white tunic reaching down to her ankles, layered with a black apron above. A coif covered her hair, leaving a snow-white hairline peeking slightly.

He only registered her albinism subconsciously, overshadowed by the relief of being able to understand what she was saying. It left him momentarily speechless, several questions arising in his head.

If his ability [ Fragmented Self ] would continue to translate all languages, what was the point of the “mutation”? Was it simply a rebranding? He wasn’t quite convinced.

She didn’t wait for him to respond, instead taking the initiative to barrage him with countless questions.

“Are you feeling well?”

“What happened, anyway? Are you a thug? Why were you stabbed? Was it one of those heretics?”

“If we had decided to return a day earlier, you would’ve bled out! Do you have a family?”

“You’re injured, lie back down, dammit!”

Deus complied, lying back down on the hard mattress. Adept in impromptu, he had already outlined a character during her rambling monologue, which he’d assume from now on. His expression contorted as he grunted and tears welled in the corner of his eyes.

“I-I’m so sorry for being such a burden. My- My wife! She must be worried sick!”

He suddenly let out a couple of rugged breaths, as if reliving a traumatic event. The sister quickly walked over to him, placing her hand on his forehead.

“Sir, you’re safe. Focus on resting, we’ll discuss this sometime else.”

“No,” Deus said, his breathing stabilizing again as he averted his gaze, “It’s alright. How long has it been?”

The sister blinked, momentarily lost in thought. “Oh, right. It’s been around six hours since… that.”

Deus pretended to fall into deep contemplation as he refined his character’s nuances.

“It all went so quick. From the bushes, two masked men appeared, and then…”

He paused.

“They beat me, and when I was on the ground, they stabbed me,” He said and placed his hand above his naval, tears running, “They left me dying in a pool of blood, but…” He balled his fist. “As I waited for death to come, I heard an infant's cries, with a mouth that covered the entire face!”

“I don’t know what happened to him, but the bandits must’ve left him behind. I believe it’s because of him that I prevailed this long. I couldn’t give up on him.”

Upon uttering the word ‘death’, even more tears trickled down, and he turned away. In the corner of his eye, he observed the sister, gauging her reaction.

She frowned, her brows furrowed. Only after a few seconds did she interlock her hands with both thumbs clasped together, uttering a few words.

The Mother of Darkness,

Deus was stunned, his eyes opening a slit. Again, this invocation was English! Why?

Demise to the Infernal Torch,

She, born within the Abyss.