(Charles)

“It’s safe to eat,” Charles assured him.

Dylan frowned, examining the loaf. “Shouldn’t all food be safe?” he asked, looking up at Charles.

Charles nodded, agreeing that all food should be more like flak. “So, what happened to you last night?” Small talk was getting him nowhere, so he shifted to a more direct approach.

Dylan paused, the flak hovering just inches from his mouth. “There’s a lot I don’t understand,” he admitted.

Charles waited patiently, his expression unchanged as Dylan struggled for words.

“You probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway.” Dylan held the partially unwrapped flak in his lap, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of the kraft paper.

“Try me,” Charles said, calmly unwrapping his flak. He crumpled the kraft paper and fed it to the fire, which crackled contentedly in response.

“I don’t know where to start,” Dylan admitted, his gaze dropping to the fire as if searching for answers.

“Usually, at the beginning,” Charles suggested. Dylan chuckled but still hesitated. Sensing the need for a different approach, Charles added, “Let’s retrace your steps. What happened before I found you on the side of the road?”

Charles took a slow bite of flak, quietly passing the conversation to Dylan. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the evening chorus of critters began their song. Charles listened, savoring the brief notes of each creature while he waited.

Dylan’s eyes darted around, searching desperately for anything familiar. He glanced up at the forming stars, then leaned closer to Charles. Scratching absently at his pants, he lowered his voice and asked, “Are we still on Dirt?”

Charles found the question odd and resisted the urge to remind Dylan not to scratch his rash. As he looked him over for any missed injuries, Charles noticed the cuts and abrasions on Dylan’s face. He briefly wondered if the man had a concussion—a simple diagnosis for a mender, but Charles was an Outfitter, not a Physician.

‘Is he being literal or figurative?’ Charles wondered. There were plenty of abilities that allowed adventurers to fly. ‘Does he mean agriculture? Or the surface of the road?’ He finished chewing his mouthful of flak and swallowed, still mulling over the possibilities.

Charles glanced down at the ground, frowning slightly. After a moment’s consideration, he hazarded a guess. “Yes, that’s soil underneath us.”

“No, not soil. Dirt! Are we still on planet Dirt?” Dylan’s voice grew more insistent, his confusion plain.

Charles studied Dylan’s earnest expression and quickly realized the chubby man wasn’t setting him up for a joke.

‘Mistranslation? Surely, no one names their world Dirt,’ Charles mused, but the memory of okamijin naming rituals made him sigh. He still suspected a malfunction with the ring, and it was clear Dylan wasn’t from Xel’oria. Yet, the idea that someone could travel to another world unknowingly seemed absurd. Every answer only added more questions to this ever-growing puzzle.

“No, we’re on Xel’oria,” Charles replied, gesturing around them as if it were obvious. Dylan’s brow creased as he processed the information, while Charles calmly took another bite of flak.

“I knew it!” Dylan exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He began pacing in a circle, his thoughts spilling out as he spoke aloud.

“I’ve been isekaied,” Dylan declared, as though it explained everything. “I mean, it should’ve been obvious with the whole ‘magic isn’t real’ thing—but here, magic is definitely real.”

“At first, I thought I was dying, like, my brain made up this whole place to distract me. But then I did die, and that wasn’t the end. So, obviously, I was wrong because you can’t die and still be dying—that’s gotta be a double negative or something, right?” Dylan glanced at Charles, seeking confirmation.

Charles swallowed hard, caught off guard by the revelation. “You died?” he asked, his voice carefully measured.

Dylan resumed pacing, launching back into his monologue as if he hadn’t just dropped a nova.

“And magic hurts, by the way—a lot,” Dylan added casually. “I knew something was off, but I couldn’t tell if it was like Dungeon Delver Daryl, where aliens repossessed his world over unpaid parking tickets from the rovers they left on Mars.

“Then they turned his whole world into one giant dungeon for an intergalactic reality show. He got to run around with his pet cocker spaniel, Prince Biscuit—who could talk, by the way. He gave the dog a magical donut that was ‘safe’ for pets.

“They put Daryl through some pretty messed up stuff. Made him mad—big mad,” Dylan said, inhaling sharply before jumping back into his monologue.

Charles listened quietly, understanding the words but not the context. Dylan had either ignored or missed his earlier request for clarification, so Charles simply took another bite of flak and let him continue.

“Or maybe it’s more like She Who Fucks with Demons—” Dylan paused, correcting himself. “Wait, no, that was the fanfic.”

“I mean She Who Fights with Demons—where a woman gets teleported to another world, gains overpowered magic abilities, and uses snark, trauma, and dated cultural references to defeat demons, gods, and rich people.

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“It’s an aptly named series, really—because it’s not just the physical demons trying to kill her. It’s also about the metaphorical demons of society, capitalism, religion, and, again, rich people.

“And then there’s the deeper layer of her inner demons—struggling with self-doubt and guilt over the terrible things she did to survive. Plus, she dies a lot—it’s kind of her thing,” Dylan added with a shrug.

Dylan paused, his gaze drifting upward as he stared unfocused into the distance.

“Infernal Mother... I was hoping for the dog, but I’m already two deaths in,” Dylan muttered, sitting back down with a sigh.

Dylan finally noticed Charles eating without him. He picked up his flak again, pausing just before taking a bite. “At least she gets to travel the world and sample delicious local delicacies. I wish I knew how to cook...”

‘He’s died twice?’ Charles thought, barely concealing his shock.

“What’s it supposed to taste like?” Dylan asked, holding the loaf up for inspection. He frowned. “Is it supposed to be that color?”

The flak was its usual dusty blue—just as it always appeared when Charles made it. Nearby, the kettle had shifted from reflective steel to a deep, opaque jade, signaling the water was hot enough. Charles preferred this subtle transition over the whistling of mundane kettles, even if it required sight to notice. It was a worthwhile compromise.

Charles took a moment, examining Dylan’s reaction before responding. “It doesn’t have a taste, and the color’s fine,” he replied evenly.

Charles mentally sifted through the information Dylan had dumped on him. Without a second thought, he removed the hot kettle with his bare hands—thanks to his passive ability, it wasn’t too hot to handle. The teapot sat ready on the table, and with a soft jingle, he draped the tea infuser along its side to steep.

For a brief moment, Charles considered the possibility: ‘Is Dylan a secret agent, toying with me?’

A Warden would be a highly ranked adventurer—specialized and more than capable of such skilled deception. Feigning ineptitude and crafting doublespeak would be second nature for someone like that. It would also explain how Dylan could have infiltrated, terrorized, and escaped from a guild stronghold—all without a team.

Dylan was a living conundrum. He was either the most dangerous individual Charles had ever encountered—or the least.

Then came the gagging noises. Charles watched as Dylan spat out a wad of flak, which fell to the ground in scattered chunks. Grimacing, Dylan stuck out his tongue and wiped it with his cloak.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Charles thought with a sigh. He’d had his doubts, but now it was clear—Dylan wasn’t a spy, just an idiot.

Dylan’s face twisted with disgust and betrayal as he glared at Charles. “You said it doesn’t have a taste,” he accused, his body convulsing as he fought back another gag. “I think it’s gone off.”

Dylan placed the rest of his loaf on the table with a grimace. Charles calmly picked it up and gave it a sniff. As expected, there was nothing wrong with Dylan’s loaf. Flak, being magical, would take years to lose even a fraction of its potency.

Dylan pointed accusingly at the loaf in Charles’ hand. “That,” he declared with emphasis, “tastes like ass.”

Charles extended his hand, glancing down at his translation ring with a frown. Was it malfunctioning? He didn’t think magical items could be defective, but this was starting to make him wonder.

“I’m not sure my ring’s working properly,” Charles said slowly, still staring at the loaf. “What did you just say?”

Dylan wiped his mouth and grimaced. “That was horrible. It tastes like ass.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Is that a common flavor where you come from?”

“What? No! Well…” Dylan hesitated, considering. “I guess some people are into that.” He gestured toward the flak. “But I meant this—it tastes like stale cardboard wrapped in seaweed. Way too salty.” He shivered involuntarily as he said it.

Charles sighed inwardly. “It’s all I have,” he replied calmly. “But I assure you, it is safe to eat.”

Charles took another deliberate bite, making his point. He watched as Dylan stared down at the partially wrapped loaf, clearly debating whether to try again. When his stomach growled, Dylan finally gave in and took the loaf back, albeit reluctantly.

With the tea finished steeping, Charles removed the infuser and emptied it over the fire, hanging it on the hook to dry. He preferred to savor his tea after meals, enjoying each flavor separately. Mixing them together ruined the experience. He only hoped the peppermint would help Dylan’s sensitive palate endure the meal.

“Tea is ready.” Charles gestured to the teapot. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” Dylan said quickly, immediately grabbing a mug and holding it out. Charles picked up the teapot, carefully using both hands as he poured for them both. He saw no need to engage the second chamber just yet.

“Did you really name your world Dirt?” Charles asked, resting his mug on the table as he picked up the last bit of his meal. The name intrigued him—it was so literal. Every world he knew had symbolic or grand names, like Xel’oria, meaning Mother of Dragons—the origin world of the draconi.

“Hold up,” Dylan grimaced as he took another bite, continuing to talk through his chewing. “First, I didn’t name Dirt—it was like that when I got there.” He washed down the bite with half his mug before adding, “And second, it’s not dirt. It’s Dirt.”

Dylan began to spell out the name of his world, but Charles raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Don’t spell,” Charles said. ‘He really doesn’t know how the rings work,’ he thought with mild exasperation. The magic of translation relied on context—translating letter by letter wouldn’t yield the same words in different languages.

‘What kind of world doesn’t know about magic? And how do they keep it a secret? How does he even communicate with others on Dirt? Do they all speak the same language?’ More questions piled up in Charles’ mind.

“Translation doesn’t work with individual letters,” Charles explained patiently. “It requires complete words.”

“Oh, okay,” Dylan replied. “It’s just... you keep saying ‘dirt,’ and that’s not how it’s pronounced.”

Charles raised a hand, pointing to the translation ring. “This ring magically translates spoken words so you can understand them.” He pressed his lips together, considering how best to explain it in a way even Dylan could grasp. Patience was key.

“Languages don’t share the same words or expressions,” Charles explained. “The ring uses context, extrapolates the meaning, and picks something close. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Dylan replied hesitantly, nodding as if trying to convince himself.

Charles paused for a moment before responding. “It’s just a minor mistranslation,” he lied smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Charles didn’t want to worry Dylan—or worse, distract him from answering important questions. Besides, most intergalactic incidents involved far more complex issues than simple word substitutions. Honestly, with a bit of cultural awareness and patience, they might never have happened at all.

“What happened before I found you hiding in the vermillion ivy?” Charles asked, calmly steering the conversation back on track.

“I wasn’t hiding…” Dylan crossed his arms. Charles finished the last bite of his meal, waiting patiently for a better explanation.

“Okay, maybe I was hiding,” Dylan admitted with a huff. “But if you were being chased, forced to walk all night in tiny boots, without pants, in the dark—you’d hide too.”

Charles disagreed entirely. ‘I’d fight back. I always wear proper attire, and I certainly don’t fear the dark.’