Blurry-eyed and numb all over, a young man pulled himself through the mud. His breaths were short and his teeth clattered together in the cool night breeze. His robes were soaked through, clinging tightly to his wiry body.

“F-Fucking savages,” He groaned. His hands dug into the mixture of dirt and sand, hoping for some kind of dry warmth. He was not in much pain, which was bad. He had already lost sensation in his fingers.

He had to keep moving, or he would die here. Factoids pertaining to how long the human body could survive freezing temperatures floated around in his mind. The stats could wait. He needed warmth.

Fortunately, the river had not carried him beyond the extents of the town. He perceived a source of light in the darkness. Reluctant as he was to encounter anyone, he had no choice but to crawl towards it.

It was close. No more than a dozen feet from the shore. A fisherman’s cottage, perhaps.

Summoning what little strength he had, the young man completed the short crawl over and propped himself up against the side of the building. He pulled at his icy robes to remove them, but they clung hard to his shivering body. His arm fell to his side, refusing further commands. He had no strength left.

Helpless, he gazed up at the sky, trailing his eyes along the protruding thatch roof of the building he lay against. The sight churned his emotions. Thatch? He was used to sturdy buildings framed with uniform, methodically cut planks of wood filled in with concrete and coated in stucco—and fully insulated from nature, to boot.

He did not think to pinch himself or to bite his cheek. He was past that point. Whatever the circumstances, he had arrived in a strange new world and he was cold, wet, and alone. He could do nothing but harden his heart and pray that morning would come.

The lantern hung several feet off the ground, and its small flame warmed his cheek. He took a few deep breaths and then made another attempt at peeling his robes off. He succeeded! Partly… He still lacked the strength to move his lower body so all he could manage was his top. He groaned once, then prodded around blindly with his neck for a comfortable place to rest his head. When this was sorted, he let his eyes rest. He hoped that when he opened them he would be back in his little apartment in San Francisco. He hated the city, but he hated the countryside more.

.

…If he was expecting sleep to come so easily, then he was sorely disappointed and maybe even a little lucky. If he were to fall asleep now, there was a good chance that he would not wake up. He felt some strength return which he used to shimmy just a little further out of his robes. Every inch of skin he liberated from his deadly cold clothing was another inch that could absorb the heat of the lantern’s glow

He closed his eyes once more. Like this, every few minutes he would struggle a little more, then rest, then struggle. He did this until light began to peek up over the horizon. It was a combination of his small struggles, the lantern, and the lucky fact that the building blocked the wind that he survived the night.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Alongside the dim light of the early morning came clarity of thought… and a bad headache. The young man took his head in his hands and soothed his temples. He was stark naked at the moment, but his displaced clothing was still cold to the touch. That said, he did not know what the punishment for public indecency was in this world—it was not a topic that novels often explored. He picked up just his outer robe and wore it, letting it hang a little too loose for comfort so to minimize contact between the icy fabric and his skin. He considered leaving the other articles where they lay, but a thought came to him and he picked them up with some difficulty. ‘The robes of a rich young master,’ he thought. ‘Hopefully worth their weight in silver.’

The fisherman’s house, which he assumed was such due to its proximity to the river and the presence of a nearby dock, was situated on the outskirts of town. After the events of last night, he had a pretty good idea of his current situation and he would leave immediately if he could, but buildings meant humans, and humans meant trade. He needed to offload his clothing in exchange for some quick cash and then vacate the area ASAP. He was no longer welcome here.

The town was larger than expected, and he was worse at reading directions than he remembered. It was a mercy that he could comprehend the local language despite seeing it for the first time yesterday evening—scrawled across his death warrant, no less! That was where he first learned the name of the body he had possessed: Jian Chen. Presumably the source of his newfound proficiency in fantasy languages and definitely the source of all his problems. The name meant “Sword” or… something. But it may as well have just meant “death”—his death, if the Feng clan’s matriarch caught even the faintest whiff of his survival. And if she did, the only “sword” he would need to worry about is the one that she would plant in his gut.

On the topic of names, his real name, aka the name of the ego now occupying the body of Jian Chen—was Jon. Jon Reese. 25 years old. Former resident of Earth. Recently graduated from university. If you asked him what his greatest worry in life was two days ago, he would regale you about a “schism” that occurred between him and his girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend. If you asked him the same question today, the answer would probably have to do with his forced transmigration into a fantasy world of dubious character.

He ended up knocking on the door of the first shop he came across, easy to spot from the large sign posted outside. It was early and the door was locked, but he was soon let in. The ensuing exchange was mercifully short. The shop’s owner was a decrepit old man who gave him a price the moment he set the clothing down on his counter. After explaining to the storeowner that he also wanted to sell the robes he was currently wearing, the old man gave him 15 small silvers, a pair of cruddy leather sandals and a sackcloth tunic for the lot. Knowing he was being scammed, but unwilling to make a scene, he accepted with a smile and was quickly out the door, moving as fast as his new kicks and tired body could carry him to the south gates.

The reason for his haste: a wrinkly old woman in her nineties with a sky-high cultivation level and a hair trigger. This she-devil had a granddaughter—Feng Lan—the apple of her eye. Jian Chen and Feng Lan were engaged. Unfortunately for Jian Chen, Feng Lan did not reciprocate his feelings and tried to break off the engagement. She succeeded… sort of. While the terms of the engagement specified that both parties had to be in agreement to annul the engagement, this only applied if both parties were alive. The Feng clan, influenced by their senile matriarch, decided the best course of action was to kill Jian Chen and dump his body in the river.

The plan was successful up until here, but an unrelated third party: Jon, for unknown reasons, possessed Jian Chen’s body while the latter was still locked up in the Feng Clan’s dungeon, waiting to be executed.

The rest was a blur. At some point, Jon was thrown from the top of a very tall cliff. After almost drowning—twice, narrowly avoiding freezing to death and trading his royal blue robes for a glorified bag, a pair of medieval flipflops and some pocket change, he was finally on his way.