Reading books surely is beneficial.

Draguan—the beating heart of the Dragon Spine Kingdom—stood as a testament to both power and civilization, a city of stone and steel that had withstood the test of time. With nearly six hundred thousand residents, the streets thrummed with constant activity, filled with merchants calling out their wares, soldiers patrolling in gleaming armor, and scholars discussing politics and philosophy in shaded courtyards.

Nestled in the far west of the vast Roan Continent, Draguan shared its borders with the Cilla Kingdom to the northeast and the war-hungry Melta Kingdom to the southwest. The kingdom itself was divided into four major provinces, each ruled by a duke, while three lesser cities remained under the command of powerful marquises. The remaining lands—small towns and sprawling villages—were governed by lower-ranking aristocrats, who ensured the gears of the kingdom continued to turn.

The air within the city carried a blend of fragrances, both pleasant and pungent. The sweet aroma of freshly baked bread drifted from street-side bakeries, mingling with the sizzling scent of seasoned meats roasting over open flames at market stalls. Yet, beneath those enticing smells lurked the undeniable stench of unwashed bodies, manure, and the faint metallic tang of blood from butchers' shops.

The streets themselves were paved with large, uneven cobblestones worn smooth by the endless trampling of boots, hooves, and carriage wheels. Towering buildings of various architectural styles lined the roads—sturdy stone manors housing nobles, wooden workshops belonging to skilled artisans, and towering spires where mages studied their arcane arts. Vibrant banners fluttered high above, bearing the crimson dragon emblem of the kingdom, a silent declaration of Draguan’s might.

The population was just as diverse as the structures they inhabited.

Humans in flowing noble robes strutted about, their posture exuding the arrogance of wealth, while commoners in simple tunics and worn-out boots rushed through their daily routines. Elves, with their impossibly smooth skin and pointed ears, moved with effortless grace, their expressions often unreadable. Some had long, braided hair adorned with beads, while others had simple ponytails tied with thin leather cords. They barely made a sound when they walked, as if they floated rather than stepped.

Dwarves, on the other hand, were a stark contrast—short but stout, their thick beards meticulously groomed and braided with golden rings. Even the women sported facial hair, though more modest in length. Their deep, rumbling voices carried over the noise of the crowd, often accompanied by laughter or the occasional drunken song.

Then there were the beastkin—half-human, half-animal beings with sharp features, fur-covered ears, and tails swishing behind them. They varied in appearance depending on their ancestral lineage. Some had wolf ears, their sharp yellow eyes darting around warily, while others had feline-like features, moving with a predator’s lazy confidence. A few had broad, muscular frames, their lineage tied to bears or tigers, while others were lean and agile, resembling foxes or rabbits.

I had seen my fair share of them, especially in my own neighborhood.

The elf woman next door carried herself like a queen, her long silver hair cascading like a waterfall down her back. She barely spoke, but when she did, her voice was like the soft chime of a bell—low yet melodious. Then there was the beastkin girl from two houses down. She had wolf ears that twitched at every sound, a thick tail that swayed behind her, and an ever-present grin that showed off her sharp teeth. Her amber eyes always had a mischievous glint, and I often caught her staring at me as if I were something amusing.

Damn, they looked fine.

I couldn't wait to turn five.

Father had promised to take me to the academy for a stroll.

The Royal Academy of Draguan—an institution revered across the continent—stood as the foundation of the kingdom’s strength. It was where the future rulers, scholars, and warriors of the land were molded. Children weren’t allowed to attend until they turned ten, and once they entered, they would be stuck there for a decade.

Ten years of rigorous education.

They called it an all-in-one academy because it prepared students for nearly every path in life. Whether one sought to become a potion maker, a blacksmith, a merchant, a civil servant, a doctor, a builder, or a proper soldier, the academy had training for it. A massive fortress of learning, it had towering libraries filled with ancient tomes, sprawling training grounds where students sparred under the watchful eyes of battle-hardened instructors, and alchemy labs filled with the scent of burning herbs and bubbling concoctions.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

And my father was a professor there.

That place must be damn impressive.

---

Nestled securely in my mother’s arms, I watched the world unfold before me with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child—well, a child who still remembered his past life. The market was a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the energy of hundreds of people moving at once, their voices clashing like an endless tide against the stone walls of the surrounding buildings.

The air was thick with an overwhelming mixture of scents, some pleasant, others absolutely rancid. The warm, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of fresh produce. But just as I started enjoying it, a sharp, metallic tang of blood cut through, mixed with something musky and sour that I quickly realized was rotting flesh. I wrinkled my nose. The stench of death clung to the air like an invisible fog, making me glad that I wasn’t the one walking.

Stalls stretched along the narrow streets in every direction, their colorful awnings providing shade for the merchants as they shouted over each other, trying to attract customers.

"Fresh meat! Straight from the wilds! Only the highest quality monster parts!"

"Elixirs and potions! Keep your skin youthful, your body strong!"

"Weapons! Armor! Protect yourself before stepping outside the walls!"

As my mother carried me deeper into the chaos, my eyes landed on one of the more grotesque sights I had ever seen.

A butcher's stand stood prominently among the shops, a massive wooden counter displaying a horrifying assortment of freshly carved monster parts. A headless, scaly beast, still dripping with thick, dark blood, hung from a rusted hook, swinging slightly whenever a passing breeze disturbed it. Severed limbs were piled high in wooden crates—some resembling those of animals I vaguely recognized, others completely alien with unnatural joints, oversized claws, and disturbingly human-like hands.

A burly man behind the counter, his apron soaked in crimson, worked tirelessly as he carved through bone and sinew with a cleaver the size of my head. Each chop sent bits of flesh flying, some landing dangerously close to the edge of his stall. The sound of his blade slicing through meat was sickeningly wet, followed by the occasional crunch of bone snapping.

The butcher, grinning with a mouthful of gold teeth, caught my gaze and waved the cleaver in the air.

"Startin' him young, huh?" he said with a chuckle, looking at my mother. "This one's got the eyes of a warrior. Maybe in a few years, he'll be coming back to buy his own kills!"

Yeah. Not happening.

I turned away, and my eyes found something far less stomach-turning.

Weapons.

Rows upon rows of swords, axes, spears, and daggers gleamed under the sun, polished to perfection. Some had intricate engravings, while others were forged with more practical designs, meant for durability over aesthetics. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly behind the displays, their muscular arms swinging hammers down onto molten-hot steel. The rhythmic clang of metal striking metal echoed through the air, sending vibrations through my bones. Sparks flew with each strike, illuminating the soot-covered faces of the workers as they shaped their creations.

A part of me wished I could hold one, to feel the weight of a blade in my hands. But alas, I was still a baby. No epic sword fights for me yet.

Beyond the weapon stalls, there were armor shops displaying full sets of plate mail, chainmail, and leather gear. Some of the armor stood on mannequins, looking like lifeless warriors ready to march into battle.

The further we walked, the more varied the market became. There were potion stands, where bubbling cauldrons released colorful plumes of smoke into the air, filling the area with the scent of herbs and something vaguely reminiscent of sulfur. Strange liquids in glass bottles shimmered under the light, some glowing faintly as if alive.

"Miracle elixirs! Restore your stamina, heal your wounds, and enhance your strength!" one alchemist shouted.

"Guaranteed results, or your money back!" another chimed in.

Considering the questionable color of some of those potions, I had my doubts.

Then, just as I was about to give up on seeing anything remotely normal, I spotted it.

A simple wooden crate filled with dirty, misshapen potatoes.

Among all the bizarre, terrifying, and magical things in this world, the most normal food I had seen so far was a potato.

A single, humble potato.

I stared at it, my mind momentarily blank. Of all the things to remind me of my old world, it had to be this.

Memories of golden, crispy fries flashed through my head. The crunch of perfectly salted potato sticks, the soft fluffiness inside, the way they paired so well with—no, I couldn’t think about it. It was too painful.

I let out a deep, soul-crushing sigh.

At least there were other vegetables and fruits that looked familiar. Apples, oranges, carrots—things that still had the same shapes and colors I remembered. But even those small reminders felt like a cruel joke. They looked the same, but the taste? I had no idea. Would an apple still taste like an apple? Or would it have some weird magical property that made it taste like raw meat or something equally horrifying?

I didn’t know, and honestly, I wasn’t in a hurry to find out.

As my mother carried me through the bustling streets, I took in everything—the sights, the sounds, the smells. This world was strange, dangerous, and nothing like my old one.

But at least I had potatoes.