By the time I could spot the orange glow of lamplights in the distance, the rain had finally let up. I was hardly an athletic person but being able to keep a decent pace when walking from one place to another was a point of pride for me, having suffered through and recovered from some nameless back injury years prior that left me largely sedentary. I walked quite ably around Disney World the last time I had the money to visit, and other than getting winded I didn’t end up too much worse for wear ambling through the duties of my retail job back home. Still, following Red’s furry, black form up and down the wet, rolling terrain was taking its toll on me, and I allowed him a bit more of a lead to make things easier on myself by negotiating the flatter portions. I was glad to be wearing my steel-toed boots with their reliable tread and laced tight to keep my ankles sturdy, as opposed to the low-top Doc Martens that I’d slip on for a more casual excursion. Walking, I guessed, would be my new primary mode of transportation, so it was good that I had proper footwear, especially since I didn’t have the money to buy new ones. I wondered if what money I did have would count for anything? It seemed unlikely that wherever I was would accept dollars American as currency, nor would they have access to the funds in my bank account via debit card.

How much money did I have, anyway? I felt my wallet in its familiar place within my right pocket while searching for my phone but didn’t pull it out to explore its contents. More questions popped into my head, following one another like a cat after a squirrel. If I didn’t have anything that counted as money, how would I put myself up for the night? How would I eat? What did they eat here? How would I make more money? What was going to happen to my job back home? Neither the car nor my phone were nearby where I awoke, was it because they’re anachronisms to the trappings of this world? If that’s the case, why was I still dressed in the same clothing? Did I leave a corpse in the car when the truck plowed through me? Do my friends and family have anything to mourn? Or am I just a missing person? The more I let these questions about the life I left behind run wild through my head, the more maudlin and existential I felt. It wasn’t the best mood to be trudging through the mud in, whether I was following a whimsical cat-fox grimalkin or not. I didn’t have a lot; one best friend, my parents, my sister… more distant family members and work friends, of course, but those were the people that really mattered and the thought I might never see them again was depressing. Was I assuming too much about all of this in the first place?

My knowledge of the modern surge of isekai was limited to mostly secondhand storytelling bereft of a lot of the details one might absorb through actually reading the material, so a lot of the tropes they typically used were foreign to me. I was given to understand being genre savvy was how most protagonists survived and prospered in these stories, and while I probably had enough knowledge of various kinds of fantasy and sci-fi settings to do well enough for myself, my specific experience likely wasn’t applicable. The only settings I knew enough about to exploit were from old Final Fantasy games, and they had a distinct lack of moors among their topography. The game-like meta-layer suggested by the presence of a character sheet in the back of my grimoire was even further outside my comfort zone; I’d played enough video and tabletop games to have a basic understanding of how most mechanics worked, but systems could vary pretty severely from game to game, and I was neither inclined to or skilled at breaking them in the first place. I felt ill-suited to be cast in this protagonist role. When I was younger, I might’ve jumped at the chance to be considered the hero of the story, but I was at a point in my life where I’d be happier as an NPC the sidekick knows. Or a shopkeeper who briefly sells the party potions at the beginning of the quest. I wasn’t ‘too old’ for adventure yet, less than a month after my twenty-eighth birthday, but the ambition had been squashed from me by life itself. I was too tired to be the hero, or even the villain. Honestly, shopkeeper seemed like too demanding a role for me as well. I didn’t know the first thing about running a successful business. I’d just be the guy at the entrance to town who tells you the name of the town, welcomes you to it, and offers a single, obvious fact about it. ‘Welcome to Sylvanwood, where we love trees!’ ‘Greetings weary traveler, rest your bones here in Mountainvale. It sure is high up!’

The hillocks began to subside as we approached the town itself, a few cozy buildings of dark wood dotted with flickering lanterns of glass and iron. A small sense of wonder and accomplishment overtook me, and in spite of the dreary thoughts flapping around my skull, I smiled. It felt a bit like discovering an unmapped village in Skyrim or Minecraft, though thankfully nothing spawned in floating a few suspicious inches off the ground. That small hit of dopamine cleared my mind enough to let me be rational through the fog of intrusive thoughts that swarmed when left unchecked. Regardless of my familiarity with the setting, I would probably manage just fine. I was raised in a world that was far more technologically advanced, and as mediocre as my small-town education was, it was probably better than the schooling offered in a pseudo-medieval time period. Magic and anything else unique about the setting I’d have to adapt to, but humans are inherently good at adapting both in the real world and most fantasy games, so I probably had decent odds. While I wasn’t a pessimist, the opposite was rarely my strong suit, but it wasn’t going to do me any favors to dwell on the potential negative outcomes from a narrative sense, especially when I had no clue how they functioned and whether they were even relative to the tropes of more familiar fiction in the first place.

Red brought us past a number of homes and storefronts to a larger building with an iron tree-shaped sign swinging from an extended awning out front reading ‘WILLOWBRIGHT INN’ in large block letters. I was surprised to see a few people still milling around the street, some businesses with the doors open and lights on. It was dark before I awoke, and we’d been walking for the better part of two hours. Even more surprising, instead of a bustling tavern full of people laughing and relaxing, free from the responsibilities of the day’s labors, when we pressed through the double doors there was only a sleepy little bar with one customer quietly staring into his cup. A bell above the entrance chimed dully as we pushed it open, and in response a young man emerged through a door behind the bar. He had brown hair trimmed a bit more stylish than a bowl cut, a white collared shirt, and a brown and black vest. He quirked an eyebrow as he laid eyes on me, likely from the remaining coat of mud the rain hadn’t managed to wash away.

“Evening, stranger. Welcome to the Willowbright Inn. We have a bath, if that’s your fancy. Good meals, good wine, rooms at reasonable rates.” His voice was clear and rich, with a bit of a New England accent.

“All of that sounds super good,” I strode forward, pulling the wallet from my pocket and checking its contents as I went. Sure enough, about seventy-five bucks in paper money and my debit card were my only options. I stopped at the bar, just short of the seats; I didn’t want to track the layer of brown slime I’d developed any further than was necessary. “I don’t suppose you’ll accept any of this?” I held up the card and some of the paper money with what I hoped was an apologetic smile.

“Wizards…” he grumbled under his breath. I wasn’t sure if he was actually attempting to spare me his irritation and failing, or if he was just trying to be quiet enough to create plausible deniability. “I’ve not seen it’s like before, my friend, and I’m sorry to say the nearest bank is three days travel from here. You’re welcome to try your luck with the Artifact for Transfabricating Money over there, but I warn you the last magic-user through town was the one who set it up, so I’m not rightly sure if it works.” He nodded, and I followed his line of sight to a black orb set into the wall near the door, appearing not unlike a bowling ball. If he hadn’t named it, I would’ve assumed it was just a curious piece of décor.

“Thanks, I’ll give it a shot,” I nodded to him, then shuffled toward the object.

The artifact before me wasn’t quite as intimidating as the three seashells from Demolition Man, but there certainly wasn’t a helpful plaque of instruction next to it. Asking for assistance seemed futile, since the bartender clearly had no experience with the thing, but I also didn’t want to look like I didn’t know what I was doing. If they thought I was a wizard in town doing ridiculous wizard business, it would probably help if I acted the part. If spells took a resource like mana to cast, then I doubted any infrastructure-like device would require it to activate for convenience’s sake, so it also seemed unlikely I’d have to cast a specific spell to get it working. So, if I were a magic-user (which apparently, I was) and I designed a system that should be easy to access for others of my ilk, I reasoned I’d probably have it respond to touch. The inherent or residual magic of someone who knew how to do spellwork would be enough to get it to start working, and we could go from there. Perhaps it wouldn’t work, perhaps wizards of this world had more reason for security, or at least a sense of proud elitism enough to require a special spell that you’d definitely know if you were a real magic-user. It was also not lost on me that it bore more than a passing resemblance to a Sphere of Annihilation and touching it might draw me into the void between the multiverses, but I’d already died once today and that worked out all right, so throwing caution to the wind I gave it a solid poke with my index finger. In response it began to emanate soft, white light and I heard a musical tone in my head.

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“Seems to be working!” I gave the bartender a thumbs up and a grin, then immediately hoped that wasn’t considered some kind of rude gesture here. So far everyone I’d met had spoken English, so at least I had that going for me. He gave me a placating thumbs up in response, so I assumed no foul and returned my attention to the artifact.

“Identity confirmed: Glenn Anura,” said a gentle voice in my head, “your current balance is zero gold standard. Would you like to make a deposit?”

“Yes.” I almost answered out loud, but at the last second with my mouth open and my tongue ready to form the syllable, I remembered I was trying not to make a fool of myself and just thought it really hard. The voice was in my head, so I reasoned it should be able to interpret mental responses, as well.

“Please insert deposit currency into the artifact.” Huzzah! I pushed aside the nightmarish implications of this strange device of unknown origin reading my thoughts with all the recklessness of ticking the ‘yes’ box of an end-user license agreement and slid my paper money into the orb. It was a trained effort from a lifetime of interacting with Earth vending machines and automatic tellers. I wondered if other magic-users placed their money neatly on top, or maybe even balled it up and tossed it at the orb. After a moment of consideration, it responded. “You have inserted unknown currency. Lowest value exchange rate will be applied. Do you wish to deposit?”

“Yes.” Miraculously it recognized what I inserted as currency, and poorly-exchanged money was better than no money at all.

“Your balance is… thirty-seven gold standard.” Hm. Slightly less than half its actual value unless there was no such thing as a half-dollar equivalent. Then again, I supposed it was hard to judge value based on what little I knew. When I ran Dungeons and Dragons games, a night’s stay at the inn was only one gold, whereas in the real world a night in a skeevy, roach-infested motel cost at least thirty bucks. “If you would like to make an additional deposit, please insert currency at this time.” I shrugged and threw caution to the wind, sliding my debit card inside. If it didn’t work, it didn’t work. The money would stay where it was, and I could order a new card if I ever got back home. The artifact was silent for a moment, the light undulating slightly as it pondered what to do with my card before it dripped slowly from the bottom and hung patiently in place. “Unrecognized currency. Please try again.”

“No, that’s fine, uh…” even in my life before the crash, I had an odd habit of being overly chatty and polite with automated systems. “Withdraw, please. Thirty-seven gold standard.”

“Prepare to receive.” I held my hands cupped below the artifact and one by one, coins came plinking out. As it happens, I’m a terrible judge of how much physical space thirty-seven coins takes up, but once the pile ran over my cupped hands, Red helpfully collected the ones that hit the floor.

“Hey, you got a bag for these, chief, or… ?”

“I have pockets?” I offered with a shrug. He responded with an open-mouthed grimace. “Yeah, I could do with a little supply shopping… and something to change into after my bath.”

“You want I should hit up the stores for ya while you soak? I know we just met an’ all, but it’s not like I can run off with your cash while ya got me linked.”

“All right, sure,” I agreed, handing him as much coin as he could carry. He could’ve been having me on for the opportunity to do exactly that, but it seemed like an outside chance, and I wasn’t going to gain any trust without extending a little of my own. “Socks, clothes, a bag, traveling supplies… and anything else you think I might need. I appreciate it.”

“Sure thing. You… uh… want I should take your measurements?”

“Um… no thanks. Eyeball it. Take the risk on the larger side. Buy me some big robes or something if you have to. Whatever’s in fashion. I can return it if I’m unhappy, right?” That was a common enough service back home, but things weren’t always that way historically, and boutiques and other custom order shops still held those less forgiving policies in modern times.

“I’ll do my best. No ‘all sales final’ purchases where size is concerned. Anything else?”

“Try not to spend all my money, but if you have to that’s fine, and if you need more, just come and get me.”

“You got it.” He gave me a nod and trotted back out the door, tail whipping energetically behind him. What remained of my funds I brought back to the bar.

“OK, so… I’ll take a bath, a bed for the night, and some food. What’ll that run me?”

“Three gold,” he responded, filling the other occupant’s glass with a burgundy liquid I assumed was the previously offered wine. “That’ll buy you breakfast in the morning as well.”

“Done!” I dripped three coins onto the counter. “I would like the bath first, if possible.”

“Certainly, sir. Through that door at the end of the bar, down the hall on the right side. The last three doors are baths and none are in use; choose whichever suits your fancy.” He held up a finger and went back into what I assumed was a combination office and stockroom, returning quickly with a large iron key, which he handed over. “Up the stairs on the far left, room four.”

“Thank you,” I nodded. The key was helpfully inscribed with a ‘4’, meaning even my mediocre short-term memory couldn’t keep me from finding my way. “When is check-out?” The bartender only had a quizzical eyebrow for me in response, so I rephrased the question. “When should I leave my room so you can make sure it’s clean for the next guest?”

“Friend, I cannot remember when this inn was full enough to require an enforced check-out time. If you don’t return the key before twenty-four hours, I’ll have to ask you for another coin. Two if you want breakfast and dinner again. Abscond with it, and I’ll give your description to the bailiff.” There was no malice or threat to his voice; in fact, he sounded a bit condescending, like he was explaining what must be incredibly basic principles for the locals to me. Which he was, so I took no offense.

“Understood.” I nodded again and did my best to lose as little mud as possible on my way back to the baths.

I was notorious for my long showers, and that translated especially so to a bath where I was caked in all manner of filth. I missed the water pressure of a showerhead, but the simple pleasure of a long soak with a bath bomb was one I indulged in on occasion. It was a large tub with an almost nautiloid shape that I soon found was to accommodate a relaxed posture without easily slipping under. At the foot of the tub was a sort of control panel with a dial, a lever, and a button. The dial regulated how quickly water came through the pipes to fill the tub, the lever caused it to open and drain, then closed again once all the water had gone, and the button created a soothing warmth that quickly spread through the water to cocoon me in comfort. I couldn’t tell if the technology that ran it was more advanced than I was used to, or if they’d just taken a different path to get to the same destination. The heating element was most assuredly magic; it warmed up too fast and never seemed to get hot enough to burn, but I didn’t go poking around the pipes to confirm it; that seemed an overstep of my boundaries as a guest. So, I simply let the tub fill up, warm up, then got in myself and cleaned off the worst of the mud before draining the water and filling it up again to make use of the provided cleaning agents. Things were a touch closer to modernity than I expected, and the integration of what I assumed was magic into something like the baths of a backwater inn led me to question whether the setting was more steampunk, or spellpunk in nature. Was it worth trying to define in the first place?

Take it slow, Glenn. Take things as they come. Relax.

I didn’t expect to fall asleep in the bath, but I perhaps should’ve. Cradled in warm amniotic artifice was intrinsically comfortable. I still preferred the beating drops of the showerhead above me; something about the rhythm sent me to a place of peace more quickly than just floating or reclining. Perhaps it was a similarity shared with the gentle growl of a car over the open road; I’d dozed off in the passenger seat on many an extended road trip, or on the bus during the long drives to and from school in my youth. Being one of the first ones on and last ones off meant I had at least half an hour to kill each way, and as an irresponsible teenager with few friends who stayed up most of the night, it was a perfect time to catch a few Zs. So was homeroom, and study hall, for that matter. Sometimes math class too, but only because the teacher was cool about it. Instead of a moustachioed mathematician, however, it was the gentle knock of a small, furry hand that roused me from my rest.

“Hey, Glenn? I got yer clothes. I don’t really wanna see your dingle, though.” Only at Red’s mention did I realize this bathroom didn’t have a lock on the door. The opportunity to be clean must’ve distracted me more than I realized; I was usually more studiously observant about things like that.

“I’ll, uh… be there in a sec.” Grasping a nearby cup, I poured water through my hair once more to make sure I’d rinsed out all the shampoo before flicking the drain switch and climbing free. Not wanting to keep him waiting, I wrapped a fluffy taupe towel around myself and opened the door.

“Ah, jeeze, yer drippin’ everywhere!” He took a step back, but kept his little arms extended, which was impressive given the amount of bundled cloth he held in them. “I just got myself dry, man…”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Here’s your stuff. Lemme know if anything don’t fit an’ we’ll deal with that.” I accepted them as quickly and carefully as I could while still clutching the towel to my chest. I never did get the hang of tucking it in so it didn’t fall off of me. “They got a launderer in town, too, if you wanna get your other clothes cleaned up. Only one gold, the sign said.”

“Thanks, Red. Any change?”

“Yeah, got it here,” he patted a brown leather satchel with light-colored brass clasps. You want I should take everything else up to your room? The pack an’ supplies, I mean.”

“That’d be great.” I ducked back inside to fetch the key and handed it to him. “Sorry to be using you as a concierge. I appreciate your help.”

“Sever the link when you figure that out an’ keep a roof over my head an’ food in my belly in the meantime, an’ we’ll call ourselves even,” he breezed.