Chapter 10
A Generous Man
The situation was as shitty as it gets. Literally.
The screams and violent shockwaves from the nearby conflict did little to soothe Jon's frayed nerves. “I have to leave this place,” he muttered, his eyes brimming with tears at the sight of the deceased old man, who lay ignominiously naked. Jon’s thoughts raced, perplexed by the man’s bizarre choice of undressing for the deed. Who even does that? he mused, his mind in a state of panic and bewilderment.
The stench of the old man's unfinished business lingered oppressively in the air. With a grimace, his hands shaking, Jon reached for the old man's feet. As he maneuvered the limp body, lamenting, "Man, what a shitty way to die." The words hung in the latrine's air, and a moment later, Jon's mind caught up with his unintended pun. "I'm so sorry," he whispered to the lifeless man, half-expecting some form of posthumous forgiveness.
Jon's gaze darted around the cramped space, searching for a suitable hiding spot for the body. The latrines were out of the question—too obvious and too grotesque a place to leave him. His eyes then fixed on a large wooden chest in the corner, its dark maw seeming to promise concealment. With a deep sense of urgency, Jon dragged the old man's body, the task macabre and laborious.
As he heaved the old man's body towards the chest, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of his personal belongings—his phone, sunglasses, clothes, headphones, and earbuds—neatly arranged inside like a carefully curated treasure trove. A moment of bewilderment washed over him. Was he going to steal my stuff? he wondered, eyeing the corpse suspiciously.
Then, a sudden realization struck him. "Where's my watch?!" His eyes scanned the chest frantically, searching for the missing Patek Philippe, a watch valued at over $300,000, a tangible link to the world he knew. But it was nowhere to be found.
A heavy sigh escaped Jon's lips, the gravity of his situation sinking in. Here he was, fretting over material possessions while involved in a deadly and absurd predicament in a world where life and death were negotiated with the flicker of Qi and the clash of titanic forces. With a reluctant resolve, Jon removed his belongings from the chest, the objects feeling strangely alien and trivial in his hands.
Carefully, he maneuvered the old man into the chest, his movements methodical, an attempt to afford some dignity to the undignified end the man had met. The chest, once a storage for potential plunder, now became a somber casket.
Jon's hands lingered on the chest lid as he closed it, the finality of the act heavy in the air. The missing watch was a loss, but it paled in comparison to the weight of his current reality. Survival was paramount.
He quickly slipped into his underwear, a wave of relief washing over him as he reclaimed a piece of his dignity after what felt like an eternity of exposure. The soft cotton against his skin was a small comfort in his current circumstances.
He reached for his pants and shirt, the familiar white fabric in hand, but hesitated, his survival instinct cutting through the haze of panic. These clothes would make me stand out if I ever want to get out of here, he realized.
Jon's eyes then fell on the discarded garments of the old man, a pile of fabric that held the last vestige of the deceased's earthly identity. Turning back to the chest, Jon whispered, "I'm so sorry..." the words an attempt to honor the man who unwittingly became a part of his escape plan.
Jon dressed hastily in the oversized clothes, the fabric hanging loosely on his frame. The old man, less built and shorter than Jon, had evidently favored attire that was too large for him, a choice that now played in Jon's favor. As the clothes draped over him, Jon mused, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."
Now, somewhat blending into the unfamiliar world, Jon's appearance, marred by a broken nose, messy short hair and battered face, still set him apart. He ruminated on the oddity of the long-haired men he'd encountered, mirroring the characters from the cultivation novels he enjoyed. Isn’t long hair a liability on the battlefield? he pondered.
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However, Jon quickly snapped back to the pressing reality. Drifting thoughts were a luxury he could ill afford, especially now, when every moment counted. He scoured the room, his eyes keen for anything that might serve as currency or a sellable object in this world. Understanding the importance of resources in unfamiliar territory, Jon sought anything that might ease his impending escape, be it a push of coins (if such currency was even relevant here), or mundane objects of unexpected value that might be traded or sold later, or perhaps even a small blade.
He rifled through the old man's belongings, the chest, and any other storages or nooks within the room, setting aside anything that seemed valuable or utilitarian.
Jon's initial search yielded nothing of value. The sight of a bed nearby, its unused softness a mocking reminder of his own bed, lost in another world and time, made him even more sad, a disheartening start that only served to heighten his sense of alienation and longing for the comforts of home.
However, his luck changed as he explored near a bed in the room, discovering several boxes and an additional chest hidden underneath. Eagerly opening the first box, Jon found it filled with books, their ages varied, some worn and ancient-looking. Maybe there’s a secret technique the MC learns later in these, he thought, very seriously, as he set the books aside without perusing them.
The second box revealed a sight that made his heart skip in excitement, "Jackpot," Jon whispered : gold ingots, glowing with a warm, yellow luster under the torchlight, intricately hand-carved and unmistakably valuable.
Grateful, if somewhat guiltily, Jon acknowledged the old man's unintended contribution with a thankful nod towards the chest, what a generous man, Jon couldn't help but think.
Realizing the impracticality of carrying the entire hoard, he prioritized the most portable and valuable pieces. Rushing to his discarded shirt, he ingeniously transformed it into a makeshift bag, carefully loading it with as many gold ingots as it could hold, ensuring the weight was manageable.
Now, with the gold securely bundled, he moved back to the bed, driven by the compulsion to uncover more. The last box presented a peculiar trio of orbs: one red, one yellow, and one brown. Beside them lay an item undeniably resembling ginseng roots, accompanied by a box of green herbs. Jon's laughter broke the tense silence, a reaction to the sudden turn in his fortunes amidst the chaos. "These are elixirs, for sure," he said confidently, recognizing their potential as power-enhancing substances in the cultivation world, possibly more precious than the gold ingots he had just secured.
He swiftly pocketed the elixirs in the ample pouches of the oversized garment he had inherited from the old man, feeling their weight as a comforting reminder of his newfound assets.
His attention then shifted to the chest, where he discovered an empty, large, leather bag, a beautifully crafted sword sheathed elegantly, and a small collection of papers. Jon's actions were swift, transferring the books, his technological gadgets, and the sunglasses into the leather bag, which seemed fortuitously provided for his needs.
The sword, a work of art in its own right, was promptly attached to his side, its presence reassuring, maybe I can sell this later, looks pretty expensive, he thought, not knowing how to use it. With his shirt repurposed as a makeshift bag now secured on his back, Jon felt a semblance of readiness wash over him.
Approaching the exit, his senses sharpened as the outside din of battle pierced the relative quiet of his refuge. Jon hastily wiped his nose and cleaned his battered face with a scrap of cloth, attempting to regain some semblance of normalcy. "Just go out, take a look left and right, and walk without looking suspicious," he coached himself.
Before leaving, he turned to silently thank and apologize to the old man once more, the gratitude and guilt mingling in his heart.
Stepping out of the room, Jon found the battle sounds had grown more distant, yet the scale of the conflict seemed to have expanded. The air was alive with the sounds of thunder, and he could see lightning bolts, shaped like... dragons, yes, dragons, tearing through the sky.
His borrowed clothes and unkempt hair fluttered in the tumultuous winds generated by the distant clash. "Fuck me, I need to walk faster," Jon muttered, urgency propelling his steps.
He noticed disciples in the distance but was relieved to find himself out of their immediate notice. With a deep exhale, he steered himself in the opposite direction, his expression set in a mask of seriousness and solemnity to shield his inner turmoil.
As he navigated through the chaos, a series of cries pierced through the noises of the battle's shockwaves. These were not human screams but the distressed barks of a dog. Jon's heart clenched as he spun around, his eyes meeting the familiar sight from his world.
It was the dog that had peed on his head, the very animal he had brought along to this tumultuous realm. The creature was frantically trying to sever the leash binding it to a pole, desperate to flee the encroaching danger of the battle.
"You!" Jon exclaimed, recognition and disbelief flooding through him.