“Fucking finally”

In contrast to the title of the phrase above, there will be no "fucking" of any kind in this entry. Not only is "fucking" irrelevant to the plot of this chapter, it is also statistically improbable that I will ever experience "fucking" in my life, not that your chances are any better, of course.

What I mean by "fucking finally" is the fact that I have finally found civilization. Now, I realize this is an entirely foreign concept to you readers, but I am now presented with an opportunity to actually socially interact with other human beings. Simply fascinating.

To understand how I arrived here, where I now sit on a straw mattress bed, writing (un)comfortably, allow me to walk you through the events that transpired after my last entry.

First of all, I did indeed escape from a pack of wolves. At least, I think they were a pack of wolves. I just remember catching a glimpse of two glowing citrine dots in the darkness and I immediately knew that I had to run. I also think I heard some ruffling in the grass behind me, so it's real. I swear, I'm not making this up. After all, I'm definitely not a man who would tuck his tail and escape before even confirming that there's danger in the first place.

I see that you're perfectly convinced by my argument… And I continue my brave tale. After my brilliant escapade, I found myself wandering within a thin forest, evading the trees in fear of touching any insects while still being on my guard regarding the wolves. I am a cautious hunter, one that will never be caught by surprise, mark my words.

After a few minutes of relative silence, I facepalm and come to the startling realization that there are, in fact, trees. Something I hadn't seen even after hours and hours of walking, if you recall from the previous chapter. If you're a good boy, you'll also remember that I need these babies to make a torch.

I was largely relieved by this and went to work on breaking off a decently long branch from one of the ferns. This process admittedly took far longer than it should have due to my lacking height, but of course, I still stand at 170cm, most likely far taller than you can ever hope for. Bitch.

Well, I jest. it's not like I judge people based on their height. After all, midgets are the same as everyone else.

What am I even saying? Right, so to prepare even further, I gathered an additional branch and charred their tips with a lighter, in hopes that they'll burn more easily when I need them to. I don't have any oils or cloth with me, so this is the best torch I can make at the moment. I could improve it with some lighter fluid, but there's not nearly enough available, so it's not worth wasting at all.

Feeling slightly safer with my updated arsenal, I flick my bayonet into the air, feeling its sleek form spin in the air for… I estimate a decent eight or ten times before its smooth handle lands into the flat of my palm. My mind wonders if this will protect me, just in case the fire doesn't work out.

My experience with fighting can't match up to the likes of Eliana, and it mostly amounts to tearing into the playground bully's face during second grade. Still, I can say that I that I possess the basic knowhow when it comes to weapons.

Sure of my skills, I feel the need for an opponent, if only to prove my place in this world. Really, even if it's this late in the night, it's not too late for a goblin or something to show up. Author, this is your chance to redeem yourself. Make a plot development. Hand over the OP skills… Have a goblin or kobold or even a dragon for all I care show up and make me fight it. We will prove our worth as a species in this forest bloodbath. Offer me the blood of my enemies.

Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies. Offer me the blood of my enemies.

Ouch, I just cut myself on this edge. I don't have an eraser, so you're just going have to pretend the giant edgy block of text above doesn't exist.

Anyways, as a result of my runaway earlier, including my current desire for any type of stimulus, I was a little too excited for any sleep, not that it would be safe to sleep in the middle of the woods in foreign territory. Instead, I begin surveying my surroundings using my flashlight, trying to make some sense of where I had gone relative to the valley.

Fortunately for me, it appeared that I did not stray far from the mountain range during the chase. It's still to my right. This is actually quite advantageous, since if there is, let's assume a pack of wolves hunting me, they can only surround me from 180 degrees. This is, in practice, good advice for fights against large groups, as having a wall to your back where no one can attack you from behind is better than being completely surrounded by foes.

Other than these observations… Nothing else really happened, and I didn't make any revolutionary breakthroughs concerning the nature of reality and the purpose of life.

Oh, how could I forget, then there's the walking. Needless to say, I did not derive any joy from this act. If you've ever had the misfortune of participating in a legitimate week-long hiking trip, you will come to understand my pain.

Starting from day one to day seven, you'll have to endure walking for motherfucking ever for the entire day and you won't even see a sign of your progress or even a hint that people exist in the area, save for the occasional crossroad or log bridge every two hours or so. And don't get me started on the fact that most of your hike will either be a zig-zag trail up an impossibly steep mountain, or a downhill spiral directly next the side of a cliff, merely a wrong step away from a grisly death.

I offer my prayers to the Gods that I encountered the small mercy of traversing flat land during my otherworldly adventure.

I simply cannot understand creatures who enjoy mountainous activities while still having the audacity to call themselves humans. To me, you are a regressed form of our species that somehow does not find joy in the comfort of our automated and wealthy lives. Is it not the aim of every species to achieve a hedonistic lifestyle: to benefit the most for the least amount of work?

So why suffer, I wonder?

My less than enjoyable time spent walking aside, you'll also find it lucky that I ripped out my original draft for this, which was just me talking to myself while walking, which is exactly what I'm doing now, except it's ten pages longer.

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By the time day broke, my grudge towards hiking was somewhat subsided, but as a slight growl came to my stomach, I was reminded of the rather desperate situation I was in. I could certainly elaborate on the despair and anxiety I felt in that moment, but in short, I was scared shitless about my chances.

I've just passed at least two mountains, and I allow myself a brief moment of rest as I sit against a boulder, sighing loudly while massaging my sweaty feet and allowing my equally dripping socks to dry. I think about my next line of action, and decide to stop writing while walking and instead make haste like I had last night. When I find shelter, I'll finish writing up the events of last night, but for now, I will simply finish this section before continuing my journey.

My stomach growls again, and I reluctantly bring up a cracker soaked in water to my mouth, chewing on it with all the care that I could give to a carb-and-starch based delicacy. Brushing the dirt off of my back legs, I stand and stretch, ready to commence yet again.

After a few minutes, I find the saving grace to my situation, and it came in the form of a pass between the mountain range that allowed me to continue North, but what really set this place apart was… A tree stump.

You simply fail to grasp the sheer joy I felt in that moment. This was the final confirmation I needed that intelligent life did really exist in this [New World].

That discovery was the first of many triumphs. As if to elevate my mood even further, I began spotting more and more evidently man-made marks: an arrow sign marked on a tree, a cleared path, and even a log set over a stream. Simply fabulous.

By the way, the environment has gotten considerably more "forest-ly" now. There's a significant increase in the variety, number, and density of trees, and I spotted a great variety of wildlife, including animals and exotic plants. As much much as I would like to discuss the nature here with you, I fail to see any true importance in that, so I will simply leave it as "they are basically the same as our world".

My joy and fascination, however, are only short-lived. After all, I'm about to discover the village, right? So, why, you ask, are you disappointed? What is the source of your sour mood, Sir Author?

BECAUSE THIS FUCKING BACKWATER SHITHOLE IS LIKE TEN FUCKING HOURS AWAY FROM THE ACTUAL FUCKING MOUNTAIN. THE FUCKING GENIUS MORON PIECES OF SHIT WHO BUILT THIS PLACE. YOU FUCKING BARBARIANS.

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Greetings, this is Tereszia Guls. It's currently relatively late in the afternoon, and the sunlight has the bright shade of an orange camera filter. I can only enjoy this beauty momentarily in a short moment of rest, as I ready to present myself in front of this village settlement before me.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Until just moments before, I felt as if I was following a trail of loosely scattered breadcrumbs in an ocean, running after the faintest signs of life. By the grace of good fortune, I heard the faint sounds of a river rushing and stumble out of the forest after nearly two days of walking. The sight that greeted me was, to my joy, a farmland.

On the field, I can spot small sprouts of green scattered around. Loose and disrepaired wooden fences shield the wild from this scene, and the roads that bind them together are a rustic yellow dust. On one such fence corner I spot a flag decorated with a coat of arms, which I assume to belong to the Lord or Kingdom occupying this land.

Two fields are present, and they are divided by the road. However, the presence of roads did not indicate any element of order. Every project in this settlement is chaotically placed and built with the elegance of an addict on opioids, and weeds grow haphazardly at every stone. The layout is only just organized enough that it supports the notion of human progress.

This is unfortunately as expected of a medieval village, seeing that they do not require the accuracy and cleanliness of a modern neighborhood, or the tools for precise, fast architecture like the engineers of our world.

If the presence of any being or phenomenon disturbs me so, it would be the lack of guardsmen or any farmers hard at work. It is quite perturbing that I would enter a settlement after two days of silent adventure, only to be greeted by nothing but the sound of a rushing river.

Ok, I've had enough of this polite ass writing. Just to describe this dump accurately, you know like in comics you see medieval villages, and the houses looks like they're obviously for poor people, but all of them are perfectly organized and clean with brick streets?

No, that's not what a medieval village looks like, manga artists. The villages of antiquity are… messy. And small. Roads are just the ground, except the grass is cleared. A wave of dust sweeps up from a stray current and splatters all over my perfectly clean track pants… Disgusting.

There's a lot of trees in between every house, too, but they're all dying. Their branches have been cleared away for firewood and scant few shades of green remain except for the grass. In short, it's extremely rural here.

As I get closer, I can see that all of the shacks and "houses" are made of some kind of cheap brick, and the rooves either straw or wooden logs. They are certainly not a pleasant sight to behold. In fact, I believe some of the techniques used in making mud bricks involve manure.

And oh God, don't even talk about the smell. As expected, our ancestors are very down to earth when it comes to sharing their space with animals. And by that I mean they're right next door. The smell of animal droppings permeates my nose, and I blink away my tears, somewhat adjusting to the odor. A dark brown… goat peeks out of a small opening in a shack and snorts my way.

Fuck you too, man. Fuck you too.

But it appears these fields are only the small farms. As I come to a four-way in the road, I see to my far right a grand barn, and before it a vast field that's probably the lifeblood of this settlement. I must admit, despite this land's lack of development, with a field this big, there must be quite a large workload to handle. I will at least applaud the primitives for that.

Good job, apes. You figured out how to grow plants.

One thing that disturbs me in addition to the lack of humans is the uncanny unpresence of any of the supernatural. This place looks rather domestic and agricultural, even if it's rural. I'll be very worried if this is a "transmigration into the past" story, you know… They're not my thing. Don't tell me I was sent to this time period because a transmigration fan decided to punish me?

O_O

I suppress my growing worries as I move closer to what I assume to be the village center to my left. In doing so, I realize exactly why there were no farmers earlier on. A magnitude of voices are bound from one direction, and I follow it, suspecting that the whole town must be gathered in one spot for some communal purpose.

There doesn't appear to be any sign of struggle, so I'll also assume there hasn't been a war or something and enemy soldiers are rounding up all the villagers. That would fucking suck, right? To spend two days finding a village, only to get caught up in a war.

On my way to the voices, I spot several more signs that indicate this world's progress. To the far right side of the village and across the narrow river that cuts through the settlement, there's a blacksmith's workshop, if the glaring sign hanging above it is anything to go by. It's rather difficult to tell at a glance, given that it looks nearly identical in terms of style to the other buildings. However, when I look again at the particular workshop that sits in front of the building, I suppose the place is definitely a blacksmith.

To my vast relief, there's also an apothecary of some sort located snugly beside the smithy, if the green leaf sign hanging near the door is any indication. I still can't confirm that this is an actual fantasy world instead of a medieval world, but it's still a good sign. The odds are surely in my favor, seeing that medieval villages probably didn't have any alchemical craftsman.

The voices grow larger and more pronounced as I approach, and a quick glimpse reveals that my targets are indeed breathing humans. I take cover behind a one story house (not that the other buildings are any taller), concealing half of my face behind the decaying wall in order to observe the scene.

The crowd is situated in front of a small outdoor stage, and in total I can estimate no more than a hundred people gathered here. They are all dressed in peasant clothes. Not the clean and simple kind you see in manga, these garbs belong to the wardrobe of a legitimate serf. These tunics and dresses and hats; each and every single one of the are filthy, stained with dirt and torn at every edge, and the same can be said for their bodies.

Some wear shoes. Some don't. The children certainly don't seem to favour it.

In the chatter of the crowd I pick up the cries of a baby. Giving the mob a brief scan, I spot an old woman, face marred with dust and wrinkles, rocking a white bundle in her arms with the grace of an amusement park attraction. Seeing that I'm not here to tell you how to raise your children, I decide not to comment.

As soon as I begin to feel immersed in the chatter of the crowd: in the whining, the laughs, the jeers, a sharp voice cuts through the tension— and sweat of the crowd.

"Hear all, hear all!" He speaks, with an astoundingly bold and brilliant voice, deeply accented with his crooked teeth.

And I do mean it. This guy, man. His voice stopped everyone in their tracks. All sounds ceased at the exact moment he spoke.

He's dressed similarly to the rest of the crowd, but something about him is more refined. A sense of slight enlightenment paints his face, setting him out from the rest of the crowd. If I have to guess, it's probably because he's been educated to teach public speaking or something by the local priest.

I move to a better vantage spot slowly, and my eyes quickly drift towards the stage, where I spot a small group of men and with it, the source of the commotion. At the centre of the stage, there is a… wooden beam, shaped like an L turned upside-down, and to the side, there is a man, pale and shivering, his hands bound behind his back.

I suppose I don't even need to speculate, then, that a certain someone is going to be hung for his crimes.

The speaker resumes his speech.

"Good men of faith and law! Well met we are, to gather on this late day to enforce the virtues of His Majesty and justice."

He pauses, staring down deeply into the presence of the crowd before looking down at his scripture again.

"It is to the misfortune of we the farmers, the smiths, the hunters, the good people of Talbot, that misdoers and villains would betray the code set by our blood, father, the land... And to say of these villains, I say we do away with their heads!"

The murmurs and rumbles which had been building since he began talking grew in fervor, but it was still deeply subsided within as anticipation.

"Then, in the name of his Lordship, Harriet the fifth, I name William, son of Rowan, a rapist, worthy of death by hanging!"

The jeers and cries rise in intensity, and projectiles begin flying as the prisoner is pushed up the stage by a guard-looking fellow, who uses his free arm to shield himself from the vegetables and rocks that miss. A stray pebble flies to the speaker, who waves his scroll around in annoyance. Wait, don't tell me someone that he was the criminal?

Speaking of the criminal, he's rather defenseless. A sense of unease settles in me, and there is a dread as I know what will inevitably occur next, but I can't bring myself to look away.

When the cheers reach a cacophony, a short stool is placed under the beam, and the shivering prisoner marches to his death, flinching with every step as a new stone pelts him. At this rate, his spirit will be crushed before he even dies. Oi, old lady, are you sure this is what you should be showing to your kids?

The crowd finally explodes with energy as the long awaited show begins. The guard strong-arms the pale villager into the noose, his head barely managing to squeeze in as it twists uncomfortably. The chattering of his teeth is now visible, but a stone to his eye stops the thought. I've been tryng to avoid looking at his face, but now it really settles into me, the depths of his depravity.

I believe I felt something akin to terror and deep disgust in that moment, although I have no way of describing who it was directed towards. The crowd or this world?

Slowly but surely, as if rising with the energy of his fellow peasants, the suppressed emotional turmoil within the man reaches a boiling point, and he begins an onslaught of vicious cries and verbal abuse and perhaps even a plea for help, if I'm hearing correctly, but it's all drowned out in the roar of the crowd.

Within the loop of that noose, my vision becomes unfocused. Within that noose, there is a fish struggling. Out of water, its emotionless yellow orb-like eyes become bloodshot as it convulses and contorts its body, attempting to jump back into familiar waters. Its struggle is a dance, a flurry of power that can only be displayed in the last moments of a creature's life. The final struggle is long and painful, but all the fish can do is to keep pushing.

As the last twitches of life are drained from his face, the structure of his neck finally collapses, vessels of dark blood pooling around beneath his skin. They are the parting words of a dead man, words of his demise.

The guardsman watches on with some joy to his face, although somewhat shaken. Nonetheless, with the help of the speaker, he carefully moves the stool back and lifts the limp body.

And there is nothing William can do about it now. He's dead, after all. The justice system, lacking in this world as it may be, has done all it can do for him.

It is unclear to me if he really was a rapist.

It is unclear to me if he deserves a death. I know my government probably thinks so, or at least they will settle for something not so lethal, but rather humiliating-- say, a castration, or a permanent mark that says "rapist" on your resume.

I know you will may or not agree with these methods. But all of our debates aside, nothing was revoked during that execution. On that day, the second day of my adventure, William the rapist was dead.

I'm not sure what happened next to his body, but I have no intention of finding out.

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Wonderful. Now that I've recounted that particular experience, I no longer have the appetite for writing any further. If you're confused over the sudden switches in perspective and time, allow me to elaborate.

The first part of this entry I wrote was the break I took, when morning settled in. As I wanted to make some more distance on that day, I simply planned to write what happened earlier and the events in the village (when I had the time to) by recounting those experiences as if they were happening in the live. Yes, I realize that doesn't make my reactions completely accurate. But this is a book, no? It needs some reflection of the future for it to be a thoughtful and intriguing read.

Additionally, it's simply impossible to record everything in the live. The execution of William, per say, alll happened within the span of no more than five minutes. I couldn't deliver that whole affair about whether or not his death was fair in only that short period of time, not to mention how a live execution really isn't the best atmosphere for writing.

Ha, it must be rather annoying to you readers now, right? I don't think you wanted to read about me brooding while walking for three chapters and on the fourth suddenly whining about witnessing some death. I'm sure you'll tell me to suck it up or something. I'm sure it's fine.

It's alright.

I'm alright.

Everything's alright.