Eighteen long hours on the road, staring at endless highways under the glow of my headlights. My eyelids had grown heavy, the humming of the engine becoming a hypnotic lullaby. More than a thousand miles under my belt, and all I could think about was my pillow.

A yawn escaped me, but that moment of distraction was enough to snap me out of my stupor—just in time to see a young boy stepping onto the road. My blood turned to ice. Instinct kicked in, and I yanked the wheel to the side. The boy’s wide eyes locked with mine as I veered off the road and straight into a building.

In that moment, everything seemed to freeze to a halt. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared straight ahead at the concrete wall, coming at me at 90 miles per hour. The boy, the street, everything behind me blurred into nothingness. My entire world was now reduced to the unforgiving slab of concrete in front of me.

Time seemed to stretch, giving me just enough seconds to think, this is it. There wasn’t enough time to brake or swerve again. My fate was sealed.

BANG!

The impact hit like a freight train. The front of the truck crumpled like paper, and the world turned into a cacophony of screeching metal, exploding glass, and an overwhelming force that threw me against the steering wheel. Pain flared, but only for a brief second before everything was swallowed by darkness.

.

.

.

.

.

I suddenly jerked up, gasping, my eyes wide open as if I had just surfaced from a deep, drowning sleep. Instinctively, I clutched my chest, my breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. My heart pounded in my ears like a war drum, but—wait—I was breathing. I was alive.

How am I alive?

The last thing I remembered was the truck, the crash, that wall… I was supposed to be dead. There was no surviving something like that, even if I was using my seatbelts. Yet, here I was, feeling oddly... whole.

My eyes darted frantically, scanning my surroundings as panic started to rise. I wasn’t in the truck, and I definitely wasn’t in a hospital. Instead, I was surrounded by a lush, green forest—trees taller and denser than anything I’d ever seen before, with sunlight spilling through the canopy in golden rays. Birds chirped in the distance, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. I had to be dreaming—or… maybe this was the afterlife?

Was this heaven?

“What the hell…?” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet. My body felt strange—lighter, more agile. No bruises, no broken bones, no blood. Not even the familiar aches in my back from years of long-haul driving.

I looked down at myself. My usual trucker’s uniform was gone. Instead, I wore a simple brown tunic and rough leather boots. What the hell was going on?

I appeared to be slouched against a tree, my limbs feeling weak and unsteady. But something else—something horrible—caught my eye.

Bodies.

I hadn’t noticed them before, but now they were all I could see. Bloodied, broken bodies scattered across the ground around me. Nine of them, at least. Men, from the looks of it, and they were dead. Their faces twisted in grotesque expressions of pain and horror, their blood soaking into the earth beneath them.

My stomach lurched.

The nausea hit me hard, a wave of bile rising up my throat. I clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to keep myself from retching. But the sight—the stench—it was too much. My legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath me.

“Christ almighty…” I whispered, barely able to speak through the mounting panic.

My mind raced with questions. How did I end up here? Who were these people? And, most importantly… why wasn’t I dead too?

Was I dead before my soul got here?

Was I’m alive?

A sword lying on the ground near the place where I woke up, stained with blood. I recoiled instinctively, but the horrifying realization crept over me.

Was I’m involved in this murder?!

No way.

I shook my head, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t have done this. I was just a truck driver, for crying out loud. I’d only ever carried a simple pistol, not swords.

My vision blurred for a moment, the nausea intensifying as flashes of something—memories, maybe—flickered through my mind. There had been shouting, clashing steel, and the glint of weapons in the sunlight. But it was all too vague, too distant, like a dream I couldn’t quite grasp.

I needed to get out of here.

I pinched my nose to block out the stench of death, forcing myself to move. My legs were shaky, but I pushed through, leaving the grisly scene behind me.

I wandered aimlessly, the trees blending together as I stumbled deeper into the forest. My mind was still reeling, but I tried to focus on something, anything, that would ground me. The sound of rushing water caught my attention, breaking through the fog in my head.

A lake. There must be a lake or a river nearby.

I followed the sound, my feet dragging as I trudged through the undergrowth. The cool air and the promise of fresh water helped clear my mind a little. I could almost taste the relief of washing my face, of taking a breath that wasn’t filled with blood and death.

After what felt like an eternity, I broke through the trees and found myself standing on the edge of a serene, crystal-clear lake. The sight of it—calm, peaceful, untouched—felt like a lifeline. I dropped to my knees by the shore, scooping up handfuls of the cool water to splash on my face. The shock of it against my skin helped bring me back to reality, though my heart still raced.

That’s when I saw it. My face in the reflection—it was still me, though not quite the same. My beard was shorter, barely more than stubble, and my skin, while still creased and dry, looked less worn than I remembered. The tired eyes remained, but something was different, as if the years had been peeled back slightly.

Crack.

The sound of snapping twigs sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Instinctively, I bolted upright, spinning around to face the source. What I saw froze me in place.

An Elf.

She stood just beyond the tree line, slender and tall, her ears pointed like the ones from Tolkien’s stories. Her hair, silver and long, flowed behind her, and her eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto me.

Was it a she? I wondered, noting her delicate features, though elves in stories often defied gender norms as they all tend to look alike.

!!!

Before I could finish the thought, she moved—no, she blinked—and in an instant, she was right in front of me. A cold blade pressed against my throat, the steel gleaming dangerously in the sunlight.

"Are you the murderer?" she demanded, her voice cold and cutting, as though my next breath depended entirely on her. Her gaze was sharp enough to kill on its own.

“N–no!" I managed to choke out, panic flooding my senses. Oddly enough, I didn’t stop to wonder how I could understand her. The words came to me naturally, as if the language had always been there, waiting to be spoken.

The elf didn’t react, her expression unreadable as she kept the sword at my throat. Then, without warning, she slammed me to the ground. The impact sent a shock of pain through my back as I hit the earth with a heavy thud. Her strength was inhuman, and I was powerless beneath her.

She moved swiftly, expertly patting down my body, searching for something. I tried to twist my neck to see what she was doing, but the pressure of her knee against my spine made it impossible to move.

“Hm~” she mused softly, her tone shifting from cold interrogation to something more curious. I couldn’t see what she had found, but I felt her weight shift as she stood up and pulled me to a sitting position. Just as quickly, she tossed something to the ground in front of me—a card that landed face-up in the dirt.

“Apologies for the accident. I thought there were no survivors of the caravan,” she said, her voice suddenly much calmer, even regretful.

Caravan? I blinked, still disoriented. What was she talking about?

Confused, I leaned forward and picked up the card she had thrown.

> Merchant Guild Identification Card

>

> Name: Augustine Goodson.

>

> Age: 26

>

> Occupation: Transporter.

>

> Issued by the Freiberg Merchant’s Guild.

My heart skipped a beat as I stared at the card. Transporter? That was… oddly fitting, considering my former life as a truck driver. But this name? Augustine Goodson? It felt unfamiliar, yet, in this new world, it seemed to be me.

"The caravan you were part of was attacked by bandits," the elf continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "When I arrived, everyone had been slaughtered. I thought you were among the dead." Her gaze flicked back toward the area where I had woken up, the carnage still fresh in my mind. "Seems I was wrong. I thought you were one of the bandits."

“And this card?” I asked, holding it up.

"That's your identification," she explained. "You must have been working as a transporter for the Merchant Guild. They hire freelancers like you to move goods between towns and cities. Given the state of the caravan, I assume your cargo was valuable."

I nodded, though I didn’t fully understand. A transporter. I was still a driver in this new life, it seemed. Just not of a truck. Unfortunately.

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

Because I wasn’t here to begin with, I thought, my brain trying to connect the dots. I had died in my world—crashing headfirst into that building—and now, somehow, I had woken up in this body, in this strange world. It was a given that I didn’t remember this life because it wasn’t mine to begin with.

The elf narrowed her eyes, studying me carefully. "Memory loss isn’t uncommon after such trauma," she said, her voice tinged with suspicion. "You may have been injured at the head. It could explain why you don’t remember the attack—or much else."

If only it were that simple, I thought. But I wasn’t about to explain to her that I had memories of driving trucks on highways, not riding in caravans through forests. I wasn’t from this world, and I had no idea how I’d gotten here.

"Yeah," I replied, still gripping the card tightly. "Maybe that's it. I must've hit my head during the attack."

She didn’t seem convinced, but she let the matter drop. Instead, she motioned toward the path ahead.

"Come with me," she said. "We need to head to the Merchant Guild. They’ll want a full report, and they might be able to help piece together what happened to you."

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. But then again, what choice did I have? I was alone in a world I didn’t understand, with no memory of this life I’d apparently inherited. The only way forward was to follow her.

Pocketing the card, I nodded. "Lead the way."

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

----------------------------------------

We walked for about 40, maybe 50 minutes? Hard to say. Either way, it felt like less than an hour. Or maybe more? I could be wrong, time was tricky here, and for all I knew, this world’s concept of time didn’t work like Earth’s.

The elf, still unnamed to me, wasn’t much for conversation. She led the way with steady, confident steps while I trailed behind, trying to take in my surroundings. The forest was dense, the air rich with the scent of pine and earth, and the path beneath my feet was rough but well-trodden.

She didn’t seem to mind my silence—or maybe she preferred it. Either way, she hadn’t said more than a few words since we started, and I wasn’t about to push for answers. Not yet, at least.

Eventually, the dense forest began to thin, and the outline of a large walled city came into view, looming in the distance. The walls were tall and sturdy, built of stone, with watchtowers perched at intervals. It was medieval-looking, like something straight out of a fantasy novel. As we approached, I noticed a few guards stationed at the gates, spears ready beside them.

When they saw the elf, their expressions shifted. It was clear they recognized her. Without a word, they stepped aside, allowing us entry without so much as a second glance in my direction.

As we passed through the gates, the city opened up before me. The streets were bustling with activity—merchants hawking their goods, townspeople going about their day, carts rolling over cobblestone streets. It felt alive in a way that was almost comforting, despite the unfamiliarity of it all.

The elf glanced back at me. "The Merchant Guild is this way," she said, gesturing down one of the streets.

I nodded, still absorbing the sights. "So, do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Elf’?" I asked, trying to break the silence.

She shot me a sideways glance. "Elara," she said curtly. "And you are Augustine Goodson, correct?"

She must’ve read it from the card when she was apprehending me.

“Yes…” though it felt strange to say the name from the card.

Elara didn’t respond, instead quickening her pace toward a large building that stood out among the rest. It had the look of importance—tall and stately, with banners bearing a scale as a symbol. This, I assumed, was the Merchant Guild, who could’ve guessed?

"Stay close," she instructed, her tone making it clear that this wasn’t just a suggestion.

We walked up to a clerk stationed behind a polished wooden counter. The interior of the building felt strangely familiar, like stepping into a government office back home. There was a stillness to the air—faint rustling of papers, the soft murmur of distant conversations, and the subtle scent of incense wafting through the room.

The clerk, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, looked up as we approached. His eyes quickly shifted from Elara to me, then back again, clearly recognizing her. He gave a polite nod.

“Elara,” he greeted, his tone formal. “What brings you to the guild today?”

Elara gestured toward me without much preamble. “He’s a transporter—Augustine Goodson. He was the sole survivor of a caravan attack. I brought him here for an investigation and to report the incident.”

The clerk raised an eyebrow, his gaze settling on me with newfound interest. “Sole survivor, you say?” He took a moment to glance at the card I handed him, studying it before setting it on the counter. “And you remember nothing of the attack?”

I shook my head, trying to piece together the most believable version of events. “No, I don’t remember anything before waking up in the forest. Elara found me there.”

“That’s… troubling. Bandit attacks on caravans are not uncommon, but a transporter with no memory?” He sighed, rubbing his temples as though this was just another problem added to a growing list. “Very well. I’ll notify the President. Please wait here.”

With that, he turned and disappeared through a door behind the counter, leaving Elara and me standing in awkward silence.

I glanced around the room, trying to gather my thoughts. The place had an air of quiet efficiency, with several other clerks handling paperwork and discussions with various merchants. It was all so… normal, if it weren’t for the fact that I was standing in a world of magic—presumably—, bandits, and elves.

Speaking of elves—plural, because Elara couldn’t be the only one, right? I found myself wondering just how common they were here. Were they rare, or did people walk past them like it was no big deal? I hadn’t seen any others yet, but then again, I hadn’t been here long. My mind spun with the possibilities, if there were elves, what else could exist? Dwarves? Dragons? Goblins? The races from D&D?

My thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked open, and the clerk returned, followed by a much older man with graying hair and a posture that exuded authority. His robes were finer than those of the clerks, adorned with subtle embroidery.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a calm, measured tone. “I am the President of this branch of the Merchant’s Guild.” He extended his hand, a gesture I wasn’t expecting.

I quickly took it, shaking his hand, though I couldn’t help but feel a little out of place. “Uh, afternoon,” I managed to mumble.

The president released my hand and gave Elara a curt nod, acknowledging her presence before focusing back on me. “I understand from Elara that you were the sole survivor of a caravan attack.”

“Yeah,” I replied, still feeling the weight of the situation. “At least, that’s what she told me. I don’t remember much—woke up in the forest, surrounded by… the bodies.”

The president’s face remained impassive, though I could tell he was scrutinizing me. “That’s a troubling situation, indeed. Memory loss, especially after such an incident, isn’t unheard of. However, we must conduct a formal inquiry. I trust you understand the seriousness of the matter?”

I nodded, my throat tightening. “Of course.”

He gestured to a nearby table. “Please, take a seat. There are questions we need to go over, and we’ll try to piece together what we can. After all, the guild will want answers as to what happened, and you are the key to that.”

We sat down, and for the next hour or two, I found myself bombarded with questions. The president of the Merchant’s Guild, along with Elara and the clerk, probed into every detail—where I was when the attack happened, what I remembered before waking up, if I had any sense of who the attackers were.

But each question led to the same frustrating answer. “I don’t know.”

The president, clearly exasperated, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, as if trying to gather his patience. He set aside the line of questioning and picked up a document from the stack in front of him.

"According to this report," he began, scanning the paper, "you were transporting salt from Lokeria, with your final destination being Halenstadt. You arrived in this city before dawn, and you set out with a caravan of other transporters. The attack happened on the road out of the city." He glanced up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Salt is a valuable commodity," he continued, "and it seems you were working for a prominent company, the Van Lorentz Trading House. They’ll need to be notified of the loss, and the guild will facilitate that process. Compensation to the company will take about two to three days. In the meantime, you’re entitled to file a claim for insurance—for both your injuries and any property lost in the attack."

I nodded, though most of this was going right over my head. Insurance, compensation—it sounded almost like something out of my old world, but more fantasy-ish, because I can actually claim my insurance in this world.

"Your contract with the Van Lorentz company was for a time-sensitive delivery," the president said, his voice turning more serious. "Given the nature of the cargo, delays will likely result in penalties. But rest assured, the guild will negotiate on your behalf. We protect our members, especially in cases involving attacks."

"Okay," I mumbled, still feeling completely out of my depth. "And what happens next?"

The president set the paper down and folded his hands on the desk. "What happens next depends on your recovery. If your memory returns, you may be able to continue your work as a transporter. However, if your memory remains impaired, the guild will need to reassess your situation. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in the city."

I stole a glance at Elara, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange. Her piercing eyes were still on me, unreadable and calculating, as though she hadn’t quite decided what to make of me. Then again, I hadn’t figured out what to make of myself in this world either.

Sure, stay in the city.

Great.

And then what?

“You mentioned insurance earlier. How much, and where can I claim it?” I asked, trying to focus on something practical.

"It amounts to 200 Imperial Crowns," the president said, his tone all business as he reached for another piece of paper and slapped it onto the desk in front of me. "You can either claim it in physical currency or as a bank deposit," he continued, sliding the form toward me.

Insurance and banking in a fantasy world... Right. I blinked, staring at the paper as if it might somehow explain itself.

"Right… 200 Crowns," I muttered, picking up the paper. The currency didn’t mean much to me yet, but I assumed it would be enough to keep me afloat for a while.

"Fill this out," the president instructed, tapping the form. "The guild office can process it within the hour. In the meantime, we’ll notify you if we discover anything about the attack."

I nodded, my mind still spinning. "Thanks." It was all I could manage, my voice sounding distant even to myself.

I filled out the form while the president and the clerk exchanged quiet words. Elara remained by my side, standing silently with her arms crossed, observing me with that ever-watchful gaze. After a few minutes, I handed the form back.

The president took it, giving it a quick scan before nodding. "Very well. You can collect the currency from the front desk once it’s ready."

When I came to collect the money, I was handed a small leather pouch filled with coins. It wasn’t heavy enough to weigh me down, but I could already tell it would be a bother to carry around.

I loosened the drawstring and peeked inside, there were circular coins of the same sizes, each stamped with similar symbols I didn’t recognize. The pouch held 200 Crowns, but I had no frame of reference for what that meant in terms of value. Was it enough for a week? A month? Could it buy me some time to figure things out?

Elara glanced at the pouch, raising an eyebrow. "You’ll want to be careful with that. It's not a fortune, but it’s enough to draw the wrong kind of attention if you're careless."

"Noted," I muttered, tying the pouch to my belt, feeling its weight shift against my side as we made our way out of the guild. The city outside felt even busier now, with merchants shouting, carts rumbling along cobbled streets, and people bustling to and fro.

"Where to now?" I asked, glancing at Elara.

In response, she pointed down the street. “There’s an inn called ‘The Small Hut’, you can rent a room for around 20 ducats a night.”

“Ducats?”

First Crowns, now Ducats—this world really had its own financial language. I glanced down at the pouch of coins hanging from my belt, trying to do some mental math, but I had no idea how the currencies compared.

Elara sighed, clearly noticing my bewilderment. "Ducats are the smaller currency. Think of them as copper coins. One Crown is worth about 50 Ducats."

I nodded, that at least made things a bit clearer. "So, 50 Ducats is 1 Crown?"

“Correct,” she confirmed. “I have a job to do, so I trust you can manage to find the inn with your eyesight." She didn’t wait for my response, already turning to leave.

I blinked at the sudden dismissal, but what was I going to say? I was just glad to have the basics down. The last thing I wanted to do was get lost in currency conversion. I gave her a quick nod as she disappeared into the crowd.

As I made my way toward the inn Elara had pointed out, I couldn’t help but take in the surroundings. The city had a distinctly medieval feel to it—narrow cobblestone streets, towering stone buildings, and banners hanging from poles along the road. Maybe there was a festival? The decorations and the general cheerfulness in the air suggested some kind of celebration.

I soon spotted the sign of the inn, written in large, bold letters. Something about the language seemed oddly familiar, yet just different enough to make me pause. The word Hospitisium was close enough to the Latin Hospitium—the word for lodging or guesthouse—but the spelling and flourishes threw me off. It was as if I was looking at a warped reflection of Latin, familiar but strange, like I should know it but needed a moment to adjust.

On Earth, Latin was formal, old, something you’d hear in a church or read in academic texts. Here, it seemed like part of everyday life—casual yet elegant, with a few quirks that made me second-guess myself. Like staring at a familiar face and realizing the nose is just slightly out of place.

I noticed the similarities because, back on Earth, I had been Catholic. Hearing Latin in mass was a regular thing for me, I was even given Latin courses because of my late-mother, so the sight of these familiar-looking words tugged at something in the back of my mind.

Shaking off the thought, I pushed open the door of The Small Hut. The scent of burning firewood and roasting meat greeted me, instantly making the place feel warmer. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it was welcoming, just what I needed right now.

"Good evening!" the front desk clerk, a young girl who looked barely into her teens, greeted me with a bright, enthusiastic smile. "Would you like to rent a room for the night?"

Her cheerfulness was infectious, returning a faint smile of my own, I nodded. “Yes, please. For two nights.”

She quickly pulled out a ledger and flipped it open, her fingers tracing the entries as she searched for an available room. "We have a discount for four nights! Only 1 Crown for four nights!" she said, looking up at me with those wide, expectant eyes.

“A Crown for four nights?” I repeated, thinking quickly. Normally that would be 80 ducats, right? The math seemed right, but I was still adjusting to the conversion system here.

It wasn’t a bad deal, especially since I didn’t really have a plan yet. Staying in one place for a bit longer might give me the time I needed to figure things out. Besides, I had more than enough Crowns from the insurance payout.

"Alright," I said, nodding. "I’ll take the four nights, then."

The girl’s face lit up with even more enthusiasm. "Great choice, sir!" She noted something down in the ledger, then handed me the brass key. "Room 3, just up the stairs and to your left. Enjoy your stay, and if you need anything, feel free to ask!"

I thanked her and headed up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath my boots. Renting the room for four nights gave me some breathing room to figure things out without rushing. I still had no idea what my next move was, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about where I’d sleep.

Once I reached Room 3, I pushed the door open to find a small, cozy space with the same simple comforts—a bed with a wool blanket, a small wooden desk, and a chair.

I placed my pouch full of money on the desk and sat on the bed.

It wasn’t bad all things considered. You’d think the bed would be hard considering the inn isn’t luxurious by any means, but it’s surprisingly soft.

I laid down. As I stared on the wooden ceiling, I couldn’t stop thinking about what’s next.

Sure, I’ve been transported to another world. Inhabiting the body of another guy, even. But now what?

Back on Earth, I wasn’t anything special. Sure, being a truck driver was an essential job—without us, half the country’s goods wouldn’t make it to where they needed to go. Someone had to transport those Amazon packages and pallets of food. But that didn’t make me unique. My skills weren’t glamorous, I only had a high school diploma. And after the divorce, things only got worse. Losing my kids… that was a gut punch that never stopped hurting. I used to keep myself busy on the road, staying away from it all, trying not to think about how my life had crumbled.

Now, in this new world, my role as a transporter seemed oddly fitting. Driving trucks had always been a lifestyle, not just a job—spending hundreds of days on the road, constantly moving, always somewhere between one place and the next. Maybe continuing that life here wouldn’t be so different. Except, instead of highways and weigh stations, I'd have to deal with rough dirt roads and the occasional bandit attack.

A thought crossed my mind—could I really just pick up where this guy left off? Start fresh, but in a medieval, fantastical world? I could explore, see what this place had to offer. Not just be stuck in one city. I’d always loved the freedom of the open road. Maybe I could love this too.

As long as I didn’t end up skewered by a bandit, that is. Trade protection here seemed like it would be a lot less reliable than back on Earth. But hey, if this life gave me a second chance—an opportunity to be someone, to explore the unknown—maybe it was worth the risk.

I sighed and closed my eyes, trying to push the swirling thoughts away. Tomorrow, I’d figure out my next move. For now, I’d just rest.