Finlay sat on the end of a sturdy wagon carrying large cages. A melloswine curiously sniffed him, its snout poking through the grills of its crate. It snorted, exhaling a puff of pink. It had a sweet scent, like an overripe mango. Finlay leaned away and covered his nose with Cogwyn’s cloak. The melloswine, its body like a furry beach ball on four legs, turned around to the bullzard and terror bird, both sedated in their cages. In the original timeline, the trapper trio captured only two monsters and placed Finlay in the last cage.

“A good day hunting, my lads!” boomed Beor from the wagon’s driver seat. He snapped the reins. The groffs began pulling the wagon. “This melloswine was begging to be caught, walking up to us on its lonesome. Luck pours from the pitcher of the gods.”

“It’s odd we didn’t meet any maeroswine.” Trance sat next to Beor. “Times like this, I’m getting swayed by your superstitions.”

“If it’s true, then it’s not superstition,” Beor said with a laugh. He and Trance must’ve had disagreements about this before. Trance was the pragmatic type, from the little Finlay knew of him.

Cogwyn, perched on top of the melloswine cage, rolled down a thick cloth to cover it. The melloswine stopped grunting in the darkness. “Here’s my theory: the earthquake spooked the maeroswine herd and scattered them. This guy—” Cogwyn pointed below him “—is terribly slow and got left behind. It’s been wandering around since then.”

“A more plausible explanation,” said Trance. “I shouldn’t have immediately jumped to superstition.”

“You should,” said Beor. “That’s what I do.”

Finlay imagined Beor wearing a huge grin. It was entertaining to listen to their banter. Finlay’s co-workers came to mind—Sarah, Earl, and Derrick would always joke around during breaktime. A finger of melancholy for the world he left behind poked him.

“Good thing I wasn’t here when the quakes happened,” Finlay said. No one other than him knew how the seemingly innocuous earthquake would affect the future of the town, and perhaps the whole of Ilaya. “I already have enough bad luck with the bandits.”

“I’m thinking—” began Cogwyn.

“That should be celebrated,” Trance said.

Cogwyn didn’t jump at Trance’s jibe. “I’m thinking, what if the quakes were the bandit’s doing? Blowing stuff up in the mines. Trying to tunnel deeper maybe?”

“If they accidentally ignited a gas pocket,” Beor said, “that’d be a divine comedy. A proper comeuppance meted out by the gods.”

“Could the bandits have killed the maeroswines?” Finlay said, trying to become closer to their group. First step to uniting people was making friends. Strong friends, especially.

“They have to be spectacularly dumb to lose the most valuable member of the herd,” Cogwyn said. “They could be after food and not the Soulheart. Bah, don’t think so. I’d rather eat a soft mello than a gamey and stringy maero.”

“The bandits’ business are their own,” said Trance. “I’ve heard rumors some are in the lords’ pockets. A proxy war of sorts. We don’t want any part in that.”

“Unless they are customers,” Beor said, laughing. “We sell to the highest bidder, no matter which side.”

This is the real problem. Finlay felt for the seed inside the pocket of Cogwyn’s cloak. A World Tree, no matter how tall, wouldn’t be enough to change their disastrous future if everyone didn’t unite.

The main reason Master Isidore left Worwick in a hurry with Finlay in tow was the rising political tensions. The upcoming festival would stoke the embers of discord with the rival lords all present. The tournament would be a disaster, the political would turn physical.

And it’d get much worse.

Half a year from now, a massive deposit of high-quality Speckles would be discovered in a deep canyon to the east of the town. The quakes they talked about had shifted earth and rocks, exposing prized veins.

Speckles were extremely concentrated natura crystals left by dried-up lifestreams. Wardens used Speckles to increase their anima and progress crucibles and mind shrines. With the invention of the sternial came a way to ingest Speckle and not die. Then came the rise of the Soulheart Wardens. The Speckle Wars followed. That was a long time ago, but the world’s demand for Speckle only grew since then.

The Second Great Speckle Rush of Worwick, even greater than the previous one, would not only push the lords to open battle but would also bring Wardens and elemental sects into the picture. Speckles had plenty of other uses, but it was mainly a resource for war… and a starter of wars. Similar to elderbones in that sense. A year after the Speckle discovery, the conflict in Worwick would spread to the whole Principality of Gilders.

In what would be the worst stroke of luck in the history of Ilaya, the Sporeal Tide would appear soon after and roll over the lands embroiled in civil war. Quite easy pickings to add to its numbers.

Changing Gilder’s fate should have a domino effect in the future. Not enough to win, but enough to budge the course of the war against the Sporeal Tide. With enough changes, Finlay was confident he could find a future where they’d achieve victory.

“Guessing this melloswine’s worth more than the terror bird.” Cogwyn tapped the cage bars with his foot.

More than the terror bird and bullzard combined if you find the right buyer, Finlay thought, trying to recall the market conditions of this time.

A melloswine Soulheart was classified as the lowest Grade—Tyro. A newly-melded Warden would have no problems with it. A Soulheart’s Grade, based on the monster’s capture rating and the difficulty of controlling its manifested powers, usually determines its price. The higher the Soulheart Grade, the stronger the monster it came from, and the more expensive the cost of hunting or farming it.

There were exceptions, like the melloswine Soulheart.

Though with a capture rating of zero on its own, melloswines were very rare to come by. During their mating season, maeroswines—horned boars covered in spiked bone plates—sometimes become too aggressive and start killing each other. It could go out of control, and that wasn’t good for the survival of their kind. Some maeroswines would shed their armors and horns, turning into melloswines, spewing clouds that have a calming effect on the berserking herd.

If a human inhaled the pink cloud, their minds would be loaded on a trebuchet and shot sky high.

Finlay shook his head, recalling the first time he tried it. He left Lord Felrock’s victory party in a daze and hugged a tree… for hours. He hoped all he did to the tree was hug it.

That was the demand for the limited supply of melloswine Soulhearts. Wardens specialized in melloswine antics could earn more in one night servicing a noble’s party than a month as said noble’s bodyguard. With the town festival coming up, as Trance mentioned, there’d be a premium on this Soulheart.

“How’s the trapping business?” Finlay wondered aloud. This was a reliable conversation starter he learned from the corporate world. His Earth memories were refreshed because of the rewind. The other person would always either brag or rant. Both options would make the other person feel better.

“Not good,” said Cogwyn, choosing the rant route. “Competition is growing. Worse, it’s the farms that get the large slice of the pie.”

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“Farms?” Finlay knew about them, but most people wouldn’t. “I thought you hunt beasts, sell their Soulhearts, and that’s it?”

Cogwyn shook his head. “You’re thinking of the old way of doing things. These days, we bring the entire beast, alive and well, to the market. It’s why we got Trance on the team. Sometimes, we can’t avoid injuring the animal when trying to capture it. What happened to the bullzard wasn’t our fault but we can’t have it dying on us. Trance to the rescue.”

“It’s rare to get some appreciation,” Trance mumbled, barely audible.

“Owners of Soulheart farms bid for our catch,” Cogwyn went on. “Let’s say a guy wins our bullzard. He’ll bring it to his farm, stuff it with magical feeds, maybe sprinkle in Speckle dust for a few months, before selling its Soulheart. Buyers are getting picky. They want Soulhearts from farm-fattened beasts; they won’t buy anything straight from hunters. We have no choice but to become trappers.”

“It’s eerie hearing you sound coherent, Cogwyn,” said Trance.

“I didn’t know it’s this hard to be a trapper.” Finlay cast the hook. “You risk your life hunting the beast, yet others gain the androphagon’s share of the profits.”

Cogwyn and Trance took the bait, airing their grievances. Eventually, Beor joined in too. They had plenty to say about the state of the Soulheart business. This was a vast improvement compared to when Finlay was inside a cage, trying to make sense of their language.

Traveling for half an hour, they left the forest, switching from a bumpy rough path to a road paved with cobblestones. A river flowed parallel to their left while trees bordered the opposite side. The gentle breeze whistled coolness.

“Hey, Finlay. Come up here.” Cogwyn bent down the cage and offered a hand. Finlay grabbed it, and Cogwyn pulled him up to have a better view of their destination. Cogwyn twirled his arms with a flourish. “Welcome to the town of Worwick. Erm… I probably should’ve said that when we actually entered it.”

The town got its name from the lifestream that used to pass through the nearby mountains in ancient times. Finlay heard of tales of the mountain glowing so bright the night became day. That could be the burning wick and the whole world was the candle. Hence, Worwick.

Unbeknownst to the townspeople, the legend would become reality again. There was a newly exposed lifestream, and Finlay would get to it. Quite a difficult journey it’d be, but saving the world wouldn’t be easy.

The town of Worwick consisted of an inner part, surrounded by low walls, and a much larger outer area that was a blanket of small houses. The walls were more decorative than for defense, with carvings of historic figures on the uppermost blocks of the battlements. The church’s belfry towered over the walls, its golden bell catching the sun’s rays—a clue of where and when the humans of Ilaya came from. The arched roof topped with a golden roc of the lord’s mansion peeked from the town’s western side; which lord should reside there was still up for a bloody debate.

Rolling over a grand bridge, complete with lanterns and statues on its fancily molded railings, the wagon arrived at the outskirts of the town. They passed rows upon rows of shoddily built houses fallen into disrepair. Many have crumbled into a heap of garbage. Barely any person walked the dirty, cramped streets and most of the still-standing houses appeared empty.

Come next year, this area will be filled with people coming for the Speckle rush. Or so, Finlay imagined. He never returned to Worwick, only learning about what happened after from stories Cogwyn shared.

Finlay’s stay in Worwick may be short, but his terrible experiences could fill a book. Even if he wished it went differently, it was the beginning of his tale. The World Tree gave him the chance to rewrite it for a better ending.

Not only for himself. For everyone.

“Are you smiling?” Cogwyn tilted his head. “Pardon my not-so-eloquent language, but this place is a shithole. Smells like it too. Reserve your smiles when we get past the walls. It’s amazing inside.”

“I’m interested in the history of the town,” Finlay explained. “This might not be the… best-looking scenery, but the houses are remnants of the Great Speckle Rush that made this princedom strong.”

“Decades ago,” said Beor. “Gilders was strong decades ago. No longer. Bolstered by Speckles mined from the yawning earth, Gilders subjugated my people. When their mines went dry, we had our revenge, for the great beasts of the Melurian mountains yield Soulhearts unmatched by any Gilders could get its grubby hands on.”

“I didn’t mean any offense.” Finlay wasn’t aware of the history between Gilders and Sajilis.

“I take none. Merely setting the record straight, our luck-giving friend. You should understand my sentiments, coming from Elmbow yourself.” Beor gestured at the dilapidated houses. “See how many people’s lives were changed by Speckle, for the better or worse.” He then pointed at the wide gateway covered in tiled patterns they were approaching. “What use is this extravagance built from Speckle wealth? Sajilis was lucky Gilders had holes for hands when holding coin.”

“I think that’s enough history for now,” said Cogwyn. “Touchy-touchy history.”

“Very well,” Beor grunted as he steered their wagon to fall in line to the inner town.

The guards manning the gates wore surcoats over their armor, displaying the blue and gold cross of the Princeps of Gilders. The same cross was on the flags flying from their spears and the banners draped over the towers flanking the gates. Blue and gold everywhere.

No green feldeer horns of House Vassenet, which ruled Worwick since before the first Speckle rush. Only the ten-year-old daughter of the previous lord remained in the direct line. No purple jarlion head of House Baccarat, distant relatives of the Vassenets, and demanding regency of Worwick. No red four-winged eagle of House Wyrenth from the neighboring territory and claiming this one as well. These details returned to Finlay; the politics of Worwick played a significant role in his early life on Ilaya.

When it was the turn of Finlay’s group at the checkpoint, the leader of the guards, a captain judging by the winged etching on his helmet, stepped forward with a big smile. He gave the group an cordial nod.

Beor may be of Sajilis and Cogwyn a Rokhonite, but their trapper party was quite strong compared to others based in Worwick. Unwise for the captain to throw around his weight for no reason. It was also generally a good idea to befriend strong people.

“What do you have there, Beor?” asked the captain.

“Quite a catch, that’s what,” Beor replied. “I told you when we went out that the gods’ eyes are upon us.”

The captain pulled aside the cloth covering the melloswine cage. “And so, your gods were indeed watching. Share your blessings, will you? Just a whiff of—” He noticed Finlay sitting beside Cogwyn on top of the cage. “A new companion of yours, Beor?”

Finlay kept the cloak secured as he jumped off the cage and onto the ground. Not counting his past erased by time travel shenanigans, this was the highest he had dropped in his life. His body might be physically lacking but his mind was ready to compensate. He stuck the landing and avoided embarrassment. Some joints did hurt though.

Drawing his full height, not minding his knees wobbling from the impact, Finlay stood an inch taller than the fairly imposing captain. Finlay bowed low, making sure his head was lower than the captain’s chin, before saying, “May the Firstborns bless your day, captain. I’m Finlay… Finlay Rasband of Elmbow. I was observing these gentlemen go about their trapping business in the forest when an unfortunate accident cost me my clothes.”

“Rasband, you say?” The captain beamed at the respect shown by someone well-off-looking. “I’ve never been to Elmbow, but I have heard of your name.”

You most certainly haven’t. The captain likely hadn’t heard of anyone from Elmbow, a small territory to the south of Gilders that was sort of part of it but technically shouldn’t. Its towns and villages were small with nothing of note. However, the captain wouldn’t want to ‘admit’ ignorance of someone apparently important who bowed to him. Acknowledging Finlay’s concocted backstory as true brought honor to the captain.

“Tell them of what happened to you,” Trance said. “The bandits—”

“I came for the festival, captain,” said Finlay with another bow. “I heard many important guests are coming.”

“Yes, foremost of them is the third prince of Krysperia,” the captain replied, looking Trance’s way. “What was that about the bandits?”

“They killed the maeroswines accompanying this melloswine,” Finlay hastily said, hoping Trance would get the hint. “Would you like a sniff, captain? That is if Beor is fine with it.”

With the offer, the talk of bandits was forgotten. Beor didn’t object. Why would he? Even without Finlay, Beor would’ve agreed to the same. A friend in a captain was a strong bet. Finlay scratched the melloswine’s flabby chin. He located two fleshy organs the size of ping-pong balls that caused the melloswine to sneeze involuntarily when stimulated.

The captain inhaled the pink cloud with all his might. “I’ll need to find a seat before this hits me. Move along now.”

“Thank you, captain,” Finlay said, adding another low bow.

“Enjoy your stay, Sir Rasband. The Princeps welcomes all to celebrate the festival of the Great Speckle Rush. The tournament in a month’s time will be one for the tomes. Many strong contenders have lined up. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“I won’t, captain.” This time, Finlay wouldn’t only be part of the audience—he’d join the tournament. Changing its outcome was one of many factors that might stir Gilders away from the path of civil war.