Kapitel 35: 1-5 Heretical Fishing: A Cozy Guide to Annoying the Cults, Outsmarting the Fish, and Alienating Oneself
Chapter Prologue
It was a perfect day for fishing—or so I'd read.
I got out of my car and took in the old wooden pier before me.
A barrage of sensations hit.
The sounds of small waves crashing, the cool breeze ruffling my hair, the warm feel of the mid-morning sun kissing my skin, and the distinctive smell of salt-spray whipped up by the wind.
I had brought everything needed; a fishing rod with line, a tackle box containing a myriad of different hooks, sinkers, and swivels, pliers, several leaders, a handful of other tools, and finally, an ice-and-bait-filled cooler—
No, we call it an esky in Australia, not a cooler, I reminded myself, trying to undo years of integration training.
I felt eyes following me as I awkwardly wrestled all my fishing gear towards the pier.
A pair of teenage girls had their phones out, thinking they were discreet in their recording.
I was hoping it would take a little longer than that for someone to recognize me…
As I fought with the armfuls of equipment, and seeing another person with all his fishing gear in a cart, I made a mental note to purchase one.
The jetty was packed with anglers, at least a hundred people spread out along its length. I'd heard it got busy when the seasonal fish were around, but it was still shocking to see just how many people were present.
I eventually picked a spot half-way down the jetty with a young father and son on one side, and an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and weathered skin on the other. The father and son immediately started to glance at me, whispering to each other.
I did my best to not let it bother me.
"Don't let other's negative actions change your own good intentions," my therapist's words sounded in my head.
The older gentleman on the other side of me stood and watched the ocean.
I turned to him.
"Hey mate, mind if I set up here?"
"Not at all," the older fisherman responded without looking up from the sea.
I smiled at the older man, then slowly and meticulously rigged my line, not making a single mistake with any of the knots after having absorbed the information of countless tutorial videos.
I picked out a small hook, a light sinker, and thin, five-pound leader for the small, seasonal fish I was targeting. The hook I chose was barbless; I wanted a challenge. Through my life experience, I'd learned it best to jump in the deep end if you truly desired to master something.
The goal for today was not to catch a fish, but to become a better fisherman.
Though, it would be nice to catch a fish…
I tried to put the bait on my hook, but the sand-worm bunched up and exposed the hook, not at all presenting the way it had on the videos I'd watched. I looked at it in confusion for a moment before a voice pulled me from my thoughts.
"It's because of your hook," the old fisher said, pointing at the slipping bait. "May I?"
"Uh, yeah, sure." I held out the line for the man to take.
"Your typical hook has barbs on the back that help hold bait in place." The angler deftly grabbed the line. "If you use barbless hooks like you've got here, it makes better sport, but the bait can sometimes fall down. What I like to do is slip part of the bait over the eye of the hook. That way, it will hold in place and look more natural to the fish."
Calloused fingers grabbed the bait and slid it up and over the eye of the hook. He jiggled the line, and the bait stayed in place.
"Thanks mate, I appreciate it."
The old fisherman smiled, crows feet bunching up in the corner of his eyes.
"No worries, lad. Happy to help." He returned his attention to his own rod.
Following the directions of the seventeen videos I watched specifically relating to casting, I sent out the line.
Admittedly, the cast was terrible.
I let go too late, and the end of the line flew down closer to the pier than I'd intended. I didn't let the embarrassment of the cast in front of so many onlookers linger—instead, I focused on the line. My index finger was held against it softly, waiting for the tug that I knew would come when a fish took the bait.
The first bite filled me with adrenaline when it came, and I tugged the rod up with a little too much enthusiasm. The hook pulled out of the fish's mouth before it could eat it, and I wound the line in to find both the bait and fish gone.
The second bite similarly filled me with adrenaline, but I was a little more patient—I waited for the fish to take the bait for a full second before softly setting the hook, then I wound in the line.
Anticipation burned as I reeled the fish in, but before I could catch sight of it, it spat the hook. I once more wound the line in to find the bait gone, and no fish. Undeterred, I quickly reapplied my bait and made to cast it out again, but paused when I saw the crowd now arrayed behind me.
There were at least twenty people now standing and staring at me.
The news corporations had been relentless in their reporting of me over the past couple months, and even the spectacle of me going for a fish seemed enough to draw in the vultures.
More than half of the crowd had phones out and faced towards me, likely recording to show their friends or sell it to one of the bottom-feeding news companies.
I was used to the attention by now, but felt bad for the surrounding fishermen being subjected to the same attention by proxy.
I turned to apologize to the young father and child, but saw them both watching, not fishing; the child's hands were wrapped around a recording cellphone, not a fishing rod.
I rolled my eyes and turned to the older man on my other side.
"Sorry about all the attention, old-timer. I'm happy to move on if you'd rather some peace and—"
"There's nothing to apologize for, lad," the man's deep, raspy voice interrupted.
"You sure, mate? There's a bit of a crowd following me—it's no drama if you don't want them here."
"It's hardly your fault." He turned and looked at me with startlingly blue eyes set in a sun-tanned and wizened face.
"I know who you are, but that don't matter none. If you came here to fish, we're all equal; we're judged only by our actions and our day's catch."
He looked up to the sky, exposing his face to the warm rays of the sun as he breathed in deeply through his nostrils, a smile of bliss crinkling his features.
"Besides, who cares what anyone else is doing? It's a perfect day for fishin'."
I couldn't help but smile at the wise words of the old man, and I too turned my attention away from the crowd of onlookers.
Baiting the hook as I'd been shown, I took a moment to appreciate the warm sun before casting out the line again.
The third bite came before the sinker hit the ocean floor.
I let the fish take the bait for a moment, then set the hook with a firm tug. I began winding, ensuring I kept the line tight as the fish tried to swim away. The wiggle of the fish's head on the line filled me with excitement.
I caught the first glimpse of my prize as the sun reflected off of its silvery scales just before it broke the surface. I wound the line up more, and with an unpracticed motion, awkwardly flicked the fish over the railing and onto the jetty.
Knowing the fish to be toothless, I gripped it carefully by the mouth and rushed it towards my measuring mat. It came in at twenty-seven centimeters, well over the twenty-centimeter minimum size for the species. I quickly retrieved the spike from my tackle-box and dispatched the fish humanely before throwing it into the esky.
Looking up, the crowd had grown even more. Something behind them caught my eye, and I swore under my breath at the news van pulling up.
Time to go.
I thanked the old fisherman for his help as I hurriedly put the lid on my esky.
"Don't mention it," he said as he gazed over the water. "I'll see ya round, lad."
I spared a parting glance for the old man before turning away, a content smile on my face as I made my way back down the jetty and toward my car.
The crowd parted for me as I clattered along, esky in one hand, rod and tackle-box awkwardly held in the other.
Remembering something, I stopped in place.
I put everything down and fumbled for my phone. Placing two wireless earphones in, I pressed play.
The instructional video on how to properly fillet the fish I had caught quickly drowned out the sounds of the surrounding crowd. I'd already watched the video at least a dozen times, but I was nothing if not thorough.
I was determined to eat the fish as fresh as possible, and I'd clean and fillet my prize the moment I got back to my penthouse.
I pictured the video that went along with the audio in my mind's eye as the instructor with a thick north-Queensland accent described where to slice with the filleting knife.
A second news van pulled up behind the other, and I smiled at the first reporter asking me questions as I swiftly walked past him. The second reporter all but sprinted out of his van, hand and microphone extended, mouth moving inaudibly as his words were drowned out by the north-Queensland man instructing how to remove the pin bones from the fillet.
It was in that moment, steps hastened by excitement, reporters yelling questions I couldn't hear, with at least two-dozen cameras and smart phones pointed at me, and in front of almost a hundred witnesses, that I moved between the two news vans and walked directly into the path of an oncoming truck.
For his part, the truck driver had noticed neither the news vans nor the crowd.
He was looking at his phone, a phone made by a company my father founded. He drove a truck imported by a subsidiary of that same company, hauling a load of seasonal fish—the same such seasonal fish I'd been fishing for—to a supermarket my dad had helped establish as the leading grocer on five of Earth's continents.
***
Jerry lived a menial life.
He relied upon podcasts and audiobooks to get him through his boring work days of hauling fish along the same monotonous route.
He looked down at his phone as he fumbled to hit the play button, and the two comedians with a podcast animatedly resumed their conjecture about what the richest man on Earth was doing after ruining his father's legacy and walking away from it all.
***
As soon as I stepped out in front of it, I saw the oncoming truck and knew I had no time to do anything but think. I lamented my life choices, cursing the unfairness of the universe for taking me now that I'd had finally taken steps on the right path.
A profound desire to start things over was the last thing that went through my mind.
Well, technically, that thought was the second last thing that went through my mind.
The very last thing that went through my mind was the bull-bar of a 2015 Isuzu N-Series truck, filled with fish, and driven by a man about to discover firsthand what the richest man in the world was doing after walking away from everything.
***
In a world long since abandoned by the god that created it, something miraculous occurred.
Sound returned to a place of silence as an ancient construct struggled to start, its components caked with layers of rust and arcane waste.
The construct had lain dormant for centuries, the source required to power its magic having fled with the ascended being that created it.
That it tried to start at all in its current condition would have been sure to cause quite a stir among the ascended if any of them had been present to witness such an event.
The grinding complaints of the construct receded as the movement of cogs scraped away rust, and its self-cleaning function whisked away any lingering arcane waste.
It whirred to life and began its task.
The construct was a fairly common thing for gods to possess. It was quite simple, really. It would search for anything matching parameters set by its maker, and when finding a match, would harness part of its maker's power in order to harvest it, hence the colloquial name used by the beings bearing the power to create them: harvester.
Many harvesters looked for multiple matches, the effort and expense needed to create such constructs causing their inventors to direct them toward multiple purposes.
This harvester, however, searched for a singular thing—souls.
Not just any souls, mind you. This harvester had exhaustive parameters that, if boiled down, came down to two distinctive requirements: the targeted soul must possess both incredible willpower, and must have recently gone through a monumental shift in the application of that will.
The latter requirement—that of requiring a shift or change in goal—is an aspect that would be lost on most of the ascended. Even if they learned of the parameters set by the creator of this construct, they would likely assume it was the neurotic act of a god gone mad, or a test performed by a god with too much time on their hands.
The god that created this harvester was neither.
In fact, if another ascended learned exactly which god had created this construct, they would have likely noted the parameter down for experimentation themselves—after they fled for their life, of course.
It was ubiquitously known that willpower was the main metric by which one could judge the weight of a soul. What was not so commonly known, however, was what it signified when a strong-willed individual possessed the ability to shift the application of that will.
It had a multiplicative effect on a soul's willpower, something which the creator of this construct well knew.
And so, when a truck destroyed the body of an individual meeting and far exceeding the parameters programmed into the construct, it churned into action, reaching desperately for the severed soul.
The harvester recognized the weight of this soul, and lacking the creator that powered it, the harvester drew from the very world itself.
A perceptive denizen of the long-abandoned world might have noticed a slight dimming of the sun, that the wind had vanished for a moment, or that the waves on the churning ocean seemed to flatten almost imperceptibly.
All it took was a moment before the moving parts of the harvester wound back down into stillness, and the world returned to its normal state.
A sound rang out in the room, a great clunk coming from within the construct as a pivotal component snapped in half.
A small engine within the construct stirred, almost as if in afterthought.
Lacking the power to generate all the materials the soul needed, the harvester chose the most useful, focusing the retreating vestiges of power towards the creation of a small sack.
If a construct could feel emotion, the harvester would have felt content. It had completed one last task—its final procedure one of profound ambition.
The last whisper of willpower left behind by its creator dissipated, and it powered down for the last time as it sent the soul spiraling down to the world below.
1 - Arrival
I opened my eyes with a start.
I sat up, squinting against the bright light of the surrounding world. With perfect precision, the moment before the truck struck me replayed in my mind. Amazed to find myself alive, I waited for my vision to adjust to what was clearly the artificial lighting of a hospital.
I made to sit up, but instead of a hospital bed's sheets, I felt cool grass between my fingers. A soft breeze blew, raising goose-bumps and causing the grass to tickle my exposed sections of skin.
Rolling over and getting to my knees, I stared down with astonishment at the grass beneath my open hands. The sound of trees blowing in the wind drew my attention, and I looked up—my eyes finally adjusted to the luminous surroundings.
I was in a clearing.
Only patches of sunlight filtered down through the canopy of tall trees above. Another gust blew, and the branches far above swayed hypnotically.
I looked down, seeing I was wearing three-quarter pants made of a simple beige fabric. A similar shirt covered my torso, with loose sleeves going just past the elbows.
I wiggled my toes, and feeling resistance there, checked and confirmed that I wore shoes made of the same material, with a thin, artificially made sole sewn into them.
"Where… where am I?" My voice sounded hoarse and deep.
The smell of the earthy forest hit me, a stark contrast to the salt-spray I'd been inhaling what felt like only a moment ago. I breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of cool, damp air as it passed through my nostrils.
Is this the afterlife?
I had delved into the theories of Buddhism, Taoism, and a number of other religious and philosophical beliefs in my search for myself, but I'd never truly believed in rebirth—or an afterlife at all, for that matter.
An odd sensation pulsed in my mind, and I became aware of something attempting to make itself known.
With no small amount of hesitation, I leaned into the feeling, my brain subconsciously knowing how to acknowledge it.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
Please select a name.
I stared at the prompt in my vision, becoming stuck at the situation I found myself in. I dismissed the messages in the same way I'd acknowledged them, and the words cleared from my field of view.
I blinked at the surrounding forest, almost expecting it to melt before my eyes any moment when this fever-dream ended.
I've heard the brain releases a massive dose of DMT when we die—is that what this is? The final dream of my soul departing?
The same sensation as before pulsed, and too curious to not acknowledge it, I did so.
Please select a name.
A text cursor blinked in and out of existence after the simple sentence, seeming to demand a response. I thought to myself for only a moment, and following a whim, entered a name.
Error: Name "Fisher" is invalid. Cannot select the name of a profession.
A profession?
What seemed to be System text already made this seem gamelike—the mention of a fishing profession only further cemented the idea into my psyche.
Have I been reborn into a game world?
I'd been rather fond of isekai and portal fantasy books in my previous life, so this entire sequence being the result of DMT flooding my grey-matter was a distinct possibility.
Still, something about this situation felt entirely too… real.
I cleared the message again, and once more basked in the physical sensations of my body.
The cool, wet grass beneath my hands and legs; the frigid air and the smells it brought along with it; the breeze that kicked up and tickled my skin; and the kiss of warm sunlight, filtered down through the trees above—all served to ground me in the moment.
The cursed nemesis returned with a familiar pulse, shattering my mindfulness.
Please select a name.
The text cursor blinked at me with incessant continuity, entirely uncaring of the existential predicament I found myself in.
God, I need a coffee before I can adequately handle this.
That thought brought on another creative whim—thinking of the Nobel Prize recipient that discovered caffeine, a substance with which I was very much dependent, I entered a name.
Name "Fischer" has been accepted. Welcome to the Kallis Realm.
A sensation akin to euphoria radiated from somewhere within, but was gone as soon as it had come. I felt different somehow—as if indulging the blinking cursor and providing a name had fundamentally changed an aspect of myself.
Assuming this wasn't a dream, and I had in fact been isekai'd—something I noted, with no small amount of amusement, was entirely possible given my fateful encounter with truck-kun—I waited for another message to populate.
A quest, a hint—anything.
Nothing came.
I stood, my body stiff and sluggish as if waking from a long sleep.
I stretched my hands towards the sky, the extension of my muscles bringing an unbidden smile to my face. Even given the situation I found myself in, some aspects of the human experience were simply too pleasant to ignore. Bending over, I curled down towards my toes—there was something on the ground beside my feet.
I picked up the small leather pouch, noting its heavy weight and the metallic jingle of its contents.
I undid the drawstring and peered inside.
It was filled with gold coins—a total of twenty-five—that had an unfamiliar face printed on one side, and a scythe on the other. I bit a coin; it was made of genuine gold.
I cast my eyes around the clearing, looking for any other starting equipment if this was truly a game world.
I found nothing.
Alright. So I have starter clothes, the same body, and a bag of gold. No weapon, no abilities, and no means of defending myself. Well, except for a handful of Muay Thai lessons, and two Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes run at a corporate event.
"Quake in fear, monsters of this world—the fist of death has arrived!"
Shaking my head and laughing at myself, I picked a random direction and started walking.
2 - Decision
I marveled at the beauty of this world as I traveled.
The weather was perfect, and I barely worked up a sweat walking beneath the leaf-cover far above thick and plentiful trunks. I didn't recognize any of the trees, though historically I wasn't what you'd call the outdoors type. I knew of the trees local to Australia from my childhood—Eucalyptus, Paper Bark, Norfolk Pine, and Acacia, to name a few—but none were present.
In my passing, I noted a light-brown species covered in loose fibrous strands. I pulled a section of the bark off and separated it into strips before stuffing it atop the gold coins in my leather pouch.
I thought to find a high point to survey the area, but couldn't make out any mountains or raised area of land to look from. The thick canopy of leaves above only let the blinding sun peak through, and the trunks themselves were too thick to climb without risking injury.
I noted the passage of the sun as I moved, and seeing it climb higher in the sky as the day progressed, knew that I'd woken in the morning.
The day grew hotter; my mouth grew dry, my stomach hungry.
The burble of water crept into my auditory field, and after a quick search, I found a shallow creek. It had a bed of river-stones, and was clear of algae and other plant growth, telling me that the water flowed continuously, or at least had done so in recent time.
I rejoiced, inferring dozens of possibilities.
I followed the creek downstream, scanning the rocks for something that was desperately needed.
What I thought was two hours later, and as the sun descended from its peak in the sky above, I found what I was looking for.
I took careful steps down the small bank of the creek and retrieved my prize.
It was a large rock. One side had a concave dip that was just deep enough to hold water. Thankfully, it wasn't made of the relatively porous rock that most of the river-rocks were composed of—porous rocks could hold bubbles of air, which had a nasty habit of turning stones into primitive grenades when the air inside expanded after being placed in a campfire.
As I lifted the rock, an involuntary grunt escaped me. It was going to be a pain to carry, but I didn't have much of a choice.
I set it down on top of the bank and started looking for the last pieces of the puzzle.
A few minutes later, with a handful of dried sticks, twigs, and a branch in-hand, I started constructing my project.
I pulled out the fibrous bark first, separating it meticulously into thinner strips. The small twigs were the next thing I grabbed, and I made a small tipi-shaped structure out of them, ascending from thinnest to thickest. I carefully placed the thin strips of bark within, ensuring I left enough room for oxygen to circulate, then I notched the dead branch with a sharp rock gathered from the creek.
Using another stick, whose base fit almost perfectly into the notch I'd cut, I rubbed the stick between my hands with rapid and repeated movement.
As a form of escapism, I'd watched plenty of videos on survival, and primitive fire creation was a basic of almost every single one.
Unlike the videos, however, creating an ember proved to be exceedingly difficult.
Whether it was the wood used, or my lack of experience, I couldn't say, but as the minutes stretched on, and my arms started aching, I dropped the stick and let out a sigh.
I felt the notch of thick branch; it was warm, but nowhere near hot enough to spark the beginning of a campfire.
I stood and stretched, then left in search of the components for another method.
With the sharpened rock, I cut a long section of fibers from a living vine. I pulled it taut between my hands. It didn't snap.
Now I just need something to tie it to…
After another search, I found a stick I thought would suffice. I bent it, and seeing it didn't snap, nodded to myself. I secured the strand of plant fibers to each end of it, and peered down at the bow I'd created.
"What was it called again…?" I mused aloud. "A bow drill…?"
With a smile, I sat down by the notched branch once more and looped the length of vine around the stick I'd spun by hand.
I pulled the bow toward me; the fibers held to the stick, not spinning as the videos had depicted.
I clenched my jaw, furrowed my brows, and pushed as hard as I could.
The bow snapped, the wood unable to handle the pressure exerted.
With another sigh, I discarded the broken tool over my shoulder, placed the stick between both palms again, and started spinning it.
***
The sun had long since started descending from its peak, and the formerly pleasant heat of the day was no longer enjoyable as I hunched over, panting.
Sweat poured from me, pooling around my eyes and dripping from the tip of my nose as I spun the stick back and forth with dogged determination.
My arms trembled with the exertion, and I closed my eyes, trying and failing to ignore my body's complaints.
My lungs worked like bellows, and I breathed through my nose, keeping the movements steady as best I could.
An odd smell hit me, and I opened my eyes, blinking sweat away as I stared down at the source.
The branch was smoking.
I pulled the stick away, seeing the smallest hint of red in the notch. I stood on shaky legs and almost fell over. With great care, I tipped the coal onto the bed of tinder. Cupping my hands around it, I blew.
The ember glowed hotter, but didn't catch on the bark fibers.
Please don't gutter out…
With each blow, the coal went a brighter red, but shrunk smaller.
Please…
Just as I thought it would disappear, and I'd have to start all over again, it happened.
A small flame sprouted, then the small flame grew to a large one within a single breath. I placed my other sticks atop it with shaking arms, adding more fuel to the fire.
They were consumed, and before I knew it, the campfire had stabilized.
I sat down heavily, leaning my arms back as a grin spread across my face.
"Thank. God."
A familiar pulse came, along with the subsequent message.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
I was too tired to care; I dismissed it.
Sweat drenched my clothes, and I ambled over to the creek, collapsing into the shallows and relishing in the water's cool touch.
I dunked my head under, washing the grime away.
***
My clothes hung on sticks as I squatted by the fire, starkers as the day I was born. Though an exhaustion still lingered, the impromptu swim left me feeling invigorated, and the day's heat—along with that of the fire—was once more pleasant on my skin.
After a small rest, I gathered and placed other non-porous rocks around the campfire, filled my concave prize with water, and set it on top of the other rocks.
I was all too aware of the danger presented by microscopic organisms, and with the human ingenuity to ensure anything I ingested was safe, I'd resolved not to take any chances.
I've already carked it once today. If I die again, it's not gonna be from dysentery.
I watched from a safe distance as the water boiled, just in-case any of the rocks held a bubble of air that would explode once heated. None of them did.
When the water was boiling, I removed the concave stone from the flames with my notched branch and another stick, and watched it with great impatience as the water cooled.
When it was cool enough to drink, but still quite warm, I drank greedily of the purified water. Even with the heat it held, the liquid was gloriously thirst quenching as it made its way past my tongue and down my throat.
The enjoyment was somewhat diminished by a familiar pulse and subsequent message
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
Very cool, System. Thanks for sharing.
I repeated the boiling process once more before snuffing out the fire. Picking up my makeshift cooking-pot and notched branch, I continued following the creek downstream.
Another hour-or-two later, the water ran into a large body of water, approximately twenty-meters across, that was surrounded by what had been my next goal—a potential source of food.
Bushes loaded with black berries were scattered around the pond's banks.
While I knew the methods for testing edibility listed in the books I'd read weren't flawless, I would soon starve if I didn't find something to eat. The berries were plentiful enough to justify taking the time to test them.
I wasted no time in setting up another fire, and after purifying and drinking a batch of water for myself, I set another rock-full to boiling.
I picked one of the berries and rubbed it into my skin. After fifteen minutes, I had developed no irritation on the patch, so placed a berry on a stick and submerged it in the now-boiling water.
I placed the boiled berry under my tongue when it had cooled enough, and again, I didn't experience any irritation.
What juices escaped the berry tasted sweet, and I fought the urge to swallow it.
Next, I chewed the berry. I let the pulped fruit sit in my mouth for another fifteen minutes, and again, experienced no irritation.
So, I swallowed it.
To be safe, I had to wait at least eight hours to see if I experienced any itching, nausea, or other adverse effects from the berry.
With the afternoon sun still high in the sky, I started building a small shelter atop a flat patch of grass.
When the sun was just starting to set over the horizon, I surveyed my newly constructed abode.
It looked like shit.
It was just longer than I was, about a meter high and a meter across, in the shape of a triangular prism. Well, it was supposed to be that shape, but if I was being honest, it looked more like an abstract-art installation.
The frame was constructed of branches and sticks from the surrounding forest, and was lashed together with strips of the same bark I'd used to make my fire-starter.
I'd found a patch of palm-like trees a short walk further downstream, then tried to weave their leaves together to make up the walls of the crude tent. The videos I'd watched had woven palm leaves in a way that, if it were to rain, the liquid would roll down the side, hopefully leaving the interior—and more importantly, the person inside—dry.
I held no such delusions that this thing would keep out a drop of water, let alone a tropical storm.
"Oh well," I said with a sigh. "It'll have to do."
Before the sun could set, I purified more water, drank it, then snuffed out the fire. As frustrating as it would be creating another one in the morning, drawing attention to myself and getting shanked by a fantasy creature in my sleep seemed like a worse eventuality.
As darkness crept through the forest, the weariness of the day set in.
I was emotionally and physically exhausted, but couldn't fall asleep yet—I had to stay awake and attentive for any adverse effects of the test berry.
I meditated, relying on the skill-set I'd been developing in my previous life. When I reached a mindset I regarded as open and logical, I allowed my thoughts to come.
I died.
I'm in another world.
I'd harbored some doubts as to the reality of my situation earlier in the day, but after a full day of living, breathing, and experiencing my surroundings, I no longer had any such misgivings.
… what the hell am I gonna do?
The world seemed to have some sort of System, just as in the novels I enjoyed so much in the past. The issue was it was non-functional, or at least only partially so.
I recalled the messages I'd received when waking, as well as after drinking purified water for the first time.
It said something about having insufficient power, and systems being offline. Have I arrived in a faulty world? Or one where the functional System, along with human life, has long since departed?
That thought hit me with a surprising amount of sadness.
I had just begun a journey of self-discovery and the seeking of genuine bonds when my life was snuffed out.
Most of my life had been misspent—fixated on the eventual inheritance of my father's business empire, smothered by the weight of expectation.
To wake up in a new world, but one lacking any other humans to interact with… what a miserable irony that would be.
If that's the case, what's my course of action? Will I try to level up and seek power like the protagonists in every isekai story, despite a seemingly dysfunctional System, and a lack of any other humans?
While I'd spent many nights in my previous life imagining such an escape, the reality of it hit different now that I was actually here. I'd never imagined myself the hero type in those fantasies, but more of an economic conqueror.
I recalled envisioning an underdeveloped world, where my vast training of business and capitalism would allow me to build a world-spanning empire.
I snorted.
That was before I tried heading such an empire, and given my recent experience, that idea now seemed tedious, repulsive.
I already did that on Earth, and look where it got me. Sad and alone—king atop an empire of dirt.
The thing that had drawn my attention, and indeed, had seemed to pull me out of the misery created by my hubris, was fishing. Something as simple as fishing—one of the world's oldest professions—had been exhilarating, calming, and everything in-between.
"What did that old bloke say on the jetty?" I mused aloud. "It's a perfect day for fishing…"
I recalled the Zen-like meditation of the wind in my hair and the sun on my face as I waited for a nibble on the line. The adrenaline spike and subsequent contentment that came when I caught that single fish was a feeling more enticing than all the pride I'd previously felt from corporate domination.
Long into the night, I pondered. By the time I fell asleep, I'd completely forgotten to celebrate the fact that the berry hadn't made me sick.
I had, however, reached a conclusion.
There were many things I desired in this second life of mine, but I could reduce them to two key deliverables: genuine interactions with others, and as much fishing as humanly possible.
3 - Discovery
I woke the next morning with a stiff neck and back. My body was accustomed to the best mattresses money can buy—not a bed of literal grass and dirt.
To make matters worse, halfway through the night my mediocre attempt at a shelter had collapsed on me, and I'd woken in a panic, fighting off my fallen roof like it was an attacker in the night.
"Those leaves and sticks never stood a chance…" I said aloud, shadow boxing the air in an attempt to cheer myself up.
It didn't work.
My stomach complained, but it was the groan of hunger, not the result of poisoning by berry.
With more than a little dread for the work to come, I began crafting another fire. It took little time to collect the materials, and with a deep breath, I started spinning my fire-starting stick in the notch of the thick branch.
To my surprise, the movement felt more natural, and my sense of dread dissipated like dust in the wind. I lost myself to the movements, and after only fifteen minutes, a wisp of smoke rose from the branch.
My eyes going wide, I redoubled my effort, steadily twisting the stick back and forth between my palms.
The smoke grew, and with a swift movement, I lifted the branch and poured the ember into my pile of tinder. I knelt and blew on the small coal, and after three breaths, the fire bloomed.
***
After purifying more water and gulping it down, I plucked another berry and ate it raw. The berry was so sweet on my fasted tongue that tears swelled in my eyes.
It took all of my significant willpower to not rush the bushes and eat berries by the handful—I needed to wait another eight hours to ensure the single uncooked fruit didn't make me sick.
As I sat and stared at the water and lamented my lack of coffee, movement across and to my right caught my eye. Darting my eyes towards it, the lizard part of my brain expected an attack. Excitement replaced fear at the sight of a black fish swimming in the pond, slowly making its way along the outskirts in search of prey.
My mind whirled with possibilities, and my mouth salivated at the thought of fish cooked over a fire.
Could I craft a makeshift spear? Or even a fishing rod?
Given I had eight hours to kill before I could deem the raw berries safe to eat, I welcomed the distraction and rushed headlong toward it.
I found a suitable stick to use as a rod; it was neither too dry, nor too green, and had just the right amount of give. I returned to the palms and split a long string from the center of a frond to act as a line.
Then came the most difficult part.
For a hook, I carved and slowly worked at a stick using the sharp rock from the day before. It was long and tedious work, and by the time I finished, the sun was low in the sky. As the last sliver of wood was carved away, a familiar pulse tugged at my mind.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
I rolled my eyes.
"What would I do without you, System?"
Eight hours had passed while I fixated on carving the wooden hook, and I all but skipped over to the berry bush and ate a single handful of the fruit.
They were both sweet and a little tart; my mouth hungered for more the moment I'd swallowed the last one. I had to wait another eight hours, however, before I would know for certain that the berries were safe for me to eat.
I boiled some water, rehydrated, then set to searching for bait.
I turned over rocks along the bank, but found nothing of use. I searched for fallen logs or rocks to turn in the forest, but again, I found nothing of use. I'd found a single rock to turn, and expecting a fat worm to be hiding underneath, all I found was dirt.
Walking back to the pond, I radiated frustration from both my hunger and futile search. As I walked, feeling sorry for myself and dragging my feet in abject disparagement, I noticed a section of bark on a tree with odd markings that seemed to be falling away.
Raising an eyebrow, I walked to the bark, and carefully peeled it away, revealed a giant grub. It looked almost exactly like a witchetty grub, just a little darker.
About the size of my thumb, it sat there uselessly, lacking the ability to do anything but burrow through wood. I smiled at my savior, but paused as I went to pick it up.
Grubs and bugs are extremely nutrient dense, right? Would I be better off just eating this thing…?
I glanced at the grub again, narrowing my eyes at the way its pincers worked at the air. Its weird little legs undulated ineffectually as they tried to find purchase.
"Nope. Fuck that noise. You're bait, my unfortunate friend."
I picked the grub up carefully and ran back to the pond as the light slowly leached out of the sky. I picked up my rod and slid the insect over the hook while silently apologizing to the ugly little thing.
Then I cast my line out into the pond.
With my feet in the cool water, and my eyes watching the tip of the line for any movement, a sense of ease radiated through me.
With the sun going down, I knew dusk was a good time to catch certain types of fish. Something about dawn and dusk made them grow hungry, and I wondered if the black fish I'd seen would—oh shit, a bite!
The line went taut, the fish on the other end of the line feeling much bigger than the one I'd seen before. The rod almost slipped from my hands, and before I could even attempt to pull the fish out, the line snapped.
I took a step back, almost falling over as the force pulling at me disappeared. I glared at the limply hanging strip of palm-frond I'd used as a line, a sense of disappointment spreading as I saw it snapped off above where the hook had been secured.
Another message hit me.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
My eye twitched.
Is this thing just messing with me now?
I breathed out a great sigh and walked back to the embers of my fire. Setting the rod down, I allowed myself a moment to think about my life choices.
I'd spent most of the day carving that hook, and the monster living in this pond had taken all of that work away in less than a second.
I barked a laugh and shook my head with a smile.
"Alright. You win this round, fishy."
Despite losing a day's work, I'd also gone through two rounds of testing the berries, and I still felt fine after eating the handful of the black treasures growing on the surrounding bushes.
Before the sun set, I was determined to fix the shelter to, at the very least, not be an OHSA incident waiting to happen.
Using the same material I used to start fires as a binding had clearly been a mistake, and after crafting the fishing line—which, admittedly, had also been a mistake—I had an idea.
I collected more of the fronds, then carefully pulled strips of fiber from the part connecting the leaves. I used these to bind the sticks together, and as I shook the frame, it was much more rigid than the previous night.
Rather than trying to weave the leaves together to make a patchwork roof, I lashed them to the sticks. The final product was time intensive, and much less aesthetically pleasing than the videos I'd watched, but was a vast improvement on yesterday's attempt.
As I tied the final frond into place, the System said g'day once more.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
"Yeah, yeah—I know," I said, rolling my eyes.
I stoked the fire again, and as more water purified, I used the last rays of the setting sun to weave a crude sling with which to carry my prized water-purifying vessel.
As I sat inside of my shelter that evening—which hopefully wouldn't attack me in the middle of the night—I thought of my plans going forward.
I could spend the next day carving another hook and attempting to conquer the monster of the pond, but I had a different plan.
Assuming my stomach remained alright in the coming hours, I'd have a stable source of food. I would eat a bunch of the berries, store some more, and follow the creek further downstream. If I didn't find more of the bushes, I'd return and pick them all before taking off again.
I had to leave for one very important reason: people.
All humans needed access to drinkable water, and if I were to follow the creek all the way downstream, that would be my best chance of coming across civilization. The worst-case scenario, in my mind, was that I'd eventually find the ocean—a source of infinite fish, and more abundant food than the forest could offer.
I was still awake when I thought it had been eight hours since last eating a handful of berries, but to be safe, I decided it best to wait until the morning before eating more.
Without realizing it, I drifted off to sleep.
***
As the water boiled in my makeshift pot the following morning, I picked and ate berries to my heart's content.
I made sure not to eat too many, all too wary that over indulging could make me sick with the sugar content. I stuffed as many as would fit atop the gold in the leather pouch, noting well how the bushes looked in my mind. Eating a lookalike berry could prove fatal, after all.
With a sense of accomplishment and my hunger satiated, I followed the creek.
Small birds flitted through the trees above my head as I traveled, their morning songs soft and peaceful. The damp morning air caused goose-bumps to sprout on my skin, but as I continued moving, my body warmed and the cool air became a source of reprieve.
It didn't take me long to find the first berry bush. It was growing just to the side of the stream, and contained another few-dozen berries among its green leaves. I examined the bush carefully, making sure that it was exactly the same as the ones surrounding the pond.
Nodding to myself, I continued walking downstream.
If they're also growing here, there's a good chance they'll be throughout the entire forest…
I was correct in that assumption, and I spent the next few days following the stream and nibbling on the sweet offerings of the forest. I had to stop a few times a day to purify more water, and the last few hours of daylight each day were spent creating a small makeshift shelter to sleep in.
By the third day of travel, I'd become so deft at crafting the small huts that it took less than an hour, judging by the sun's shifting and fading light.
Creating embers by hand had been steadily getting easier also, but it was still a pain to get going each time.
As I tied down the last palm-leaf of my fourth shelter, the System spoke up.
[Error: Insufficient power. Superfluous systems offline.]
The messages were starting to bother me less, and I dismissed this one without a reaction, instead crawling into my shelter and falling asleep within minutes.
***
The sun was directly above the next day when I noticed something odd.
In the forest ahead, there seemed to be a path clear of any trees. With bubbling anticipation I tried and failed to keep at bay, I power-walked towards the anomaly.
Anticipation became hope, and hope became joy.
I had found a road.
The road wasn't paved; it was made only of dirt. The creek crossed paths with the road and weathered sleepers made of dark wood formed an old-yet-sturdy bridge from bank to bank. The road didn't look like it had seen too much traffic recently, with patches of grass growing towards the middle of the trail, but the trees of the forest had yet to reclaim any space.
Which means it's been maintained—or in the very least, used—over the last five-to-ten years.
My joy swelled. I hadn't realized just how much I'd been hoping and praying to find other humans in this world. I told myself I'd be fine living a life of solitude if I didn't end up crossing paths with humanity—my palpable, almost-physical relief at that moment told a different story.
As I looked both ways down the road, there was an important decision to make.
Which way do I go?
I looked at the creek for guidance, and seeing that it seemed to travel to the left of where I'd come, then ran adjacent to the road, my decision was made for me.
I couldn't hold back a smile as I strode with renewed vigor down the road and along the creek.
As the sun set that night, I basked in the warmth of my campfire and the burn of physical exertion in my legs.
The anticipation of what was to come was an unstoppable force, despite my best efforts.
I knew there was a distinct possibility I wouldn't find anyone at the end of this road; I didn't know the past events that had occurred in this game-like world, and whatever had broken the System may have also had a grievous effect on human life.
Another possibility was that I did find humanity at the end of the road, but they were hostile. That trees were cleared to make a road spoke of at least some advancement within their society, but it still wasn't impossible that I found myself on the pointy-end of a tribal warrior's spear.
Still, the possibility of human interaction—the friendly kind, not the stabby-stabby kind—made my cheeks turn up into a broad smile, and I felt almost nervous at the idea of striking up conversation with strangers.
What do I say to them to seem like a regular person? Will they even speak English? I wonder what they're like…
With these thoughts and countless others on my mind, I drifted off to sleep in a camp beside the road.
***
The sun wasn't high enough to banish the cool air of the morning yet and was only just cresting the horizon when something beautiful grabbed my attention.
The road had climbed a hill, and as I reached the peak, I could see what had to be the ocean poking up over the distant treeline.
The shore was visible from my vantage point, and light-yellow sand arced out into dual headlands that formed a cove, at least a kilometer from end-to-end.
To the right, and outside of the protected cove, a broad river-mouth fed into the ocean. Further right, the land turned mountainous after another stretch of flat beach on the other side of the river.
Two things made my hopes soar.
First, the saltwater of the sea, the freshwater of the river, and the brackish water of the two mixing meant one thing: an abundance and variety of aquatic-life.
Second, and most important, there were dozens of houses built on the shore, some of which had smoke billowing from their stone chimneys. To the left of the buildings, farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, crops of different kinds sprawling over the area.
There were people!
4 - Welcome
I tried to calm my racing heart as I walked along the road, passing cultivated fields on the way to the small village.
I reached out to touch a stalk of what I knew to be sugar cane—the crop was prevalent in the coastal plains of my hometown on the east-coast of Australia.
Apart from a few patches of wheat, corn, and something unrecognizable, the sugarcane was the only thing being grown. There were acres of it, stretching far to either side of the village's border.
The settlement itself had no visible wall or threshold, only a perimeter of dirt separating the houses from the crops, showing this was a peaceful area. I'd suspected so already, given that I wasn't eaten by wolves out in the forest, but it was still nice to know I didn't have to worry about goblin raids, monster attacks, or some other, equally tropey fantasy-world shenanigans.
Perhaps the smart plan would be to hang back and observe the town for a while, to watch the townspeople move and interact before seamlessly integrating myself among them.
This thought came, and it passed. Through my relatively short yet experience-packed life, I'd learned to trust my instincts when they spoke up. There was something unquantifiable about the hunches fed to you by the universe.
Whether the result of divine intervention, subconscious calculation, or something other, the result remained the same; intuition was ignored at one's own peril.
If my goal was to form bonds and connections—which it was—my instincts told me to be my authentic self from the very start. While skulking may give me more information, it would undoubtedly alter my later interactions, and may even lead to suspicion and derision if caught doing so.
With the contentment of doing the right thing, and a purpose-filled stride, I entered the street between two rows of houses.
Both my contentment and stride were abruptly halted as I found the blunt side of a scythe's blade held to my throat.
My eyes went wide, and I stared in shock at the wiry man across from me that held the impromptu weapon. Gray hair, countless wrinkles, a salt-and-pepper beard, and deeply tanned skin atop a farmer's frame blocked my passage through the street.
"Can I help you, lad?" the man asked, voice firm and as weathered as its speaker.
"I'm—uh—looking for people?"
I found my words failing me. I'd never been physically threatened before—ever.
The man narrowed his eyes, pressing the blunted end of the scythe into my neck.
"And what people would that be, lad?"
"There you are, dad!" a feminine voice called. "Where have you—dad! What are you doing?"
The stranger lowered the scythe, but kept his eyes pinned on me.
A young woman of mid-twenties to early-thirties stepped into view from between two houses.
She grimaced at me in obvious apology.
"By Freya's bouncing bosom, I'm so sorry!" She put her hand on the scythe and lowered it further from my chest. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"N-no. I'm fine, really…" My voice still stammered, but this time for an entirely different reason—the girl was stunning.
She had sun-kissed skin, with small freckles covering her face and shoulders, and light-blond hair that was partially tied up. Her blue eyes seemed to broadcast her intent, like windows into her soul—she appeared kind, honest, and caring.
Maybe it was because I hadn't seen people in some time, or maybe it was the fact she'd saved me from the beach-bum grim-reaper, but something about her drew me in.
"How many times have I told you, dad? There's nothing to worry about here! It's a peaceful town! That's why we moved here, remember?"
"I caught this young feller just skulking about, all shady-like!"
The man's voice was petulant as he defended himself against his daughter—a far cry from the gravelly determination it held earlier.
The woman turned to me, giving me a weak smile.
"I'm so sorry. I'm Maria, and this is my dad, Roger."
"Oh, uh, nice to meet you. I'm Fischer."
The man squinted as a suspicious hmmmmm escaped his throat.
"What kinda dumb name is Fisher?"
"Dad!"
I laughed and spelled out my name for the duo.
"Hmmm. Still a dumb name. Your parents cousins or somethin'?"
Maria shook her head and looked between me and her father, lost for words.
I just laughed, unaffected by the old-timer's transparency. I'd dealt with plenty of blunt people in my previous life, and even I had to admit, Fischer was an odd name compared to Maria and Roger.
I thought I was in a fantasy world—where were the names like Zorian, Wei Shi Lindon, and Carl? Okay, maybe not that last one…
"I'm from a long way away." I gave them my most disarming smile. "You'll have to excuse my name—and any other idiosyncrasies, for that matter."
"We are, too! Aren't we, dad?" Maria nudged her father, jumping at the chance to bowl through the fact her progenitor held me at scythe-point just a minute ago. "Tell Fischer where you came from."
Roger nodded, taking the bait.
"Well, I grew up on the coastal town of Yerba. It's far west of the capital, and back then there weren't a lot of jobs going around. Before I knew it, I found myself in the Imperial Army…"
Maria guided us through the streets as her father regaled us with a rather storied military career, the chance encounter that introduced him to his wife—Maria's mother, Sharon—the subsequent retirement from the Imperial Army, and the seeking of a coastal town to relax and raise a family.
As his story wound ever on, Maria pointed out landmarks in what she called their small village.
"That's the mill—we only have the one, so it gets quite busy round wheat and corn harvesting time."
The squat building was made of rock and mortar, roughly four times the size of the surrounding houses, with a giant wooden windmill extending above.
"That there is one of the sugarcane refineries—we have plenty of those. Because cane grows so well here, a single refinery wouldn't be enough."
The refinery was made of the same material as the mill, but instead of a wooden windmill, four metal stacks reached into the sky, presumably attached to metal contraptions similar to those used to refine sugarcane on Earth.
"This bakery," Maria said, pointing to a small shop-front with a tanned woman behind the counter, "is the best bakery in the village. Forget what any of the fat cats to the north say—this is the best, bar none."
"Good morning, Maria!" the lady behind the counter called.
Maria gave her a beatific smile.
"Morning, Sue!"
With the morning sun rising in the sky, people began leaving their homes and heading about their business for the day—except the bakers, whose work had long since begun, and whose chimneys had already been spewing smoke when I first laid eyes on the village.
The people I saw leaving their homes appeared fit, tanned, and focused; they were the epitome of working-class folk. All gave me odd looks, either my appearance or unfamiliarity making me somewhat of a spectacle.
"Now, that was when the war really took a turn for the worse…"
Roger walked ahead of us, well and truly lost in his recounting of his second tour-of-duty.
I wanted to listen in order to glean as much information as possible, but I found myself unable to tear my attention away from the buildings and people of the strange new world I had arrived in.
The buildings were crude, made of large stones and cement that held everything in place. The people seemed to have an almost alien look about them, like some sort of ethnicity I'd never seen before on Earth.
I'd assumed it to be a feature of Maria and Roger, but as I took in more people, it became obvious they all possessed an almost Fae-like quality. There was still variance from person to person, especially regarding skin-color, but as a whole, they shared many physical similarities.
"So…" Maria said, skull-dragging me from my thoughts. "What brings you all the way out here to Tropica Village?"
I'd considered what to say when—and if—I found people, and I'd prepared several lines of answer depending on the situation.
Confronted with the reality of it, though, these carefully prepared plans were torn apart like sugarcane before a thresher.
Following an instinct, I stated the truth instead.
"I want to find a place to settle down, and I want to fish."
This statement made Maria purse her lips and almost-imperceptibly raise an eyebrow.
Roger was much less subtle. Having somehow heard my statement through his own monologue, he spun and faced us.
"You dropped on your head or something, lad? Fishing is a fanciful hobby of the ancients—not a productive way to live your life."
"Dad! Fischer's just arrived here. Can you not chase him away already?"
Roger shook his head and scrunched his face, seeming disgusted.
"If he's a fisherman, he's dead-weight. I'm going to the field. I've wasted enough time on this fool already."
Without any further comment, Roger strode off and disappeared around a corner.
Maria immediately apologized.
"I'm sorry. The older he gets, the less his filter seems to work."
I laughed at the departed man and shook my head.
"Don't worry about it. Other people's opinions won't change what I'm about."
Maria paused for a moment and wrung her hands as she clearly thought about what to say.
I smiled, able to read her body language as if she were a book.
"You can say whatever you're thinking, Maria."
She jolted, then flushed and averted her eyes.
"I… uh… I don't want to offend—"
"You won't offend me. As I said, I know what I'm about. What did you want to say?"
"Well, the thing is…" She paused as she gathered her courage. "… fishing kind of is frowned upon, and it'll be hard to sustain yourself and integrate into this village if you intend on fishing."
I cocked my head, genuine confusion hitting me.
How is a village in such a prime place for fishing not filled with anglers?
"I thought, given that this is a coastal town, that fishing would be an integral part of the village's economy. Is that not the case?"
It was Maria's turn to show confusion—it oozed from her countenance.
"Where have you come from that fishing is ever an integral part of anything?"
"A long, long way away."
"Well…" She looked at me with keen eyes. "Here, and everywhere else I've ever heard of, fishing hasn't been done since the gods left. Living off the land is the proper way to be, and living from the water is a waste of precious time. If you intend to fish, I hope you're prepared for the weird looks. I also hope you either intend to work a proper job, or have a large amount of coin to burn through…"
"No 'proper job' for me, I'm afraid." I smiled at her, glad that she was so forthcoming, but also not swayed by the warnings. "I intend to fish, and only to fish."
She stared at me with a weighing gaze.
I'd felt many such looks fall upon me in my previous life, but it was both surprising, and a little scary, to feel such a heavy stare come from such a young woman.
She sighed.
"Well, I can see you won't be swayed. Do you intend to buy land?"
I beamed a smile at her acceptance.
"I do."
"Come with me. I have to get to our field, but I can take a few minutes to introduce you to the village lord."
Lord? Does that mean the people of this village belong to a fiefdom? Or even a kingdom? I have to get that information…
As we traveled, the layout and condition of the streets changed. The roads grew wider and cleaner, and the houses were larger, made of more organized stone-and-mortar. Some even expressed some artistic flair with the layout and construction of the materials.
If where we'd been previously was the working district, this is the upper-crust part of town.
Maria led me to a building that was more akin to a cathedral than a house.
It was three stories tall—another floor higher than any other structure I'd seen, including the refinery and mill. Made of stone all the same color of gray, with large sheets of glass interspersed on the higher floors, it presented a front of opulence compared to the rest of Tropica village.
Maria knocked on the door, and after an extended stretch of time, it flew open.
5 - Acquisition
George, the lord of Tropica village, was on only his fifth sugar-crusted pastry of the day when some cretin had the audacity to knock on his front door, interrupting the succulent and delicious-tasting treat.
This assignment alone was already enough of a slight to his family's good name, but having to interact directly with the rabble was a daily insult.
"They dare disturb me, when I've not even finished my second-breakfast?" he said aloud.
His wife, Geraldine, rolled her eyes and made a noise of contempt around her mouthful of pastry.
The things I do for these peasants…
He grunted in frustration as he wrestled with his silk dressing gown, the damn thing seeming to have shrunken again.
I'll have to talk to that miserly seamstress about her materials.
He trudged down the stairs while sucking remnants of granular sugar from his fingers. Unleashing his fury on the door, he flung it open with wild abandon, casting his displeasure over the two people on his doorstep.
One was a female field worker, who would have been a beautiful sight, if not for her sun-tainted skin, and starved-looking form. The other was a man in his thirties he hadn't seen before. He didn't have the tanned skin of the other peasants, but he had the similarly malnourished body that all the working class did.
"Yes? What have you disturbed my morning for?" George asked, using his shrillest and therefore most-authoritarian voice.
"U-uh, this is Fischer," the plain woman said. "He's just arrived, and he wants to buy some land."
She turned to the other peasant.
"Fischer, this is George, the lord of Tropica. I have to get to work. I'll leave you to it."
She fled, walking with haste back to the peasant side of town.
Fischer turned to him.
"A pleasure to meet you, lord."
At least he has the good sense to show the proper respect, George thought, deciding to bestow upon him the gift of not rolling his eyes at the insolence of interrupting his third-favorite meal of the day.
"Oh, is that so… Fischer, was it? And what sort of land do you desire?"
"Coastal. As close to, if not directly on the beach."
George was unable to stop himself from narrowing his eyes in confusion.
"What would anyone want with a coastal strip of land?"
Fischer smiled plainly.
"For fishing, mate. I want a plot of land to call my own, and I want to be as close to the water as possible."
George rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh.
Great. A madman has found his way to our shores.
Employing his vast intellect, George devised a way to chase this madman away, and hopefully send him scurrying whence he came.
"Unfortunately, my dear man, it isn't possible to break up the coastal land—crown laws, you understand?"
Fischer nodded, accepting the words of his betters as fact.
"Of course. How big a property are we talking?"
"The stretch from the last field on the south-side of Tropica, all the way up to and including the southern mountain-range, is available. It is worth quite a sum, however…"
George shook his head in feigned sadness.
"Fifteen gold pieces, I regret to say. It may be out of your reach…"
George knew that if someone were to buy the sandy, useless stretch of land, that it'd be worth three, maybe four gold coins at most. What good would land that could hardly grow any of the staple commodities of the kingdom be, after all?
A smile lingered on Fischer's face, but his eyes narrowed slightly, the expression disconcerting and unreadable to George.
"Fifteen? That seems a little steep, George. It's sandy land, after all, which isn't great for growing any of the crops I've seen. How far inland does the land stretch?"
George snorted, letting some of his disdain for the madman show.
"All the way back to the village's boundary line—just over a kilometer."
What does he know of land prices? He couldn't afford a coffee, let alone the useless sand he wants.
George's frustration with the intrusion growing, he looked Fischer up and down, his eyes lingering on the basic clothes.
"Do you even have any gold, sir?"
Fischer kept his unsettling gaze on George as he reached into his bag with slow ease, grabbing something. He held it out.
George stuck his hand out petulantly, half expecting this Fischer to drop a shell or other, similarly useless trinket into his hand.
When he saw what Fischer dropped on his open palm, his eyes almost flew from their sockets.
It wasn't just a gold coin.
It was a coin of the ancients, a relic that, back in the city he'd grown up in, would fetch anywhere from fifty to sixty regular gold pieces—each enough to buy half this godforsaken village.
George looked back up at Fischer—the man had a vicious gleam in his eye.
Before, George had seen Fischer's happiness as that of a peasant pleased to be interacting with his betters—now, all George could see was the predatory gleam of a hawk who'd cornered a mouse.
He put the coinless fist behind his back to hide the tremble he felt coming on; his other hand started to sweat beneath the treasure he'd just been handed so casually.
"Er—uh—no. I-I think I may have been hasty in my previous assessment." George let out a laugh that sounded forced to his own ears. "For a man such as yourself, a single coin should suffice. The land is as good as yours." He tried to smile, but he felt his eyes displaying his panic.
Fischer's eyes flinched almost imperceptibly, and George felt the gaze bore right through him
"A single coin?"
"Y-yes, Fischer! This will more than cover it! I-I'm sorry for the mixup, it was an honest mistake…"
Fischer stared at him, the lack of emotion and predatory gleam pinning George down. Each moment Fischer remained silent made the pressure increase tenfold.
"Alright, then." He shot George a wink. "Don't go spending that coin all at once."
George nodded and swallowed, his throat scratchy and uncomfortable.
Fischer spoke again, freeing George from the building silence.
"Is there a form I need to fill out?"
"I'll—uh—I'll handle the formalities and paperwork, and I'll come find you with them later. Good day, er—sir!" He bowed, slowly but firmly closed the door behind him.
The moment it was closed, he collapsed against it, sliding down the wooden surface as sweat poured from his rotund body.
Who sent this man? Has the capital grown wise of the coins I've been skimming from the taxes sent their way?
The coin was clearly a message. Who else, if not a representative of the capital themselves, could hold their composure while handling such a vast sum of wealth? That leather pouch of his may have held even more of the artifacts. Worse, George had lied to the man, telling a crown agent that the land couldn't be broken up.
He told me not to spend the coin—a direct warning.
Horror dawned as he realized he'd kept it.
Why didn't I hand it back? In my panic, I let a capital representative overpay... did he embroil me on purpose? What devious plan have I stepped head-first into?
George's thoughts were troubled, his body numb, as he walked upstairs.
"George?" Geraldine asked as he walked back into their dining room. "What's wrong? You're white as a ghost…"
Unable to respond, he sat heavily in his chair and shoved a sugary pastry into his mouth.
It tasted bland and dry.
***
A calm contentment blanketed my thoughts as I walked toward what had to be the south of the village—it was the undeveloped stretch of land, after all. It also made sense with Roger, the addled man from earlier, claiming this village to be on the eastern coast.
I couldn't believe what had just transpired.
Just like that, I'd been granted so much land. I'd happily have given everything—up to and including the clothes on my back—if it meant I could have even an acre of beach-front property.
Instead, I'd been given hectares—hundreds of hectares—of land.
Land that was entirely mine—all for a single coin.
I was a little annoyed that I'd slipped so easily back into my CEO training, and I might have been better off just paying the demanded price. Negotiating was a hard habit to break; I'd have to do my best not to let it overtake my time here, lest I get dragged back into a life I found empty and wanting.
It felt wrong leaving without a contract, too, maybe I should go back and—
I shook my head, realizing I was already slipping back into old habits.
Let it go, Fischer.
My therapist's voice once more sprung forth, unbidden.
"Show others trust, and they'll trust you in return…"
I forced my focus toward the information I'd managed to extract. There was an overarching governing body—a monarchy, if George's use of the term "crown laws" meant anything.
I wanted to get more information out of the village's lord, but that door was, quite literally, closed on me. I didn't want to force the issue and draw attention to myself.
Another time…
As I continued my path southward, I smiled at the people I passed, not letting their odd looks and stares bother me. Even if I were the type of person to be caught off-guard by such things, I was entirely too ecstatic to care.
I'd been shocked to see the state of the lord that opened the door. After seeing the rest of the village people, I had just assumed everyone would be lean from hard work—tanned from days spent in the sun.
The lord of the town proved to be the exception.
The man was, well, large. Really large. His skin was pasty, too, telling me he rarely—if ever—saw time in the sun.
I suppose that explains Maria calling the people to the north of the village fat cats.
George was the picture of noble entitlement from the stories, and he'd led with the expected, holier-than-thou attitude, but that quickly disappeared when I paid up.
George likely gave me an extortive quote, explaining the nervousness, but why did a single coin addle him…? Was even the single coin an overpayment?
This thought made a twinge of frustration bubble up inside me, but I quickly stamped it out. Who cares if he tried to fleece me and I overpaid? I still held twenty-four of the coins, and more importantly, I owned my own beach, river, and mountains!
Before I even realized, I was stepping out from between the houses of the town and between two fields of sugarcane. I stopped mid-step and turned to take in my surroundings.
The air was fresh and carried the smell of salt. The sun was climbing ever higher, and now that there were no awnings protecting my skin from its rays, its touch was warm and pleasant.
A tear of happiness swelled in my eye, and the emotion of the moment overwhelmed me.
I'd finally started to figure out life on Earth when I was robbed of that newfound path by truck-kun. Then, through a bizarre series of events triggered by divine intervention, pure happenstance, or some other, equally confusing interdimensional-fuckery, I was reborn into this world, and now possessed everything I could need.
Well, everything other than a house and a fishing rod… but I have all the tools and money I need to make that happen.
With that thought, I continued walking between the sugarcane and towards my property.
Before long, the fields of cane opened up into a flat stretch. Some weeds grew in the sandy soil, but it was mostly bare, which was the only reason the land hadn't been developed, I guessed.
What would be the bane of others was a boon for me. If it had been anything other than sandy soil this side of the village, it would have been developed into farmland and crops. The fact that it wasn't worth farming meant that I was able to buy it.
I bent down and spread my arms wide, hugging the ground.
"I love you, sand."
"Er, you okay?"
I jumped at the voice, scrambling to my feet.
There was a man in one of the fields I'd just passed. He looked to be about the same age as me, wore a large straw hat, a set of basic clothes, and carried a hoe slung over his shoulder.
"Uh, yeah, don't mind me." I laughed awkwardly. "I'm Fischer. I just bought this land."
"Oh, you did?" The man strode forward, hand extended. "I'm Barry. Most of the fields this side of Tropica are mine, so I guess we'll be neighbors. Nice to meet you, Fischer!"
"The pleasure's all mine, mate."
We clasped hands. He had strength that belied his size, the wiry muscles in his arm evidently hardened by years of slinging hoes.
"There's a lot of fields this side of the village," I said. "It's impressive that one man owns them all."
It was Barry's turn to laugh awkwardly, and he rubbed the back of his head with his free hand.
"It's not as impressive as it might seem. My family and I run it, and the land was much cheaper on account of how sandy it is." Barry shrugged. "But we've worked out how to grow in the sandier stuff, it just takes a little more work. Let me know if you need help working it out—I'd be happy to give you some knowledge in exchange for a little work in our fields."
"Thanks, Barry. I'll keep that in mind, but I don't actually plan on doing any farming."
"No problem, you—wait, what?" Barry raised an eyebrow. "You don't plan on farming? What do you plan on doing, then?"
I smiled in delight.
"Fishing!"
Barry cocked his head, then he laughed. He really laughed. He doubled over, leaning on his hoe for support, all the while I just smiled at him.
"Thank you, Fischer," Barry said as he wiped tears from his eyes. "I needed that. Seriously, though, what are you planning on doing with the land? Livestock?"
"Oh, I'm as serious as a Queensland summer. I'll just be fishing, if I can help it."
Barry's face went through a series of emotions as he realized I was telling the truth. It settled somewhere between confused and troubled.
"Well, the offer is there if you change your mind and want to learn about farming in sandy soil, alright? You take care, Fischer."
"Thanks, Barry. You too."
I spun and strode further into my land, not at all disparaged by the odd interaction.
I'd have to work out why everyone was so averse to fishing. It seemed to be something to do with "the gods leaving" and "the ancients," whatever the hell that meant.
It was all a problem for another day, because I had some land to explore—my land.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein