One foot dragged behind the other, nails scraping against rough sandstone.
Louis barely felt it.
Not over the dehydration.
His mouth tasted like sand. His throat burned with it.
"Water…" he groaned.
Each step left a dark mark behind—not dirt, but rubber. His slippers were melting, thin black streaks peeling away with every step. Sweat soaked him completely. Any gust of wind only made it worse, blasting hot air against already overheated skin.
Louis hadn't even been in this world for half a day.
He already wanted out.
Air conditioning. Ice cream. Television.
Everything that made summer survivable was gone.
Judging by the town, this place hadn't even dreamed of electricity.
Maybe I can introduce them, he thought bitterly. After I don't die of thirst.
He'd wandered far from the entrance—past buildings, markets, pubs, anything that looked remotely interesting. He hadn't noticed how far he'd gone.
All the sprinting was catching up to him now.
Then he saw it.
Not bright.
Shiny.
A few meters ahead stood an old water pump. Waist-high. Rusted. A long lever stretched behind it, a short tap jutting from the front.
Louis didn't care if the water was safe.
He broke into a jog, nearly tripping as his slippers stuck to the ground. He grabbed the lever—
—and yanked his hand back instantly.
The metal was scorching.
"You could fry an egg on this thing," he hissed.
He grabbed the inside of his tank top, wrapped it around his hand, and tried again.
Push.
Pull.
Push.
A full minute passed before a single drop formed at the tap.
It fell.
Darkened the ground.
Another drop.
Then a larger one.
And then—
Water burst out.
Steam hissed into the air before fading. Louis hesitated, then poked the stream.
Cool.
He didn't wait.
He shoved his face under the flow, drinking desperately, water spilling down his chin. He splashed his arms, his neck, his face. His clothes were soaked—and he'd never felt better.
Then he looked down.
Blue underwear.
Fully visible.
Heat rushed to his face as he clamped his hands over himself. He glanced around in panic—
No one was watching.
Everyone was busy with their own lives.
Louis exhaled slowly. As he straightened, he noticed his clothes were already beginning to dry.
I should find shelter. That inn Ali mentioned…
He hesitated.
Ali had pointed in a clear direction earlier—but Louis had wandered off completely. Whatever sense of direction he'd once had was long gone.
Wandering aimlessly again would be a death wish.
That left one option.
Asking for directions.
He scanned the street. A small open market sat nearby. After a moment's hesitation, he walked toward it, shoulders squared, pretending he had confidence he very much did not.
The person behind the counter looked up from a book.
An old man.
His beard was wild and unkempt, as if it had survived several wars without ever meeting a comb. White hair framed a deeply wrinkled face, topped by a bald head that did him no favors.
"'Addya want, kid?" the man grunted.
His voice was rough—more tired than threatening.
Louis swallowed. "I'm a bit lost and could use some help."
The old man sighed. "'Whyd I 'tually think it was a customer, heh?" He sat straighter. "What're 'ye lookin' for?"
Louis let out a silent cry of victory in his mind. This wasn't as stressful as he'd thought it would be. "A cheap inn," he said. "Preferably nearby."
"'Course 'ye are." The man rolled his eyes and closed the book, letting it slide a few inches across the counter. He didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze traveled—slow and assessing—from Louis's face down to his legs.
Louis shifted under the scrutiny. "Uh…" He took a half-step back. Is this guy seriously checking me out?
"Well," the old man said at last, leaning back in his chair, "information 'ain free 'round this here town."
Louis had expected that. Fantasy towns always worked like this—pay for rumors, pay for directions, pay just to breathe. If it came to coin, he'd simply move on to the next stall and keep trying.
Seeing Louis's tense expression, the man snorted. "Relax, kid. I 'ain after yer coin. Just a question."
Relief loosened Louis's chest. "Oh. Okay."
"I 'ain seen you 'round these parts before," the man said. "So tell me—what're 'ye hopin' to do here?"
The question hung in the air.
Louis blinked. "What am I hoping to do here?"
Nothing.
Nowhere to go. No one waiting.
The man rested his head against his palm, elbow creaking against the chair's armrest, eyes fixed on Louis with open curiosity.
"I don't know," Louis said finally.
The man gestured slightly, inviting more.
Louis opened his mouth. He was about to say it—that he wasn't from this place, that he didn't belong here at all—
A chill slid down his spine.
Something invisible closed around his throat. Tight. Crushing. His breath vanished, panic flaring white-hot as pressure caved inward.
Then it was gone.
The sensation had lasted less than a heartbeat, yet it left him gasping, one hand flying to his neck. There was nothing there. No pain. No mark.
"Are 'ye okay?" the old man asked. Not gentle—just impatient, curiosity edging sharp.
Louis nodded quickly. "Yeah. I'm fine." He swallowed. "I was just gonna say… I don't remember much."
The man sighed, disappointed. "How many of ya idiots are 'gon go there, eh? When will ya people learn?"
Heat settled back into Louis's skin. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes downcast.
"Right," the old man continued. "Go yonder a few meters till ya see a bar. Take a left at the bull." He waved a hand dismissively. "And don't linger outside. Folk who don't know where they're goin' tend to vanish come nightfall."
And with that, he picked up his book again. He shuffled forward pages, then stopped.
"Thanks," Louis muttered, already turning away.
The interaction had gone better than he'd expected. He could have done without the lingering stare—but more than that, he couldn't shake the memory of that sensation.
He followed the direction the man had given, fingers lifting to his neck, pressing lightly as if he might find a mark there.
What was that feeling? Is that normal in this world? Or was it because I was about to say I was from Earth?
The questions churned, the earlier panic thinning into something closer to cautious curiosity.
If I get the chance to see Ali again, I'll ask. I will.
His thoughts cut off—not from that invisible pressure, but from what stood ahead of him.
Take a left at the bull.
Louis had expected many things. A statue. A carving. Maybe a tavern mascot.
Not this.
"That's… not funny," he muttered.
A massive sign stood before him, nearly as wide as he was tall. Bright red letters were bolted into the wood:
B.U.L.L.
He sighed.
The bar was easy to spot after that—just a few meters to the right. A low wooden building with a wide front. Above the door hung a painted sign in ornate lettering:
Dom's Drinking and Dining.
He didn't linger. The sun had begun its slow descent, the heat easing from unbearable to merely oppressive. Just as he'd been told, he took a left.
Buildings and tents slid past as he walked, the streets thinning with the darkening sky.
Come to think of it, this whole isekai thing felt real. Too real. But… what were his parents doing right now?
He pictured his mother first—then stopped.
The thought didn't hurt as much as he'd expected.
Even though they were some of the few people he could talk to without weighing every word, he didn't feel especially sad about leaving them behind. And that unsettled him more than the desert ever had.
Wouldn't any normal kid feel the same?
No answer came.
He walked on, listening to his own footsteps, fabric stirring in the evening breeze, long shadows stretching ahead.
And then he saw it. Missing it would've taken effort.
A ridiculous building stood out from its neighbors like a purple thumb. Ten stories tall, absurdly wide, swallowing a third of the block. Staircases clung to its sides, leading nowhere in particular.
From the top, a sign hung from ropes:
Dom's Drinking, Dining, and Inning!
The first floor had been overtaken by celebration. Long tables crowded the space, nearly all of them occupied. People leaned close, shouting over music, raising mugs, slapping shoulders.
His stomach twisted.
He hadn't eaten since waking, and the smell of smoked meat, steamed vegetables, and unfamiliar spices hit him all at once. His stomach growled—loud enough that he froze.
"Hush, little baby, don't you cry. Everything's gonna be alright…", he muttered.
Workers wove through the crowd with practiced ease, laughing, dodging spilled drinks and wandering hands.
Louis edged forward until he spotted a reception desk near the far wall.
A woman sat behind it, chin propped on her hand, watching the chaos with open boredom. Dark hair framed her face; the shadows beneath her eyes suggested sleep was optional at best.
She raised an eyebrow. "A kid?"
"I'm—uh—looking for a place to stay."
She snorted. "Really? Thought you were here to make cattle fly."
Louis flinched. "Uh…"
She sighed. "Food, drinks, and rooms are free for tonight. King's birthday."
"Free?"
She nodded once. "Yeah. Now move. You're blocking the view."
He spotted a free table near the center of the room, where the noise was loudest. The only free one.
Beggars can't be choosers.
He sat down and immediately wondered how he was supposed to get the free food. Do I call someone over? He sighed, already dreading it, and just as he was about to speak—
Scrape.
His head snapped toward the sound. A chair slid back, and a man claimed the seat across from him.
The man's build was sleek—sharp in a way that suggested efficiency rather than bulk. He wore a straw hat pulled low, its brim casting his face in shadow. The image stirred a half-remembered familiarity in Louis's mind. Ronin, from the anime he used to watch.
The man did not acknowledge him. Not a glance. Not a word.
Louis shifted, edging his chair a few inches away.
Nothing changed.
After a moment, the man raised a single hand.
A waitress peeled away from another table and approached with a practiced smile. "How can I help you?"
"Meat," the man said softly. His voice hovered between a whisper and a statement. "One of every kind you have."
The waitress nodded without hesitation. She turned to Louis. "And you, sir?"
Louis swallowed. His mind went blank. His stomach did not.
"I'll—uh—get a few chicken sandwiches."
Her smile faltered. "Chicken?" She tilted her head. "I'm… not sure we serve that."
Right.
"Then—whatever meat's popular."
"Right away." She departed.
Louis was left alone with his companion.
Oddly, he didn't feel afraid. His shoulders were loose. His breathing steady. No warning pricked at the back of his mind. Whatever this man was, he didn't feel dangerous. Not yet.
The man leaned back, tipping his chair onto its hind legs. One boot came to rest on the table, the other crossing over it.
"There were no free tables," he said.
"Right," Louis replied quietly. Of course you picked mine.
The man glanced at him and scoffed. "Nothing against you. Easier sitting next to a kid than adults. They get territorial."
Louis nodded.
Silence settled again.
He considered speaking. Dismissed the idea. The effort felt heavier than it should have.
Instead, he looked away and let the noise of the inn wash over him.
Music swelled. Laughter spilled between tables. People danced near the front, careless and loud. A king's birthday, supposedly. Which king, Louis had no idea.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Footsteps approached.
At first, Louis thought the waitress had returned. The rhythm was wrong. He counted without meaning to—three… no, four.
They stopped at the table.
Four men stood there, blocking the light. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Not drunk-angry—focused.
All of it aimed at the man beside Louis.
Louis swallowed and nudged his chair back a few inches.
The man at the front slammed his palm onto the table. The wood rattled.
"Why the hell'd you suddenly run off, ya bastard?"
No response.
The man in the straw hat didn't even look at him. His boots remained on the table.
The leader's jaw tightened. Green eyes burned as he leaned closer. "You gonna talk, or do I gotta make ya?"
That did it.
The man exhaled and set his feet down. He straightened, lifting his head just enough for his face to emerge from beneath the brim.
Hard features. Sharp eyes. A long scar split the left side of his face—from forehead to chin, clean and straight, like someone had tried to cleave him in two and failed.
Louis's stomach dropped.
The man raised one hand. Calm. Casual.
He extended his thumb.
Pointing straight at Louis.
"That's him."
Silence.
Then—
"The hell are you talkin' about?" Green Eyes snapped, his glare swinging to Louis.
Louis shook his head immediately, dread blooming in his chest. This was bad. He knew it with sudden, sick certainty.
"I—I don't know this guy."
"Oh, come on," the man said, his voice turning wounded in an instant. "After everything we've been through?"
"What?" Louis squeaked.
"I told you I'd expose the mastermind," the man continued, slipping from steady to desperate like a switch had flipped. "You said you'd back me up. Said you'd tell them how you forced me into it."
"I've never seen you before tonight," Louis said, forcing the words out.
The man pressed a hand to his chest, mock-hurt. "Cold."
Green Eyes cracked his knuckles. "That true, kid? You put this jackass up to that little stunt yesterday?"
Louis's realization sank like a stone.
Whatever this 'stunt' was—
He'd just been drafted into it.
"W-what? No, I—"
Louis's words strangled themselves.
It came back.
Right as he tried to speak—right as he tried to say he'd only arrived that morning—something invisible locked around his throat. Not pressure. Not hands.
A grip.
His breath cut off mid-syllable. Heat drained from his face as the world lurched sideways, blood roaring in his ears. His vision blurred at the edges.
It hurt.
No—burned.
Like iron tightening from the inside, crushing everything it touched.
Then it vanished.
Air slammed back into his lungs. Louis staggered, one hand flying to the table as he dragged in frantic, uneven breaths. His eyes stung. His chest ached.
Third time.
Whatever this was, he was done being quiet about it.
Anger flared—hot, reckless, drowning the fear before it could settle.
"I only came here this morning!" he snapped.
The effect was immediate.
Every man froze.
Eyes widened. Someone sucked in a sharp breath.
"No way…" the ronin murmured.
Cold crawled down Louis's spine. He realized he was standing only after his knees locked, skin prickling as sweat broke along his temples. Every instinct screamed at him that he had just stepped somewhere dangerous—somewhere he wasn't meant to see.
"Did I hear that right?" the leader said slowly.
It didn't sound like a question. It sounded like disbelief failing to hold itself together.
"Ya've got some nerve showin' your ugly mug here again, ya bastard."
Before Louis could answer, the ronin sprang to his feet.
"Did you hear that?!" he shouted, voice suddenly loud—too loud. "This kid's the Midnight Pilferer! I repeat—this kid is the Midnight Pilferer!"
The name shattered the room.
Music faltered. Conversations died mid-word. Chairs scraped hard against the floor as heads turned.
Gasps rippled outward.
Louis's stomach dropped.
Space opened around him unnaturally fast, people backing away, forming a wide, uneasy circle. Every eye locked onto him—some wide with shock, others narrowed with something darker.
Just like that, the celebration was over.
And Louis wasn't a random kid at a free table anymore.
He was something else.
Something everyone in the room recognized.