Carmilla blinked — or at least she tried to, but she couldn't open her eyes no matter what. She felt incredibly weak, the kind of weakness where she couldn't even lift her pinky finger. She didn't understand how she had ended up in this situation.
One moment, she had been playing a game to leave her name in history; the next, she had dropped dead from a cardiac arrest. And if that wasn't bad enough, a fake angel had read her deeds from the Book of Life and declared her a sinner!!
How could that be?! That angel must be a fraud.
He must be part of some pyramid scheme targeting poor people like her, making sure they couldn't enter heaven and enjoy their lives even after death. He was probably sitting behind closed doors right now, giggling after handing out her punishment.
The more Carmilla thought about it, the more she felt like she had uncovered the truth. There was no way she could accept that a good person like her had ended up in hell, especially when she was a child protected by her dear Heavenly Father.
If she ever got the chance to meet that fake angel again, she would show him who the boss was.
But first... where the fuck am I??!!
Was she in hell? How could hell be so comfortable?
Carmilla's thoughts turned sluggish and half-formed. She tried to move, but her body was too weak. A deep wave of exhaustion washed over her, and she drifted into a deep sleep.
---------
Year 5000, Dawn of Renewal Calendar, Emberfall 78
West Border of the Bardington Kingdom, Rivercross City
The first rays of the suns pierced the western horizon, bathing Rivercross city in warm golden light. Slowly, the empty streets began to fill up. Farmers rolled in the city gates with baskets of vegetables. Merchant servants rushed to open stalls. Adventurers dragged themselves out early to take on missions, and soldiers stopped by the morning market for breakfast before duty.
Soon, the small city was alive with noise and movement.
The scent of fresh bread and sizzling meat drifted through the air, mixing with the noise of the morning market. Vendors shouted their prices, people haggled over vegetables, and carts rattled over the dirt road as the city slowly came to life.
"Hurry up, you lazy bones! The sun's already up, and you're still snoring like a frost bear. We're late again!"
A plump red-haired woman named Agatha pushed a wooden cart loaded with freshly baked meat buns, while her husband, Oswald—a round-faced, sleepy man with bedhead—staggered beside her, rubbing his eyes.
Agatha grunted as she shoved the cart over a bump, the pots clanging. "By the Saint of Mirael, Oswald, if you hadn't lazed around until the cock crowed thrice, we'd already be at the square!"
Oswald yawned so hard it looked like his jaw might fall off. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I was up with our new neighbor, uh... we were praying together."
His eyes immediately darted to the side the moment he said it.
Agatha stared at him.
Then she stared some more.
Finally, she said, "Praying? Praying to who? The God of Snoring?"
She mimicked his nasal snore with such perfect disgust that even nearby passersby looked like they wanted to laugh. Then she spat, "Bah! Next time, I'll douse you with the chamber pot. Free holy water."
Oswald's sleepiness vanished so fast it was almost magical. He hurriedly pushed the cart faster, clearly trying to survive the conversation. "Sorry, sorry. The bed was just too cozy..."
Agatha rolled her eyes. "What else could it be?"
Just then, their first customer appeared, mercifully interrupting their daily argument. Agatha and Oswald's stall was famous for its delicious breakfast buns, so it didn't take long before people began crowding around it.
"Line up, line up! Buns hot from the fire!" Oswald called, expertly handing steaming buns over the counter to the waiting customers while Agatha handled the cash beside him.
A broad-shouldered soldier forced his way to the front, armor clinking with each step. "Two buns, Oswald—make 'em big," he said, dropping coins into Agatha's palm. "Make it quick before the captain notices I'm gone."
Agatha let out a soft giggle at that, and Oswald immediately got to work, splitting open the bun and stuffing it with extra filling for the young soldier.
As he wrapped the food in parchment, he asked, "How's the border looking these days? No bandits giving you lot trouble?"
The soldier took the bundle and answered around a half-chewed bite, "Safe as a baby in a cradle. Just some drunk mercenaries trying to smuggle ale. Usual nonsense."
He bit into the bun again, crumbs falling onto his armor. "Why? You planning an escape?"
He leaned in, lowering his voice with exaggerated secrecy, and jerked his thumb toward Agatha, who was currently glaring at another customer while handing out change. "From her?"
Oswald shook his head so fast it almost looked like panic. "I'd have better odds against the bandits."
The soldier barked out a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. "Smart man!"
Then he made a quick retreat from the stall, leaving Oswald to face the full force of his wife's stare.
Around them, the city square pulsed with life.
Voices rose and overlapped — stall owners shouting their prices, customers bargaining, children calling to one another, and the occasional sharp squawk of a chicken being hauled under someone's arm.
Near the edge of the square, a blacksmith's hammer rang out in steady bursts, each strike sending a sharp metallic echo through the air.
"Fresh vegetables! A cabbage for 3 coppers and two cabbages for 5 coppers! Fresh from farm!"
"Fresh fruits! A basket of red berries for 10 coppers! Fresh, juicy fruits, right from the mountain!"
Farmers lined the square's edge, their rough hands motioning toward baskets overflowing with turnips, cabbages, berries, and bundles of herbs. Their voices cut through the crowd as they tried to outshout one another, each hoping to sell their harvest before noon.
"20% discount on all silver weapons today! Lord Brighton is celebrating his son's birthday! Hurry up and buy your silver weapons at a lower price!"
"New healing potions have arrived! New healing potions have arrived! 3% off for the first 10 customers! First come, first served!"
The most crowded corner of the city was where several merchants' shops were built. It was a noisy, chaotic stretch filled with barking salesmen, boastful merchants, and endless haggling, while servants and workers hurried between adventurers and soldiers.
Inside one weapon shop, the armorer slapped a dented breastplate and exclaimed, "Fine dwarven steel! It survived a troll's punch! This thing has seen glory, war, and probably the end of civilization! It was supposed to be 10 silver, but clearly fate has brought you here, so I'll let it go for half price! Don't thank me, I'm just too generous!"
The adventurer listening to this nonsense slowly raised an eyebrow.
Then he turned and started walking away.
"Ah! Wait! My dear boy!" The armorer nearly lunged across the counter. "Today is your lucky day! You can have it for 3 silver!"
The adventurer snorted. "Three silver for that scrap? Who are you trying to fool?"
The armorer clutched his chest like he'd been stabbed. "Fool you? Never! This is premium quality junk—no, premium quality armor!"
The adventurer looked at the dented breastplate again and clearly regretted being born.
"Fine," the armorer groaned dramatically. "2 silver. Take it for 2 silver!"
The adventurer hesitated. Although the breastplate was damaged, one could still see how good the quality was.
To be fair, he doubted if the breastplate could survive even one decent punch.
The armorer noticed the hesitation instantly. His eyes lit up like a starving wolf spotting dinner.
"2 silver!" he shouted. "And I'll throw in a free strength potion!"
The adventurer's eyes lit up. "Deal."
The armorer sighed inwardly. Thank the Saint of Mirael. This useless junk is finally sold.
Outside a merchant's cluttered stall, a sun-baked peddler — face lined like old leather and missing two teeth — was waving a mismatched trio of daggers at a young recruit like he was presenting royal treasures. The blades wobbled in their sheaths as if they were already tired of existing.
"These beauties are sharper than a woman's tongue!" he declared. "Buy two, and I'll throw in this—"
He shook one dagger with a suspicious dark splotch.
"—mystery stain, absolutely free!"
The young soldier recruit's eyes sparkled. "Whoa! Is that some kind of special magic rune?"
The senior soldier assigned to him slapped a hand over his face so hard it looked painful. Then he grabbed the recruit by the shoulder. "That's blood, lad."
The peddler gasped like he'd been personally insulted. "Blood? No, no, no. That's character."
He puffed out his chest. "Call it 'luck,' and it sounds expensive!"
Then he shoved the dagger closer and winked. "Come on, lad. Stab with confidence!"
The senior soldier finally lost the last bit of his patience and snatched the daggers away from both of them. "Stop your nonsense and stay away from this place. If I hear one more word out of you, I will arrest you." He warned.
The peddler clutched his chest. "I'm wounded by your lack of imagination!"
Then, while the soldier wasn't looking, he bent slightly toward the young recruit and whispered, "Give me a copper and this whole set is yours."
The recruit hesitated.
On one side was his dream of slaying a dragon.
On the other side was his senior's terrifying stare.
The dream won.
He just started reaching into his pocket when the senior soldier grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away.
The peddler's mournful cry followed them through the square.
"Fine! Stain's free with three purchases!"
In a secluded corner of the city, tucked between a wool merchant's overflowing cart and a poultry seller who wouldn't stop sneezing, an enchantress's stall was wrapped in questionable mysticism.
Flickering paper lanterns — each supposedly blessed by moon spirits — swayed in the dark tent, casting twitchy shadows over vials of suspiciously neon liquid. A moth-eaten green drape embroidered with crooked constellations hung behind her, its singed edges only adding to the so-called mystery.
The enchantress herself was a woman with wild, purple-streaked hair and bangles that chimed like drunken church bells. She leaned forward with a wide grin as she addressed her customer.
"My beloved customer," she said, spreading her hands like a priestess of destiny, "what is it that you desire? Charms to repel curses? Potions to attract lovers? Or perhaps—" she paused dramatically and lowered her voice with excitement, "—a spell to make your mother-in-law mute forever?"
The customer, hidden beneath dark gray clothes, asked in a muffled voice, "Are your magics real?"
The enchantress giggled in a strange tone. "Real? Darling, reality is so limited. My magic transcends such petty concerns."
She plucked a vial of swirling pink smoke from behind her and held it up like a holy relic. "Behold! For only five silvers, this elixir turns any mother-in-law's nagging into sweet, silent songs that no one can hear."
She uncorked it. It let out a squeak like a stepped-on mouse.
The customer stared at it. "Why does this look fake?"
The enchantress' smile twitched. Just a little.
"Fake?" she repeated, voice rising one sacred octave. "How dare you insult the ancient arts!"
Then, recovering instantly, she thrust the vial into the customer's hand and said in a deep, mystical voice, "Darling, never question the mysteries of magic. Try it, and weep with gratitude."
She threw her head back and cackled like a villain in a bad play, which scared the customer enough to make them run away with the vial still in hand.
The enchantress blinked.
"...Huh. Where is my customer?"