It really was a difficult situation.
He generally didn't like learning foreign languages, but seeing the rhyme-less, crude, accentless language in front of him sparked a bit of interest—how could such a ridiculous language even exist!
Old man:
"Young man, can't you hear me? I asked why you crossed the light formation! We set it up non-aggressively so that if a malevolent spirit attacks you, you can flee to the village. It seems you're taking advantage of our good intentions. Hmph, just as expected from that devilish man's son. Heheheh."
James: "…"
Middle-aged man: "Answer my father, you filthy bastard!"
The middle-aged man stepped in front of James and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing hard.
"You devilish brat… Your disrespect has surpassed the might of our Ten Thousand Mountain Ranges. Along with everything you've done before, you're finally forced to pay the price!"
James was indifferent to these buzzing, monstrous voices. He couldn't believe such an ugly language could exist.
"I don't understand what you're saying, but judging by your attitude, this guy's hostile toward me. Hehehe, meddling with the dream master in the dream realm is something only fools do."
James began to smile eerily. A crimson light emanated from his eyes, his white hair swaying carelessly in the wind. Anyone who saw him would feel a deadly chill.
And indeed, that happened—the middle-aged man slowly released James's shoulder.
He was struggling to breathe.
He slowly backed away. James passed by him with ease.
The old man couldn't understand what was happening. Only ten seconds had passed in front of him—why had his son suddenly changed so drastically?
He went to his son. It was clear he no longer cared about James; he was curious about what had occurred.
He patted his son's back.
"Theos, my son, what happened?"
Theos slowly raised his head.
Fear, unease, hatred, humiliation, trauma… Death!
His eyes were trembling. Tears wouldn't even come—as if they would make him sob uncontrollably and summon this devil back.
The old man's eye began to twitch. He remembered something.
…
James continued following the path. He no longer saw spirits or monstrous creatures. The trees were neat and beautiful, and he saw various flowers—the ancient plants he had seen in biology class as a child. He was amazed at his subconscious; such meticulous dream design was quite interesting.
Sometimes he saw children playing, lovers sitting on a bench, shepherds grazing their flocks.
"The scenery isn't bad."
Finally, he began to see smoking chimneys and tall towers. From those towers, melodic words poured out—it was clearly a call to worship. But no matter how melodic, in this disgusting language, it was just a collection of words.
"Hmph, I've finally reached the village."
He entered through the gate of the walled village and headed toward the square.
People stared at him intently, muttering, whispering among themselves.
As he walked, more and more people froze like statues. Young girls rolled their eyes, pretending not to be affected by him—showing even the slightest sympathy toward this devil was a great sin.
The Village Supreme had decreed it so.
James finally stopped in front of a shop with a bread sign on it and entered without hesitation.
He was hungry. Extremely hungry.
He approached the counter. The old baker was stunned. What was this young devil doing here!?
Baker: "Son, I don't want trouble. I'll give you as much bread as you want—just please leave me alone…"
James: "…"
The baker grumbled.
"Fine, I'll even give you money—please wait outside!" He raised his voice.
James frowned. It felt like his ears were being scratched and he was being scolded. Why were people so rude?
Whatever, I just came for food.
James pulled out a knife from his pocket.
Hic! Hic! Hic!
The old baker's blood froze. Was he going to die here today?
No. James folded the knife, gently placed it on the counter, rubbed his stomach, and pointed at a loaf of bread.
He wanted to trade the knife for the bread. Since he couldn't speak their language, he decided to use body language.
The old man suddenly grabbed a bag and started stuffing bread into it.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5… 12… He kept going until the bag was full.
The old man had interpreted the knife on the counter as a threat: "Give me enough bread to satisfy me, or you can't imagine what I'll do with this knife!"
James was stunned. Was a knife really worth that much!?
"What the hell is this? This is on a whole new level of absurdity…"
Whatever. He gently took the bag and left the shop. He had paid with the knife, so he felt at ease. Or perhaps a bit uneasy. Why had the baker valued that knife so much? Was it valuable? Had he sold it too cheap?
First, I'll fill my stomach.
Of course, when the old baker saw that James hadn't taken the knife back, his blood froze again. This meant: "I'll be back—better be smart about it. Hahahah!"
James found a bench and sat down, then began eating a dozen loaves of bread.
"Mm, so delicious. I can't get enough of this. I've never eaten bread this tasty. Hmm, I've never eaten anything this delicious."
When James died, World War III was raging across the entire planet. The Pacific, Caucasus, Balkans, Europe, Atlantic—all bathed in blood. Actually, James was glad he had fallen in the Middle East. The enemies here were uneducated bandits. With superior technology, he could easily hunt them down. If… if that filth hadn't existed! James involuntarily sank into old memories.
All the bread was gone. James felt as if his blood had run out.
As if it would gush from every pore and bathe armies in arrows.
James wasn't happy. He trembled, feared, panicked, felt like he would faint.
His eyes twitched. Even the boiling blood couldn't stop his shivering.
The pain he felt, the hunger, the spirits, the curly-horned cows, this wonderfully tasty bread, the warm and vigorous blood flowing through this body…
Could this be a dream?
Could a dream be this realistic?
Was he dreaming? Or… was this Reality!?