Anvil had been thinking of Ironhold all morning, ever since he woke up.
Not that he could have done much yet to all of it though, or it was not that he wanted to—at least not fully. But the thought of leaving Kargoth kept simmering constantly in the back of his mind, like a small fire threatening to flare. The city was loud, harsh, and dirty. And for all its people bustling in their tiny routines, a strange unease had settled over it in the past week.
It was a kind of unease that whispered subtly beneath the clatter of carts, beneath the hiss of steam vents, and beneath the distant billowing smoke that flows down daily to choke the alleys of the residential areas and parts of the market, and also lingered in the eyes and lungs of the inhabitants of Kargoth.
It was the rumors that first caught his attention. People were disappearing. Not just the usual thieves or beggars known to vanish in the night after commiting theft, but it was the merchants, laborers, and even the old and infirm elders who had no reason to wander too far. Also, word could be heard at various points, spread in hushed tones across the market.
"South route… dangerous…"
Some people spoke of shadows that followed those who last traveled south alone, while others mentioned empty roads with no sign of what had taken the people who passed. To him, all these stories didn't make much sense. Yet, each tale claimed the same truth that the southern road, the usual path to Ironhold, had now become extremely dangerous for transport or for any human to stay closer to.
Anvil, having heard all of these from different mouths, frowned at that. He balanced a crate of iron bolts awkwardly against his shoulder as he weaved himself between carts, ignoring the shouts of hawkers and the grind of metal on stone. He knew he couldn't leave Kargoth immediately, even if he wanted to.
'And yet… I must.'
The thought was quickly interrupted by whispers from familiar faces. The whispers were about laborers that even he had worked with just yesterday, the ones hauling barrels and crates with grimy hands along with him, were now suddenly absent. These were labourers whose absence were regarded as abnormal because some of them were commonly known among their fellow labourers as colleagues who were always present at work that even a day's absence would become immediately termed suspicious.
The baker Anvil often nodded at in passing, the old woman selling trinkets by the eastern fountain, the two smiths at the ironworks, where now nowhere to be found.
'No more sweet bread.'
Of these people, some were reportedly ill, and even worse, some had died.
Anvil had heard of it. The deaths happened the week he transmigrated into this world, though he had arrived only a few days prior. Some victims had suffered quietly for weeks before they died. Others fell sick rapidly, as if something invisible had crawled into their bodies and sapped the life out of them. He could see it now in the empty spaces they had left behind: the half-filled crates, the unattended stalls, and carts that never returned. Even the passing carts that always seemed countless on the stony road were now obviously getting fewer.
And for the first time, the thought of his own body being a vessel for some misfortune truly terrified him. He glanced at his thin, dirt-streaked arms, and the oversized sleeves hanging past his wrists. This shirt was now the cloth he put on for work alone. He was able to afford better clothing for casual usage.
'I am one of them now. I could be a victim too.'
That terror drove him down the streets he had learned to navigate so poorly. He passed the Kargoth principal square, the heart of Kargoth city, and it struck him how unnatural the bustle had become. Every so often, he glimpsed a man or woman clutching their stomachs, pale and hunched. The market square was alive, but not with life. It now throbbed with something darker... and wrong.
---
Lost in thoughts as he walked back home, Anvil stumbled into a narrow alley near the residential areas by accident—or so he told himself. This place was close to his lodging, but this was his first time—
'Huh?'
In front of him, a small wooden sign creaked in the breeze and on it was a red painting that read: Madame Veyra, Fortune Teller.
'Heh. Even fortune tellers exist here too.'
He paused, brushing soot off his hands. The alley smelled of incense and something heavier, something tangible. Though je was not a fan of superstition and it was never a tool he trusted, he became curious enough to step into the small inn behind the sign post.
Inside, the air was so thick and warm that he almost felt comfortable. Crystals glimmered dimly in low light, shadows danced along the walls in ways that didn't align with the single lamp hanging from the ceiling. A veiled woman sat behind a low table, motioning for him to sit. These were things he didn't like about fortune tellers. They always appeared too mystical, or acted too powerful beyond the mere tricks they played on people. Anvil was not going to buy that. He planned to leave, but then the woman spoke up.
"Coin for a reading," she said with her soft voice, but it was not inviting. She spoke like she had expected him. Or like they had met before.
Feeling compelled to respond to her for an unknown reason, he handed her a Dosh note, and she took it carefully. Her hands were pale, almost unnervingly so, and she flagged the note in the air with patterns over the table.
"You are… far from home," she whispered, not looking at him. Her eyes glimmered blue as she spoke.
Anvil was suddenly surprised by the immediate scene, but that was not going to buy his belief. It must be a trick of hers.
The woman continued.
"Not the home you know. Not even the body you bear is yours. Yet here you are, walking among the living."
Anvil's breath... caught. That was… that was too close to the truth!
"How did..."
'This is not a trick anymore, is it?'
He was seemingly dumbfounded and unnerved by that sudden revelation. He never thought he would appear before a fortune teller one day, determining his fate for him. And one like this!
She finally looked up at him, as the glimmering blue light in her eyes shone behind the veil in contrast with the faintly lit darkness of the inn. "The path south," she continued, "is barred for now. Roads that once carried trade now carry whispers of death. And yet, one of you walks unaware, as if fate itself hesitates before you."
He frowned, leaning closer without thinking. "One of me?"
The fortune teller's hands froze mid-motion. "The soul of the body you occupy… it has traveled elsewhere. Some trace remains, but not enough to guide you fully. There are questions, boy. Did the owner of this body know of another world? Did he… see the one from which you came? Was there… exchange?"
Anvil suddenly recoiled uncomfortably. Exchange? The word echoed like a bell striking too close to his mind. A sudden chill travelled through his sweat-soaked shirt. He shivered and suddenly producer more profuse sweat, even though the room was warm.
Her voice dropped lower into a whisper, almost like a breath. She was now speaking more like a seer. "You must… move carefully. Others are watching. Those who seek order, and those who… intervene. You may not see them, yet their reach is long."
"Sorry, but how did—"
"Never mind, gentleman. Memories of these will be gone from my head once you leave this place. I will remember no more. Ask nothing more, also."
Anvil blinked, nodding slowly as he listened. He could not ask how she knew all of these... and could not ask what she meant. The questions surged too quickly, each one forming a knot he could not untangle.
... Did Anvil, the beggar, know of this? Did... did he...
... cross into another world? Was that… me? Or him?
Anvil was feeling extremely uncomfortable about this revelation. What was he then? Did he transmigrate?
Or did he...
... cross-transmigrate?
Unease wouldn't stop tugging at him as his unsettled mind was totally in disarray.
The air pressed down on him. For the first time since waking in Kargoth, he felt so small in a city of thousands. Not physically small—he was a beggar, yes—but invisible against something ominously vast.
... An inevitable destiny was lying before him, yet unseen.
In a solemn mood, he left the fortune teller's inn slowly. The bell above the door rang softly as he left, and the fortune teller said nothing more. He didn't look back either.
---
Days stretched which meant that Anvil had used over two weeks here in Kargoth, and still yet, the rumored sickness spread wider.
Workers in the smoke-emitting industries along the southern corridor to Ironhold reportedly began to fall from sudden, hollow, almost hollowed-out weaknesses that drained them within days. Day by day, labourers reportedly stumbled, carts rolled unattended as the drivers suddenly went out of strength, smoke stacks of industries and residential apartments continued to hiss while lesser hands tended them. Most of the merchants, once healthy and loud in the market, now coughed quietly, some of them having their thin pale faces pressed into their hands or folded against counters in discomfort.
It was like a pandemic outbreak.
Pandemic outbreak of sudden weakness and untraceable deaths with no medical remedy.
'If I leave Kargoth... will I be next?'
Every day, Anvil always planned to leave Kargoth to be safe, but he never did. Because simultaneously every day, a new story would reach him about missing travelers along the southern trade route he was planning to tread to Ironhold, or reports about sudden illness of the barge crew from Ironhold.
And so as a result, he was trapped in Kargoth's rhythm. He was forced to walk its streets, forced to witness what seemed unexplainable but masqueraded as ordinary.
The ordinary no longer felt ordinary anymore.
He thought of the southern route. Standing on the parapet of a tall building, he could see it from the city walls of Kargoth on clear days. The distant and long route looked like a narrow ribbon winding toward Ironhold. Forests brushed it on both sides, and trade posts lined its length at various points. It had always been safe, but not anymore.
'The southern route is blocked. But staying… I cannot. Kargoth is getting tenser for me to live in.'
He realized slowly, that he could not ignore this, still yet. Not anymore. To survive, he would have to move, but each step away was a gamble against forces he could not see and did not yet understand.
---
That night as he prepared to rest somewhere at the edge of the market, Anvil looked up once more at the twin moons. This time, he noticed something he hadn't before... the way their pale light caught on the rooftops, how shadows stretched unnaturally long in the alleys. How every flickering lantern seemed just slightly… wrong.
A group of laborers passed, coughing softly. Their reddened faces pinched, pale under the lamp glow. A cart creaked behind them as its wheels squealed against the uneven stones, carrying empty barrels. The world moved on. Yet something insidious moved beneath it to.
Anvil tightened his fingers around the shilling coins in his pocket. Survival was no longer simple as it was now beyond merely eating and sleeping. It was now more like surviving the abstract forces that threatened beneath the whole grand scheme. The southern route could not be trusted now again. Ironhold could not be reached safely… yet it was his only option.