I do not know how much time had passed, but when I forced my eyes open, the sole of a shoe was rushing toward my face.
I snapped my head to the side just in time. The kick missed. As the attacker stumbled forward, I drove my right elbow into his heel, then struck his groin with my left fist. Before he could recover, I kicked him in the stomach with both legs and sent him crashing backward.
I rolled and sprang to my feet, scanning my surroundings.
A blond boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, lay on the ground clutching himself and wailing. Three other boys of similar age stood nearby, staring at me with a mixture of anger and hesitation. We were in a narrow alley.
My thoughts felt sluggish, as if my mind were wrapped in fog. So this was the other side of the Gate of Return. I could only hope the portal had not simply dropped me somewhere in Europe.
The standoff lasted several seconds before one of them, a brown haired boy with freckles scattered across his face, stepped forward.
"Hey, brat, you dare hit my guys? Are you looking to die?"
I let out a short snort. "You were the ones who attacked me first. And…"
I stopped mid sentence.
I could understand him perfectly.
Even more unsettling, my own voice sounded younger, lighter. I stared down at my hands. They were pale and smooth, nothing like the wheat colored skin I was used to, and not a single scar marked them.
"What is going on?" I muttered.
"Bastard, how dare you ignore me!" the freckled boy shouted. Perhaps in his eyes, my distraction was blatant contempt. In truth, it was.
"Die!"
He grabbed a wooden club and charged.
I was still trying to process why less than a tenth of my strength remained when instinct took over. I pivoted and drove a kick into his stomach. He gasped and dropped to his knees.
The other two rushed me, one wielding a club, the other gripping a brick.
The club swung toward my head.
I instinctively tried to activate Teleportation, but nothing responded. No mana, no shift in space. At the last moment I dodged right, but the club still smashed into my shoulder.
Pain shot down my arm. I gritted my teeth and punched him square in the nose. Blood poured instantly.
A brick slammed into my back. I sucked in a sharp breath and lashed out with a backward kick, forcing the attacker to stagger. I followed up with a punch to the club wielder's abdomen, doubling him over.
The brick came again.
I tilted my head to avoid a direct hit, but its sharp edge sliced across my forehead. Warm blood trickled down.
"Fine," I muttered, anger boiling over. I had restrained myself repeatedly to avoid drawing attention, but they had pushed too far. "You chose this."
I lunged forward, seized the boy with the brick by the throat, and slammed his head against the wall. He went limp instantly.
Now only the club wielder remained.
"D don't come any closer!" he stammered, pulling a knife from behind his back. His hand trembled as he pointed it at me.
I did not hesitate.
I rushed him, grabbed the blade with my left hand despite the sting of steel biting into my palm, and smashed my forehead into his face. He collapsed.
Silence returned to the alley.
Blood dripped from the cut on my brow and from my palm. I pressed my injured hand against my clothes to slow the bleeding.
Then I heard a sharp gasp behind me.
I turned.
At the entrance of the alley stood a little girl, eight or nine years old. She wore a blue and white dress, her long jet black hair falling straight down her back. Her dark eyes were wide with shock.
It was Mikasa Ackerman.
A woman, around thirty, rushed forward and scooped the girl into her arms. She also had long black hair.
"What's wrong, Mikasa?" the woman asked urgently.
I stared at them, my thoughts racing.
This was not Europe.