Chapter Text
The first thing Umar remembered was the cold.
Not the kind that came with winter or wind, but the kind that sank into your bones and stayed there heavy, unmoving. The kind that made your stomach twist in on itself and your thoughts drag like they were wading through mud.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
Because if he stayed still, maybe this wasn’t real.
Maybe this was just some weird dream—one of those hyper-real ones that felt too detailed, too *wrong*.
But the hunger gnawing at his insides said otherwise.
Slowly, Umar opened his eyes.
The sky above him wasn’t right.
It was blue, yes, but too clear. Too vast. There were no planes, no distant contrails, no faint hum of a world filled with people. Just an empty, endless stretch of sky that made him feel… small.
The air was wrong too.
It smelled like woodsmoke and wild grass but underneath that, there was something else. Something heavier. Something he couldn’t name.
Something unnatural.
“…Okay,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice dry. “So this is happening.”
His mind did what it always did—it tried to make sense of things.
And almost immediately, it latched onto the most absurd explanation.
𝘐𝘴𝘦𝘬𝘢𝘪.
He let out a weak, humorless laugh.
“Right. Sure. Why not?”
If that was the case…
Then there were rules.
There were always rules.
With shaking arms, Umar pushed himself up, ignoring how his body protested. His coat was torn, dirt clung to his skin, and when he looked down—
One shoe was gone.
The other was barely holding together.
“…Of course.”
Still, if this *was* one of those situations…
He closed his eyes, raising a hand slightly.
“Status.”
Nothing.
“…Inventory?”
Nothing.
“…Magic?”
Silence.
He tried again. And again. And again.
Different words. Different tones. Different levels of desperation are creeping in each time.
“Fire.”
“Water.”
“Anything.”
Nothing answered him.
No glowing screen.
No sudden surge of power.
No voice in his head guiding him.
Just the wind brushing past him, uncaring.
Reality settled in slowly.
Then all at once.
“…Yeah,” he whispered, lowering his hand. “Figures.”
No cheat skills.
No blessings.
No second chances were handed to him on a silver platter.
Just him.
And whatever this world decided to throw at him.
---
The first day, he walked.
The second day, he staggered.
By the third… he wasn’t sure if he was even walking anymore.
Time stopped making sense.
There were no clocks. No phones. No sun he could reliably track through the trees and hills he passed. Just light… and dark… and the endless stretch of “keep moving or die.”
His stomach felt like it was eating itself.
His throat burned.
Every step became a negotiation.
𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.
𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.
𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱.
At some point, he found a village.
Or maybe it found him.
He didn’t remember approaching it clearly—just the smell.
Bread.
Fresh. Warm. Real.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
A cart. Left unattended for just a moment. A loaf sitting there like it was waiting for him.
His hand shot out.
𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘣.
𝘙𝘶𝘯.
For a second—
For a single, beautiful second—
He thought he got away with it.
Then something slammed into his back.
He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of him as the loaf slipped from his grasp.
“Thief!”
The word cut sharper than any blade.
Hands grabbed him, dragged him up, then threw him back down again. A boot drove into his ribs.
Pain exploded through his side.
“I—I just—” he tried to speak, but another kick silenced him.
They didn’t listen.
Didn’t care.
To them, he wasn’t a starving kid.
He wasn’t lost.
He wasn’t human.
He was a problem.
And problems got dealt with.
Boots struck him again. And again. And again.
Not enough to kill him.
Just enough to make a point.
“Don’t come back,” one of them spat, shoving him into the dirt. “Next time, we won’t be so nice.”
Nice.
Umar lay there for a long time after they left.
The mud clung to his skin. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and thick.
His fingers twitched slightly.
Then curled into fists.
“…Yeah,” he rasped, voice hollow.
“I won’t.”
Something inside him shifted.
Not completely.
Not yet.
But enough.
A small, bitter seed took root.
He didn’t go back.
He couldn’t.
So he turned away from the village…
And walked straight into the wilderness.
The forest didn’t welcome him.
It watched him.
Every rustle of leaves felt like something waiting.
Every snap of a branch made his body tense.
Still, hunger drove him forward.
He searched for anything—berries, roots, something edible. Anything that wouldn’t kill him before starvation did.
But the forest offered little.
What berries he found were either too bitter to eat or too unfamiliar to risk. He dug at roots only to find them dry and useless. His fingers trembled with exhaustion, dirt caked under his nails.
His stomach twisted again.
Then—
Voices.
Umar froze instantly.
Low. Rough. Male.
Not far.
He slowly crouched, lowering himself behind a thick cluster of bushes. Carefully, quietly, he shifted closer, each step deliberate, slow, controlled.
Through the trees, he saw them.
Four men.
No—five.
They sat around a small campfire, their gear scattered nearby. Swords leaned against tree trunks. One had a crossbow resting beside him. Another wore mismatched armor, dented and stained dark in places.
They didn’t look like travelers.
They looked… dangerous.
One of them laughed harshly, tossing something into the fire.
“Caravan should be passing through by tomorrow,” he said.
“Yeah,” another replied, chewing on a strip of dried meat. “Merchant types. Easy pickings.”
“And if there’s guards?”
The first man shrugged.
“Then we kill the guards.”
Simple.
Casual.
Like they were discussing the weather.
Umar’s stomach tightened—not from hunger this time.
From understanding.
Bandits.
He slowly leaned back, preparing to retreat.
Don’t engage.
Don’t be seen.
Just leave.
That was the smart move.
His body shifted—
And then he smelled it.
Food.
His eyes moved toward a small sack near one of the trees.
Dried meat.
Bread.
A waterskin.
His stomach clenched violently.
His mouth filled with saliva.
He looked at the men again.
Five of them.
Armed.
Relaxed, but alert.
This was stupid.
Dangerous.
Suicidal.
He should leave.
He knew he should.
His body didn’t move.
Hunger gnawed deeper.
If he walked away… he might not find food again.
If he stayed… he might die.
Umar slowly exhaled.
His decision was already made.
He circled wide, keeping low, moving slowly around the camp. Every step felt like it echoed in his ears. His heartbeat pounded so loudly he was certain they could hear it.
One step.
Pause.
Another step.
Pause.
The sack grew closer.
One of the bandits shifted.
Umar froze instantly.
The man scratched his beard, then spat into the dirt, turning back to the conversation.
Umar moved again.
Slow.
Careful.
Closer.
Closer.
His fingers reached the sack.
His hand trembled.
He slowly lifted it.
It was heavier than expected.
Too heavy.
The fabric rustled slightly.
One of the bandits stopped talking.
“…You hear that?”
Umar’s heart dropped.
Another bandit looked around lazily.
“Probably animals.”
“Yeah. Forest’s full of ‘em.”
Umar held his breath.
Seconds passed.
Then they resumed talking.
Umar slowly pulled the sack toward himself.
One inch.
Two.
Three.
Then—
A twig snapped beneath his foot.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
The conversation stopped instantly.
“Hey.”
Umar didn’t think.
He grabbed the sack and ran.
“Someone’s there!”
“Thief!”
Boots pounded behind him.
Branches tore at his clothes as he sprinted through the trees, his breathing already ragged from exhaustion.
“Stop him!”
Something whizzed past his head.
A bolt.
Crossbow.
Umar ducked instinctively, nearly tripping as he scrambled forward.
“They’re fast,” one of the bandits growled behind him.
“Cut him off!”
Umar veered sharply, changing direction. His vision blurred, but he forced himself forward, pushing through pain and exhaustion.
His leg nearly gave out.
He stumbled, caught himself, and kept running.
Another bolt slammed into a tree beside him.
Too close.
Way too close.
He spotted a cluster of dense undergrowth ahead and dove straight into it, ignoring the branches scraping his skin.
He kept moving.
Crawling now.
Dragging himself through dirt and leaves.
The voices grew closer.
“Where’d he go?”
“I saw him this way.”
Umar pressed himself flat against the ground, barely breathing.
Footsteps approached.
Stopped.
A bandit stepped into view, scanning the bushes.
Umar’s heart pounded so loudly he thought it might give him away.
The bandit stepped closer.
Closer.
Then—
A bird burst from nearby branches.
The bandit cursed, turning his head.
Umar didn’t wait.
He crawled backward slowly, silently, inch by inch.
The bandit moved away.
After what felt like hours—but was only minutes—the voices faded.
Umar didn’t move for a long time.
Only when he was certain they were gone did he finally sit up.
His entire body trembled.
He looked down at the sack still clutched in his hands.
Bread.
Dried meat.
Water.
Relief hit him all at once.
“…I lived,” he whispered.
He didn’t celebrate.
Didn’t smile.
He just opened the sack with shaking hands and took a small bite of bread.
It tasted like survival.
Like guilt.
Like desperation.
He chewed slowly, staring into the forest.
Humans were worse than monsters.
At least monsters didn’t choose to be cruel.
Umar tightened his grip on the sack.
Then he stood.
And kept walking.
That’s when he heard it.
A low growl.
Umar froze.
Slowly, he turned his head.
And saw them.
They weren’t normal wolves.
Their hides were a mix of brown and black, rough and uneven. Their fangs jutted out unnaturally long—razor sharp, glinting faintly even in the dim forest light.
Spikes protruded from their backs.
Their eyes…
Red.
Not animal red.
Something worse.
And on each of their snouts, a single horn—like a jagged spike—pointed forward.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Umar whispered.
One stepped forward.
Then another.
Then the rest.
A pack.
Of course, it was a pack.
The first one lunged.
Umar moved on instinct.
His body reacted before fear could fully take hold—he twisted to the side, barely avoiding the snapping jaws, then ran.
Branches whipped against him as he sprinted.
His breathing turned ragged instantly, but he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t.
Behind him, he heard them.
Fast.
Too fast.
One caught up.
Pain ripped through his leg as fangs sank into him.
Umar cried out, stumbling, but he didn’t fall.
𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦.
𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦!
Another bite—his arm this time.
His vision blurred.
But something deeper kicked in.
Something older.
When he was twelve, he started parkour.
Climbing. Jumping. Moving through spaces others couldn’t.
Back then, it was fun.
Inspired by games like Assassin’s Creed.
Now—
It was the only reason he was still alive.
He vaulted over a fallen log.
Used a tree trunk to pivot his body mid-run.
Climbed, leapt, dropped—every movement sloppy compared to his old self, but still enough.
Still barely enough.
Ahead—
A cliff.
Umar didn’t slow down.
Didn’t hesitate.
At the very last second, he jumped.
His fingers caught the edge just below the lip, his body slamming against the rock as he held on by sheer desperation.
Above him—
The wolves didn’t stop.
One leapt.
Then another.
Then all of them.
They followed.
They didn’t think.
They just chased.
And one by one—
They fell.
Their bodies disappeared over the edge, their snarls turning into distant, sickening thuds.
Silence followed.
Umar hung there, trembling.
For a long time, he didn’t move.
Then slowly…
Painfully…
He pulled himself up.
---
At the bottom, some of them were still alive.
Broken.
Whimpering.
Trying to move.
Umar found a sharp branch.
Held it in his shaking hands.
He approached one of them.
It looked at him.
Its red eyes were dimmer now.
Weaker.
He raised the branch.
His arms trembled.
“…I…” His voice cracked.
He couldn’t do it.
Not like this.
Not when they looked… like that.
“…Damn it…”
He turned away.
thought about leaving them.
Even after everything—
He couldn’t bring himself to finish them off.
But could he just leave?
If left alive, they could chase after him again.
So he picked up the sharp branch.
And one by one, he stabbed the wolves until they were dead.
All while feeling rotten inside.
---
By the time he stumbled out of the forest, he was barely conscious.
Blood soaked into his torn clothes.
Each step felt like it might be his last.
Then—
A smell.
Faint.
But real.
Food.
He followed it.
Not thinking.
Not questioning.
Just moving toward it like a lifeline.
A small field.
A pot.
Soup.
Thin. Watery. Barely anything.
But to him—
It was everything.
Umar took one step forward.
Then another.
And then—
His body gave out.
He collapsed.
As the darkness closed in, something inside him broke.
Not the bitter part.
Not the part that had already started to harden.
Something deeper.
Something smaller.
Weaker.
“…Mom…”
The word slipped out, fragile and desperate.
Like a child who didn’t understand why the world had suddenly turned so cruel, as tears started flooding through his eyes.
“…help… I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't... ”
His voice faded.
And just before everything went black—
Umar reached out.
To someone who wasn’t there.
Then his consciousness slipped away.
----------------------------------
He woke in a bed of straw, covered by a threadbare blanket, a cool rag pressed to his forehead.
Two children with bright brown eyes and matching faces peeked over the edge of a crude wooden table. Twins—a boy and a girl, no older than eight.
The girl whispered something, and the boy darted off, returning with an older man—grizzled, thick-bearded, his skin weathered by years of sun and loss.
“You’ve got the eyes of a lost soul,” the man said, crouching beside him. “But not a bad soul.”
The old man moved his hand to the boy's injuries.
He frowned slightly as he cleaned the wounds on Umar’s arm.
The bites had already darkened strangely around the edges, the veins near them faintly discolored like ink under skin.
“…You’re lucky to be alive, boy,” he muttered
Umar didn’t respond. He didn’t have the strength to.
The memory flickered through his mind—the snapping jaws, the cliff edge, the desperate plunge of sharpened wood into wounded flesh.
The man fed him piece by piece, let him rest, asked no questions, at least not yet. When Umar finally spoke three days later, the first thing he asked was, “Why did you help me?”
The man, Will, shrugged. “My son and his wife died in an accident. These two have no one but me. If I start ignoring people who need help, I might as well be dead too.”
The first few days passed quietly.
Umar focused on recovering — eating, resting, and slowly regaining strength.
A week passed.
Then another.
He started helping more around the house — chopping wood, fixing fences, carrying water. The twins began following him everywhere, their curiosity slowly turning into comfort and playing with them when he had the energy.
Before he realized it… he had stopped feeling like a guest.
At first, only to repay kindness. He chopped wood, fetched water, repaired fences, and played with the twins—Muen and Mello—when he had the energy.
Those two are always asking questions about Umar’s “travels.”
He lied sometimes. Said he’d been a wandering swordsman. Anything but the truth, an ordinary 15-year-old who went to school, worked part-time, played games, watched anime, and never owned a sword.
At night, Will taught him the local language, tracing letters by firelight.
“You’re sharp,” Will said one evening, puffing on his pipe. “But sharp things break easily unless you learn when not to cut.”
Umar said nothing. But the words stuck.
----------------------------------
The sky was stained amber and violet as the sun sank behind the hills. Fireflies blinked through the tall grass near the fields, and the scent of tilled earth lingered in the air.
Umar sat on the porch, arms resting on his knees, a small wooden cup of cooled tea beside him. His coat lay tossed nearby, and the shirt clung to him with sweat and dust. Despite the exhaustion, it was the good kind.
A shuffle of feet approached.
“Found you!” Muen announced, triumphant.
She jumped onto the porch, arms raised like she’d won a war. Mello trailed behind, panting, cheeks flushed.
“You’re not good at hiding,” Muen teased, poking his arm.
“I wasn’t hiding,” Umar said flatly. “I was sitting.”
“That makes it a hideout,” she grinned.
“Yeah,” Mello agreed, flopping beside him. “If you’re not moving, it counts.”
Umar smirked faintly. “That so?”
“Obviously,” Mello nodded.
Muen plopped onto his other side, swinging her legs. “You’re weird. But not as weird as Grandpa’s snoring.”
Umar chuckled. “Can’t argue with that.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to crickets and wind through the grass. Muen leaned against his shoulder, and Mello picked at the porch wood.
“Hey, Umar,” Mello asked softly. “What was your world like?”
Umar looked down at the boy’s curious eyes. “Louder. Crowded. Buildings taller than trees. Machines did all the farming.”
“Machines like magic tools?”
“Sort of. But no magic. Just science. Wires. Too many rules.”
“That sounds… boring,” Mello said bluntly.
Umar laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
After a pause, Mello muttered, “I hope you don’t go back.”
Umar turned.
“You work hard. You’re nice. Muen doesn’t call anyone ‘big bro’ unless she means it. Grandpa says you’ve got a lot going on in your head, but… I think you fit here. With us.”
Muen nodded, still leaning on him. “If you leave, I’ll cry.”
Something heavy, but warm, settled in his chest. He placed a hand gently on their heads.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he said quietly.
They both smiled, and for the first time since arriving in this strange world, Umar felt like he belonged.
----------------------------------
𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 - 𝘼 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧
----------------------------------
The twins were asleep, breathing softly in their shared room. Umar sat near the fire with a lukewarm cup of tea.
“Can’t sleep?” Will’s gravelly voice came from the shadows.
“No,” Umar admitted. “Too quiet, maybe.”
Will puffed on his pipe. “Too quiet means you’re startin’ to think again.”
The silence stretched, comfortable.
“I saw the kids hanging off you earlier,” Will said finally. “They took to you fast.”
“You worried?” Umar asked.
“No. Just paying attention.”
He tapped ash from the pipe. “They’ve lost more than they should have. I’ve done what I can, but I’m not young. Someday… someone else will need to look out for them.”
Umar frowned. “You think that’s me?”
Will gave a faint smile. “Not saying it. Just thinking out loud.”
He leaned forward, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I don’t know what brought you here, Umar. You don’t talk much. But I’ve seen men like you burying pieces of themselves just to keep walking. Some get bitter. Some cruel. You? You’ve still got kindness left, even if you don’t know what to do with it.”
Umar looked away, jaw tight.
“Just don’t run off without saying goodbye,” Will said, rising. “Those two wouldn’t forgive you.”
He gave Umar’s shoulder a firm squeeze before leaving him with the dying embers.
And in that quiet, something inside Umar shifted. Not loudly, but like a stone falling into place.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t just surviving.
He was living.
----------------------------------
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙉𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜
----------------------------------
Morning came with something sharp poking his cheek.
“Muen,” he groaned. “Too early.”
“No, it’s not.” Poke. “You said you’d help today.”
“After sunrise.”
“It 𝘪𝘴 after sunrise.”
He cracked an eye open. Golden rays slipped through the shutters. Muen stood over him, stick in hand like a sword. Mello peeked from the hall, half-asleep with bread in his hand.
“She’s serious,” Mello mumbled.
Umar sighed. “Fine.”
“Good!” Muen grinned. “Because today’s the mission.”
“Mission?”
“Operation: Chicken Whisperer!”
Umar stared. “…What?”
“Grandpa says the chickens are rowdy. We’ll tame them. You’re the bait.”
Mello nodded solemnly. “Solid plan.”
Umar muttered, “You’re going to get me killed by a chicken.”
“No,” Muen declared. “We’ll make history.”
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𝙏𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚
----------------------------------
they crouched behind haystacks near the coop. Muen wore a headband like a war general. Mello drew “battle lines” in the dirt.
“Go slow,” Muen whispered. “Talk to them gently. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯.”
“I don’t speak chicken.”
“Try harder. They can sense fear.”
Umar rolled his eyes but entered the coop. The chickens watched him with unnerving intelligence. One large bird strutted forward.
“Nice bird,” Umar said cautiously. “Good feathers. Don’t eat me.”
The chicken stared.
“Mello—now!” Muen hissed.
Chaos erupted. Feathers flew. Mello dove like a flying squirrel, Muen charged with a sack, and Umar narrowly avoided a beak to the face.
Ten minutes later, they lay sprawled in the dirt, bruised and feathered.
“I think… we made contact,” Muen wheezed.
Mello groaned as a chicken perched proudly on his head.
Umar stared at the sky. “I’ve survived monsters and bandits. But this… this is where I die.”
Despite everything, he smiled.
----------------------------------
𝙏𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚
----------------------------------
Will found them later, following scattered feathers to the coop.
Three bodies on the ground. Umar face-down, Muen grinning with a feather on her forehead, Mello dazed with a chicken still on his head.
“…What in feathered hell am I lookin’ at?” Will muttered.
“Morning,” Umar groaned.
“Don’t you morning me. Why’s my coop a battlefield?”
“Ask your granddaughter,” Umar deadpanned.
“We tried to tame them!” Muen chirped.
Will rubbed his face. “Lord above…”
“Cluckles betrayed us,” Mello added grimly.
Will eyed the large chicken and swore under his breath. Then he hauled Umar up by the arm.
“Most grown men would’ve told them to quit the nonsense.”
“I’m not most grown men,” Umar muttered.
“No, you’re not,” Will said softly. “And maybe that’s why the kids smile more these days.”
Before Umar could answer, Muen shouted, “Round two!”
Will’s eyes widened. “No—!”
Too late. The twins charged.
Will sighed. Umar chuckled. And for a brief moment, the world felt lighter.
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𝘼 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 — 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜
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That night, after stew and bread, Muen marched up to Umar, something hidden behind her back.
“You’re not allowed to say no,” she declared, placing it in his hand.
A crude wooden carving—rough, uneven, but shaped like a cloaked figure. Him.
“I helped with the nose,” Mello mumbled sleepily.
“You always give to us,” Muen said. “So we wanted to give back.”
Umar stared at it, throat tight. He tucked it into his coat pocket, close to his heart.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“Good,” she beamed. “Now you can’t leave. It’s a rule. If someone carves for you, you have to stay.”
He smirked faintly. “Is that so?”
“It is,” she said, then marched off to bed like a little general.
Will watched from his chair, pipe glowing faintly. “Big heart, that one. Lotta fire.”
“She reminds me of someone,” Umar murmured.
Will nodded. “That little thing in your pocket? Around here, that’s worth more than coin or steel.”
Umar gazed into the fire. He didn’t say it out loud, but a vow formed in his chest:
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘐𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮… 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝐼 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.