My Life in Another World Hurts

Acknowledgments

To my family, whom I so enjoy acknowledging,

To my readers, whom follow me through adventures wild and fantastic,

To myself, for letting the muse run rampant and free,

To the world, for its madness is my daily inspiration.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Map Of Calemil - Year 811

Preface

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Map Of Calemil - Year 811

Preface

Here we go again. It’s been nearly a month. Nearly a month! This could go on the list of NaNoWriMo’s successfully completed stories if it had been in November, but alas we are merely at the beginning of August.

It is interesting how, perhaps, the constant cheers and comments from the readers are all that I need to power through, and scribble about chapter after chapter. Or perhaps the slave-driving muse of mine has found its path, and its delight, and just pushed through the stifling heat and the humidity’s desire to destroy my hands uncaring of the pain I’d go through.

This book holds two main themes to it; the fight for independence and madness. There is no desire to judge either, mind you, there is merely the showcasing of the weak in such a situation. Crusades always think of the kings and knights, but the peasants do get the short end of the stick, or the sharp end of the spear.

Though if you’re looking for some grandiose battles in feverishly pitched contests, I’m afraid this isn’t your book. Not yet anyway.

Arguably, you could call these two books up till now merely prologues to a grander story, one which could not begin in Media Res for it would have been poor judgment, and thus necessarily needed to be written. Would a better writer do things differently? Yes, undoubtedly. I am not, unfortunately, such a great writer.

I am merely a writer. One of many, many others. Yet I try, and that is all I can ask for.

Though in any event, reading is a guilty pleasure of mine as is writing, though there’s little I should feel guilty about. It is not like by my words people live or die; though they do elicit emotions, and thus, I reckon, I should hold responsibility for them.

Then again, I am an irresponsible person, and I would dread to be put in a position of power.

But aren’t those the greatest leaders, then? Those who do not seek power, and yet have it thrust in their hands?

Have a nice read, reader. That’s all I ask.

-Alberto Catellani

Prologue

Kralje of the Shifting Sands stared with thinly hidden disgust at his charge. Had she not been a hybrid, she would have picked from the disposition of his coils and the subtle changes in his eyes' gaze just how much loathing he felt for the likes of her.

Yet perhaps it was a blessing of the Firstborn that she could not. That she was the one placed under arrest on accounts of murder however, that had been a surprise. It was the cruel trick of the Devourer, he assumed; he had fully expected to be the one led in chains and executed and had readied himself for a battle that had never come.

Something the princess said had been misunderstood by the silver-haired man responsible for so many dead among his tribe, his egg-brothers, and thus what should have been his last, valiant stand against the cruel Kingdom of Solis was instead a puzzling, quiet moment in which Tavo de Serpis, a fool whose human blood had perhaps brought rot to his Serpes' instincts, had come to him with a bag of Sunrays and a whispered request.

How could they not suspect of him, and of his own poisonous fangs? How could they believe that the strength of the Serpes' venom could remain unscathed through generations? The girl had little fangs, worthless in injecting venom. She would starve in a hunt; she would have died as a child, had someone not fed her smashed mice and insects, he reckoned.

He had accepted to lead the monstrosity -for to define her as a Serpes would be to do a disservice to the Firstborn, and to the Mother Sand- away from the palace's chambers and on a swift and nimble ship headed for family in the Shifting Sands. They would keep her safe, and hidden.

He knew that in truth, they would kill her for what she was, if the desert's harshness did not claim her life sooner.

He had agreed, and then he had departed in the night with her on his shoulders. The humans needed eyes to see, but the Serpes didn't need more than their tongues, and he could slither quietly across cobblestone paths and even across the surface of the houses if he so desired.

In the night, all he needed was a direction past the fortified walls, all too easy to bypass when they were all worried about what was on the outside, rather than stare at what came from within the city.

He could have left the girl behind; the monster would have walked its way back, towards her inevitable fate, and he would have been free to head for whatever future he so envisioned. Yet even he was not so cruel. Kindness was a trait worthy of the Firstborn eggs, one which he strove to aspire to.

Where are we going, Jekral? Zelko queried him, her Serpes' hood flattened against the sides of her face, her eyes lacking the double eyelids typical of his kind, and merely holding on to the human ones. Father spoke of a ship.

I sensed too many soldiers near the docks, he lied. They must have been told.

What do we do then? Zelko asked, worry clear in her voice as her hisses were a warbled and far-off cry from the pure language he could instead articulate.

Perhaps his hatred of her form, and of her mannerisms and even of her language was unfounded. Perhaps his disgust, and his anger, should have a greater target like the King of Solis himself, or his whole family. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

But the phantom pain of the burns remained as a vicious mockery of what he had lost, of the siblings that had died, of the friends he had made and left behind.

Truly, as he hissed in the air, seeking a path that his instincts might call safe enough to travel, he had many options available to him, but none truly set in stone.

In the end, he had but one answer to give.

We make for the border, he answered. And past it, something will come to mind.

He had no ideas, but again, perhaps he did not need to think too much; he had been ready to die, and any day he gained was merely one more day that spit in the face of the invaders of his country, of the enemies that had achieved victory over him.

Which border? Zelko asked, her voice soft.

Who hates the Kingdom of Solis the most? he asked back. They will be our greatest allies.

The small, humanoid-like creature spoke a name that was as foreign to his ears as many others had been before, if with a brief hint of uncertainty.

That would be their destination.

Hum, Frihum, Librhom

I felt at peace with the universe. It was ironic to say so, but the peeling of potatoes was a beautiful, soothing balm that gently layered my soul. My fingers had grown deftly agile and quick in the work, as had the ease of the cooking and the notice-taking of the supplies.

It wasn't that difficult to keep the numbers of items in check, and whenever a potato went missing here or there, I knew better than to immediately make a fuss of it. If the cook peeled an extra potato or just ate it, nobody truly cared. If a whole barrel of rum went missing, that was when the whip of the captain would come down on someone.

The kitchen had a firebrick corner, where a fire was started when it was time to prepare a meal, and a neat stack of small wooden chips and cut square panels rested on the opposite end. Those were thrown into the firebrick alcove, and then a large iron cauldron would be placed atop it.

My gaze glanced down at my reflection in the peeled potatoes' bucket, filled with salt water freshly drawn from the ocean and all of its wonders and filth. They'd be boiled anyway; there was little to worry about that. My dark hair was slightly longer, reaching down the sides. My beard needed a sharp cut, but on a rolling ship it was best not to even attempt such a thing.

The potatoes yet to be peeled were in a nearby bucket, resting atop the table on which most often than not we’d work hard on smashing the grain and the wheat into flour, or prepare some actual dough which was wet with as little water as possible, to then solidify into veritable bricks that would be inedible taken as they were.

My eyes were slightly sunk, and there were dark rings below them, though it was perhaps a trick of the light, and in truth they did not betray my lack of sleep as much as I felt they did. Good sleep was hard to come by; not because Dantin snored, because he truly didn't, but because I felt restless.

I was plunging into the unknown.

Librhom, we will dock at Coviar soon enough, Dantin spoke.

The official cook of the ship, whose name was either 'This Shitty Wooden Coffin' or 'The Valiant' according to whom one asked, was a well-built man with dark hair covered in soot and vivid brown eyes that had seen much of what the sea had to offer.

Whenever he smiled, he tended to close one eye and crook his lips, and he had opened up quite quickly to the likes of me. Or so it felt. I hadn’t bothered him too much, kept quiet and listened, and that was a simple, unbreakable way of making someone like you.

If the winds are in our favors, we'll double past Gevelia without having to stop for supplies, he added. Ten days of travel, and we'll be at a dock in Lamoutiers, enjoying their wine, their prudish ladies, and their prattling sermons.

Ten days? I asked. Seems like a long time.

A lot can happen in far less, Dantin replied. But that's if the wind goes against us. If it doesn't, we might even get there in half the time...or if instead it hates our guts, we'll be there never, and end up all together under the sea as food for the sharks.

I nodded and glanced at the peeled potatoes. I am catching up to your speed.

Ah! You wish! Dantin snickered, I managed all of this by myself before you came along. Right now, I am holding back, enjoying this chat of ours, but- he swiftly peeled through two potatoes with a speed I could hardly match, Never forget that I’ve got a lot of experience under my belt.

He wriggled his eyebrows, And I’ve also got a lot of another thing, if you catch my words.

I chuckled at that, shaking my head in disbelief. I stood up to gather the water needed for the actual large cauldron where the dried meat would go into. The meat in question had been dried, but not overtly salted; the trip planned wasn't that long to justify it, and the coast was always within sight.

I'd dump the seawater over the meat, and then some small amount of dry wood would be dropped over the firebricks in the kitchen, a fresh fire started to cook the meal in question.

Remember to put some hardtack out to heat up near the fire; makes them softer, Dantin pointed out to me as I returned with the last bucket of seawater, left close to the firebricks just in case the fire got out of hand.

I dutifully headed for the supply room and returned with a dozen or so of those hard-as-nails breads that would need a hefty dosage of soaking to be edible.

I left them close to the fire; they were meant for the Captain, the Mage, the Quartermaster, the Surgeon and then the Cook and his assistant, which was me. The others had but to soak the breads in their own gruel to get them to become soft.

It was going to be a simple, spartan meal of sorts. It was meant to be filling, and the rum had a watery and strange taste that had little of alcoholic to it, but still was stiff enough to deserve proper care in handling it.

The crew would eat in turns, but the Captain and the Quartermaster would be served first. If something of the day before remained, it was dumped together with the food of the current day.

Got it simmering, I said after a while, a wooden spoon in my hand as I turned the contents within to keep them from sticking to the bottom of the pot. The Cook took out his own ladle and began to scoop up some choice picks for the Captain's meal.

In order, the people who ate the best were the Captain, the Cook, and then me for my silence. Who was I to disagree with the status quo?

And of those who ate the worst...

And a juicy extra dose for our mage, he rasped, before spitting a bolus of phlegm into a bowl I knew, without a ken of doubt, would end up down the gullets of the ship's Wind Mage.

I chuckled and let it be.

As long as I could be left in peace, living a peaceful life, enjoying a bare semblance of normality, I wouldn't complain even if all I ever amounted to be was an assistant-cook on a caravel.

We had left the city of Aurorum behind us by a few days when a yell rang from the crow's nest, a forewarning of something on the horizon.

I was keeping an eye out on the water barrel meant to slake the thirst of those who worked the rigging and were on the deck; it was one scoop of water per hour of work. If somebody came again before the hour was up, I was to shoo them away.

I had left my armor in the cabin; all that I needed was my sword, and just a hand on the pommel was enough to make some sailors think twice before approaching the barrel until they were reasonably sure the hour had gone by.

Ships over the horizon! Galleys of the Solis navy! the warning message rose, high-pitched and feverishly, across most of the crew.

Calm yer prattlin'! the loud, booming voice of the captain was the quintessential pirate, as was the clothing and the accessories.

Dark and shoulder-length long hair, a crimson bandana to cover the forehead, a set of large, golden earrings and a cutlass at the hip with belts across the chest filled with knives, the figure that Captain Dhaho cut was one of absolute, roguish pirate charm.

He also had a pair of piercing golden eyes, like those an eagle would have. Apparently, his Talent was an unfaltering aim, or something like that; Talents were the gifts of the Gods that, upon birth, were sometimes bestowed to people. Some people were lucky to have one, and some won the genetic lottery by having two, or even more. Those who did were normally hailed as heroes, saints, or demons and devils alike.

There was nothing but time to talk about stuff while stuck in the kitchen peeling potatoes though, as things would have it, that would not be the case for much longer.

What do they want with us!? Dantin asked, worrying visibly even as I dragged the water barrel back inside the supply room and quickly explaining why I had returned so soon from above deck. I sealed the barrel off by giving its lid a couple of hammerings, the wooden top sliding back in.

Then, for good measure, I placed a couple of sacks of potatoes atop it.

The supply room was small, but the food that risked getting smashed by sudden movements was hastily placed on the floor, even as the creaking and the shuddering of the ship told me that we were gaining momentum.

Got the wind mage to speed things up, Dantin hissed out.

Why are we running? I asked, wary.

We're on a Caravel, Dantin retorted, Pride and wonder of the Ititians' and coveted by all other countries. We normally just outmaneuver the bastards when they get ideas, he added, before hastily grabbing hold of a large crate, which kept him from toppling over as the entire ship seemingly lurched on one side.

I was holding my weight against the ship's own direction, my legs bent as I tried to move towards a safe anchor spot, a barrel still full of rum becoming my rock in this turbulent moment.

Are they...going to board? I asked through gritted teeth; if I spoke with my mouth open, I'd end up with my tongue chopped more than likely.

Hopefully not, Dantin replied with a grin. And if they do, well, we're going to have to pitch a fight.

After a while, the rolling came less, and we could move once more. Since no fighting was forthcoming, and we weren't slowing down, I reckoned we had safely passed them by.

Voyages by sea were truly bad for my nerves, though the lands I had traversed gave way to far more horrible memories. The people I had met were not all that bad, and some I even considered friendly enough.

Still, I left the Kingdom of Solis behind, with its silver-haired general, its slaves and its troubles, heading for a hopefully better place where my skills would truly be put to good use. I could have stayed in the nation rather than leave for another, but I sought a clean break.

Had I known what destiny reserved for the likes of me, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so eager to run away in such a manner. Yet, hindsight is fifty-fifty for a reason.

Chapter One

The city of Coviar was built following a false sense of Greek aesthetics, if nothing else due to the zigzagging walls that stretched from a hill overlooking the city proper and that came to a halt near the coast. Wooden ballistae and a catapult atop a tower seemed to