(Charles)

  “It’s safe to eat,” Charles assured him.

  Dyn frowned, examining the loaf. “Shouldn’t all food be safe?” he asked, looking up at Charles.

  Charles nodded, agreeing that all food should be more like fk. “So, what happeo you st night?” Small talk was getting him nowhere, so he shifted to a more direct approach.

  Dyn paused, the fk h just inches from his mouth. “There’s a lot I don’t uand,” he admitted.

  Charles waited patiently, his expression unged as Dyn struggled for words.

  “You probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway.” Dyhe partially uned fk in his p, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of the kraft paper.

  “Try me,” Charles said, calmly uning his fk. He crumpled the kraft paper a to the fire, which crackled tentedly in response.

  “I don’t know where to start,” Dyn admitted, his gaze dropping to the fire as if searg for answers.

  “Usually, at the beginning,” Charles suggested. Dyn chuckled but still hesitated. Sensing the need for a different approach, Charles added, “Let’s retrace your steps. What happened before I found you on the side of the road?”

  Charles took a slow bite of fk, quietly passing the versation to Dyn. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the evening chorus of critters began their song. Charles listened, sav the brief notes of each creature while he waited.

  Dyn’s eyes darted around, searg desperately for anything familiar. He gnced up at the f stars, then leaned closer to Charles. Scratg absently at his pants, he lowered his void asked, “Are we still on Dirt?”

  Charles found the question odd aed the urge to remind Dyn not to scratch his rash. As he looked him over for any missed injuries, Charles noticed the cuts and abrasions on Dyn’s face. He briefly wondered if the man had a cussion—a simple diagnosis for a mender, but Charles was an Outfitter, not a Physi.

  ‘Is he being literal urative?’ Charles wohere were plenty of abilities that allowed adveo fly. ‘Does he mean agriculture? Or the surface of the road?’ He finished chewing his mouthful of fk and swallowed, still mulling over the possibilities.

  Charles gnced down at the ground, frowning slightly. After a moment’s sideration, he hazarded a guess. “Yes, that’s soil underh us.”

  “No, not soil. Dirt! Are we still o Dirt?” Dyn’s voice grew more insistent, his fusion pin.

  Charles studied Dyn’s ear expression and quickly realized the chubby man wasn’t setting him up for a joke.

  ‘Mistranstion? Surely, no one heir world Dirt,’ Charles mused, but the memory of okamijin naming rituals made him sigh. He still suspected a malfun with the ring, and it was clear Dyn wasn’t from Xel’oria. Yet, the idea that someone could travel to another world unknowingly seemed absurd. Every answer only added more questions to this ever-growing puzzle.

  “No, we’re on Xel’oria,” Charles replied, gesturing around them as if it were obvious. Dyn’s brow creased as he processed the information, while Charles calmly took another bite of fk.

  “I k!” Dyn excimed, jumping to his feet. He began pag in a circle, his thoughts spilling out as he spoke aloud.

  “I’ve been isekaied,” Dyn decred, as though it expined everything. “I mean, it should’ve been obvious with the whole ‘magi’t real’ thing—but here, magic is definitely real.”

  “At first, I thought I was dying, like, my brain made up this whole pce to distract me. But then I did die, and that wasn’t the end. So, obviously, I was wrong because you ’t die and still be dying—that’s gotta be a double ive or something, right?” Dyn g Charles, seeking firmation.

  Charles swallowed hard, caught off guard by the revetion. “You died?” he asked, his voice carefully measured.

  Dyn resumed pag, ung bato his monologue as if he hadn’t just dropped a nova.

  “And magic hurts, by the way—a lot,” Dyn added casually. “I knew something was off, but I couldn’t tell if it was like Dungeon Delver Daryl, where aliens repossessed his world over unpaid parking tickets from the rovers they left on Mars.

  “Theurned his whole world into one giant dungeon for an intergactic reality show. He got to run around with his pet cocker spaniel, Prince Biscuit—who could talk, by the way. He gave the dog a magical donut that was ‘safe’ for pets.

  “They put Daryl through some pretty messed up stuff. Made him mad—big mad,” Dyn said, inhaling sharply before jumping bato his monologue.

  Charles listened quietly, uanding the words but not the text. Dyn had either ignored or missed his earlier request for crification, so Charles simply took another bite of fk a him tinue.

  “Or maybe it’s more like She Who Fucks with Demons—” Dyn paused, correg himself. “Wait, no, that was the fanfic.”

  “I mean She Who Fights with Demons—where a womaeleported to another world, gains overpowered magic abilities, and uses snark, trauma, and dated cultural refereo defeat demons, gods, and rich people.

  “It’s an aptly named series, really—because it’s not just the physical demons trying to kill her. It’s also about the metaphorical demons of society, capitalism, religion, and, again, rich people.

  “And then there’s the deeper yer of her inner demons—struggling with self-doubt and guilt over the terrible things she did to survive. Plus, she dies a lot—it’s kind of her thing,” Dyn added with a shrug.

  Dyn paused, his gaze drifting upward as he stared unfocused into the distance.

  “Infernal Mother... I was hoping for the dog, but I’m already two deaths in,” Dyn muttered, sitting back down with a sigh.

  Dyn finally noticed Charles eating without him. He picked up his fk again, pausing just before taking a bite. “At least she gets to travel the world and sample delicious local delicacies. I wish I knew how to cook...”

  ‘He’s died twice?’ Charles thought, barely cealing his shock.

  “What’s it supposed to taste like?” Dyn asked, holding the loaf up for iion. He frowned. “Is it supposed to be that color?”

  The fk was its usual dusty blue—just as it always appeared when Charles made it. Nearby, the kettle had shifted from reflective steel to a deep, opaque jade, signaling the water was hot enough. Charles preferred this subtle transitiohe whistling of mutles, even if it required sight to notice. It was a worthwhile promise.

  Charles took a moment, examining Dyn’s rea before responding. “It doesn’t have a taste, and the color’s fine,” he replied evenly.

  Charles mentally sifted through the information Dyn had dumped on him. Without a sed thought, he removed the hot kettle with his bare hands—thanks to his passive ability, it wasn’t too hot to hahe teapot sat ready oable, and with a soft jingle, he draped the tea infuser along its side to steep.

  For a brief moment, Charles sidered the possibility: ‘Is Dyn a secret agent, toying with me?’

  A Warden would be a highly ranked adventurer—specialized and more than capable of such skilled deception. Feigning iude and crafting doublespeak would be sed nature for someone like that. It would also expin how Dyn could have infiltrated, terrorized, and escaped from a guild stronghold—all without a team.

  Dyn was a living drum. He was either the most dangerous individual Charles had ever entered—or the least.

  Then came the gagging noises. Charles watched as Dyn spat out a wad of fk, which fell to the ground in scattered ks. Grimag, Dyn stuck out his tongue and wiped it with his cloak.

  ‘That’s unfortunate,’ Charles thought with a sigh. He’d had his doubts, but now it was clear—Dyn wasn’t a spy, just an idiot.

  Dyn’s face twisted with disgust arayal as he gred at Charles. “You said it doesn’t have a taste,” he accused, his body vulsing as he fought ba. “I think it’s gone off.”

  Dyhe rest of his loaf oable with a grimace. Charles calmly picked it up and gave it a sniff. As expected, there was nothing wrong with Dyn’s loaf. Fk, being magical, would take years to lose even a fra of its potency.

  Dyn pointed acgly at the loaf in Charles’ hand. “That,” he decred with emphasis, “tastes like ass.”

  Charles extended his hand, gng down at his transti with a frown. Was it malfuning? He didn’t think magical items could be defective, but this was starting to make him wonder.

  “I’m not sure my ring’s w properly,” Charles said slowly, still staring at the loaf. “What did you just say?”

  Dyn wiped his mouth and grimaced. “That was horrible. It tastes like ass.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow. “Is that a on fvor where you e from?”

  “What? No! Well…” Dyated, sidering. “I guess some people are into that.” He gestured toward the fk. “But I meant this—it tastes like stale cardboard ed in seaweed. Way too salty.” He shivered involuntarily as he said it.

  Charles sighed inwardly. “It’s all I have,” he replied calmly. “But I assure you, it is safe to eat.”

  Charles took another deliberate bite, making his point. He watched as Dyn stared down at the partially ed loaf, clearly debating whether tain. When his stomach growled, Dyn finally gave in and took the loaf back, albeit relutly.

  With the tea fieeping, Charles removed the infuser aied it over the fire, hanging it on the hook to dry. He preferred to savor his tea after meals, enjoying each fvor separately. Mixing them together ruihe experience. He only hoped the peppermint would help Dyn’s sensitive pate ehe meal.

  “Tea is ready.” Charles gestured to the teapot. “Would you like some?”

  “Please,” Dyn said quickly, immediately grabbing a mug and holding it out. Charles picked up the teapot, carefully using both hands as he poured for them both. He saw o ehe sed chamber just yet.

  “Did you really name your world Dirt?” Charles asked, resting his mug oable as he picked up the st bit of his meal. The rigued him—it was so literal. Every world he knew had symbolic rand names, like Xel’oria, meaning Mother ons—the in world of the drai.

  “Hold up,” Dyn grimaced as he took another bite, tinuing to talk through his chewing. “First, I didn’t name Dirt—it was like that when I got there.” He washed dowe with half his mug before adding, “And sed, it’s not dirt. It’s Dirt.”

  Dyn began to spell out the name of his world, but Charles raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “Don’t spell,” Charles said. ‘He really doesn’t know how the rings work,’ he thought with mild exasperation. The magic of transtion relied on text—transtier by letter wouldn’t yield the same words in different nguages.

  ‘What kind of world doesn’t know about magid how do they keep it a secret? How does he even unicate with others on Dirt? Do they all speak the same nguage?’ More questions piled up in Charles’ mind.

  “Transtio work with individual letters,” Charles expined patiently. “It requires plete words.”

  “Oh, okay,” Dyn replied. “It’s just... you keep saying ‘dirt,’ and that’s not how it’s pronounced.”

  Charles raised a hand, pointing to the transti. “This ring magically transtes spoken words so you uand them.” He pressed his lips together, sidering how best to expin it in a way even Dyn could grasp. Patience was key.

  “Languages don’t share the same words or expressions,” Charles expined. “The ring uses text, extrapotes the meaning, and picks something close. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” Dyn replied hesitantly, nodding as if trying to vince himself.

  Charles paused for a moment before responding. “It’s just a minor mistranstion,” he lied smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Charles didn’t want to worry Dyn—or worse, distract him from answering important questions. Besides, most intergactits involved far more plex issues than simple word substitutions. Holy, with a bit of cultural awareness and patiehey might never have happe all.

  “What happened before I found you hiding in the vermillion ivy?” Charles asked, calmly steering the versation ba track.

  “I wasn’t hiding…” Dyn crossed his arms. Charles fihe st bite of his meal, waiting patiently for a better expnation.

  “Okay, maybe I was hiding,” Dyn admitted with a huff. “But if you were being chased, forced to walk all night in tiny boots, without pants, in the dark—you’d hide too.”

  Charles disagreed entirely. ‘I’d fight back. I always roper attire, and I certainly don’t fear the dark.’