Honestly, this world can be a bit much sometimes.

  I thought I could waltz downhill and maybe find Kulu. An isolated village I had came across before I turned into a mountain hermit. But instead I was left wandering like a lost lamb in the plains because somebody decided it was a good idea to pack up an entire goddamn civilization and leave without a trace. Not even a fingerprint was left behind!

  So as I tirelessly dragged my feet about, the land below stretched on forever and ever. As far as the eyes could see, the greens and flora spread. Shades of deathly blue danced with every colour and no sign of a moon to be seen. When you need it most the damned miniature satellite decides to have a night off.

  Without any source of light I’ll be left to wander in the dark. Where there is darkness, danger lingers.

  Worst of all my brain decided to dump a hormone-bomb on my senses. I could feel everything! Eyes followed me like my shadow. The rustle of leaves and dying twigs beneath my feet sang my hair on ends. The pungency of dirt and rotting moss stabbed my nostrils and twisted my stomach.

  Any second a mountain lynx could pop up and have me for dinner and I wouldn’t see it coming. How could I? It’s darker than Dim, a land of darkness where no light reaches. Okay maybe I am exaggerating with that cross-reference but I’m not lying, either.

  The dangers of the unknown can be a threat to even first-rate gen-users. So why am I doing this? Because of the Judicators ? Because I'll be decapitated if I'm caught?

  Ding! Ding! Ding! Correct answer!

  If they catch me, they won’t hesitate to go in for the kill. I rather chance the unknown void of death.

  I walked and walked and walked for hours endlessly in a straight, possibly dooming, path. I would have the goose bumps but if you are a human that knows that death is your own shadow then you are ready to bid life farewell any second.

  Okay I may be talking a bit tough but it’s better than the petty-party. Dying isn’t a hobby of mine nor is useless banter.

  A piercing light washes over the horizon line painting the sky purple, pink, blue, green-yellow!

  Sunlight!

  The sun has risen! Oh mother of the blissed lands, how happy am I too see you-Ow! My eyes.

  Phew! The endless night has come to an end. At least I managed to survived without a scratch.

  Bluff! I tripped over fifty-seven objects, no idea this plain had more ups and downs than rocky bottom. Got scraped knees and elbows, bruises almost everywhere and an uncountable number of scratches.

  At least I am alive and far far far away from that death trap of a mountain. I scanned my surrounding to see where my perilous blind journey led me. And, I am doomed. Screwed.

  Fucked.

  Back to square one. Back on that godforsaken peak. Or should I say butt-hole?

  How?! And holy crackle waffles. I was a step away from a free fall from a pancaked death.

  At least the Judicators still hadn’t arrived, maybe I can still get away on time-

  “Mortal. Who art thou?”

  I spoke too soon. A golden patch of the phoenix. Symbol of Judicators. It was staring right at me. They are here.

  “Thou seem petite, art thou a dwarf?”

  Eh, petite? Did he call me a dwarf? I stared up at the judicator before me. A tall but slim rocky golem dressed up in scholar clothes. A golem judicator? Out here? He notched his spectacles.

  “Hmm, nay Dwarves art petite bits. Thou an Elf, petite sir?” his stone eyes were deeply buried in his head but I could see the green iris glimmering towards me with suspicion.

  Though I should be scared witless and thinking of an escape route, I couldn’t have helped but be offended. He called me not only petite, dwarf then elf but also a sir?

  Sure I am wrapped up in a roughed up brown shawl so he couldn’t tell my gender. But still, it’s rude to make so many blunt presumptions out loud to a person's face.

  “Art thou…” he bent and stared into my eyes then stretched out his rocky finger at me. “Art thou a Halfling, aye?”

  I held my breath every time this rock man said, “Art thou…Art thou…” Like Romeo calling out his Juliette. Forget the goosebumps, it gave me the death shivers just thinking any moment he’ll say something like;

  “Art thou human?”

  -Eep! Did he just say it?! Quick, think brain! What is the best possible solution of escape?

  Run? There are seven walking-talking stones surrounding me like a brigade. Sure golems aren’t known for their speed, but these thin ones seem faster than their giant brothers.

  I won’t be able to go so far with my roughed state, especially in these plains.

  Play dead? Maybe that’ll work but I am talking about rocks-for-brains here, I can’t risk having my own brains turn to mush.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Art thou-”

  "No, no, you got it wrong!" My voice cracked like a broken lute string. "I'm just lost, ha-ha, hilarious, right?"

  Just kill me.

  What type of half-witted evasion is that?! I’m lost? Seriously?

  Mr. Shakespeare squints at the direction of my entry and then slowly rumbles back into his eloquent standing pose. “Well then, thou come with thy.” He said.

  What?

  “Men, thou will report at village Rockville Southern.”

  Holy schmucks, I think it worked! He really is retarded.

  Let’s be optimistic and say I did manage to avoid death. Now I am stuck with the indirect murders of my ancestral bloodline.

  (Kinda awkward, if you get what I mean).

  First chance I see an escape route I must flee from these judicators.

  Sir Grit. Is the name of the so-called gentlemanly leader. And ‘Sir Grit’ pulled out a chained black metal, within two seconds I found myself handcuffed. They are freakishly heavy and loose. I could just-woopsie doo and set myself free. But why would I do that?

  His men guided me into his red mahogany carriage. The moving boulder himself sat across me, barely fitting. His feet had the whole floor covered. He sat hunched forth so his Turkish hat would be sandwiched between the ceiling and his tiny head with every bump on the road.

  I, for one, sat crouching even though the seat was two meters in width. Does he plan on a public execution? Or slavery? Maybe sell me in the black market... Please anything but the black market.

  “W-where are we headed?” I managed to croak.

  “Worry least, thou art in safe hands, t’is pleasure to aid.” He notched his glasses heroically. Then why the shackles?

  I glanced up at the tower, sweat trickled down my temples, “Um, you don’t need to waste your time on me. Judicator-sir. You are a busy force, can’t have them give me rides. Your wisdom is needed elsewhere.”

  Sigh, what I will give if he scurries along like the delusional idiot from yesterday.

  “Forgive rude words, the contrary… what art thou-”

  “Oh my, look at those strong grips I imagine you gentlemen can crush were-beasts in an instant right?”

  Talk about a hard stare!

  The sudden silence ended with his exploding pride, “Aye, we Golem art stout.”

  Yes! I managed to avoid his question, or else rather than the nearest village, Rockville Southern, I will be taken to an executioner’s platform (family ticket to a public beheading, balloons optional).

  He continued, “In verity, thy squeezed life out bear once, pity beast. A remarkable tale it is. Three decades ago…” the journey was a long one and multiple times he questioned me of my tribe. In this world, your clan matters as much as your rights as a civilian.

  I dodged every nosy question by buttering up their rocky egos until my tongue went numb. He yammered on and on about his quests, duty and golem life. Matters about food, colors, clothes and nature. It went on from one subject to another until finally I ran out of distractions. We were thirty minutes to Rockville Southern, plenty of time to interrogate me about my race.

  “Since we art on topic; what art thou kin-Eh! Thy asleep?” he rubbed his bald rocky head looking at me snore away in a fake slumber.

  I must tell you my neck is killing me, the pain of crouching numbed my limbs. Can’t somebody invent a faster moving vehicle?

  We were a few minutes to the entrance of Rockville Southern when the carriage suddenly stopped with Sir Grits order. He rushed out scanning the area with his men.

  “The petite is gone! The petite is gone! Find petite!” he yelled over and over, swinging his arms like a crazy man.

  I wouldn’t be surprised, if I were in his shoes and found the person I was travelling with had vanished into thin air, I would panic the hell out. But there is a flaw to his calculations.

  I didn’t flee.

  One second I was fake-snoring, the next —BAM— something clamped over my mouth. My vision pinwheeled. My body? Yeeted straight into the void.

  In other words dear readers, I was kidnapped.