Reftven

  - The Entry -

  Sen trailed the Caravan from the shadows, moving quietly to keep up.

  The riverbed ran alongside the broad path the Caravan followed.

  Sen felt a wave of relief; if the river had veered off, he would have been in deep trouble.

  After two nights on the road, the caravan finally rolled in at dawn. They hit had a big crossroad, marked by tall wooden torii gates. The red paint was worn down by the years, but the gates still stood tall. The caravan had reached what was unmistakably a border between the wastend and a more hospitable nd—scrubs and sparse greenery hinted at fertile ground ahead. But what caught Sen’s attention most were the armored figures standing at the checkpoint.

  Sen crouched behind the jagged stone, his breathing steady as he observed the interaction at the crossroad gate. The guards, cd in cquered armor with long curved swords at their sides, inspected the caravan with methodical precision. Their movements were disciplined, their eyes sharp, scanning every face, every parcel, every wagon wheel as if expecting treachery at any moment.

  The lion humanoid stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over the smaller guard. Sen could hear the deep rumble of his voice, though the words were meaningless to him. Japanese—at least, that’s what it sounded like.

  The exchange was brief but firm. The guards gestured toward a small wooden box, and the lion reached into a pouch, producing several gleaming coins. The transaction was swift, businesslike. A toll, maybe. Entry fee? Tribute?

  The lion handed over the payment, and with a curt nod, the guards stepped aside, allowing the caravan to proceed.

  Sen narrowed his eyes. That meant there were rules here. Structure. This wasn't just some wless wastend—it was controlled.

  Banners fluttered in the breeze, their symbols foreign but unmistakably authoritative. This was a nd under governance. A system that dictated who could enter and who couldn't.

  That was a problem.

  Sen had spent his life slipping through the cracks, navigating pces where rules were either optional or could be bent with the right amount of force. But this? He had no currency, no papers, and no knowledge of their nguage. He was an outsider in every sense of the word.

  He exhaled slowly, assessing his options.

  He could try to slip past unseen, but the guards were sharp—trained to spot threats before they became problems. And if they caught him sneaking around? He’d be fighting half a dozen swordsmen in broad daylight.

  The exchange continued, the samurai checking the wagon’s cargo with methodical precision. Several figures stepped forward, presenting scrolls or papers—documentation of some kind. The samurai reviewed them carefully before nodding them through.

  Sen exhaled slowly. This was a process, a controlled entry. No one got in without permission.

  As the first wagon passed the checkpoint, Sen shifted slightly, weighing his options.

  Rushing the gate recklessly was suicide. There were too many of them, and their swords were drawn faster than he could likely react. Climbing the walls? Risky, especially with scouts like that griffon-humanoid in their ranks. Sneaking in unnoticed seemed impossible.

  That left only one option.

  He needed to learn how they spoke.

  A flicker of memory surfaced—his dealings with the Yakuza back in his world. He knew a few words, barely enough to get by. But here? He would be nothing more than a mute to these people.

  Sen clenched his jaw. "If I can’t speak, I can’t negotiate. If I can’t negotiate, I can’t enter."

  "Focus, Sen," he muttered under his breath. "You’ve dealt with worse."

  The lion humanoid and griffon scouts were both sharp, but they didn’t appear to be actively scanning for someone like him—a lone, unremarkable figure who might blend in with the right timing. The trick was getting in before they noticed the anomaly.

  The moment the first wagon passed, Sen began to move, eyes fixed on the space between the guards, where a gap was just wide enough for him to slip through. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  His heart pounded in his chest. If he got this wrong, if they spotted him before he was through the gate, he would be cut down before he could even react. But if he didn’t act, he’d be stuck in the wastend, alone and starving, with no way out.

  With a deep breath, he moved, sliding from shadow to shadow, staying low and silent. His eyes darted to the guards’ movements. One of the samurai had turned away, distracted by a merchant’s cart—perfect. The moment he passed, Sen was up and moving, a quick dash toward the gap in the checkpoint.

  As he neared the opening, his foot caught on a loose stone. His heart skipped a beat, but he quickly steadied himself. He couldn’t afford a misstep now.

  Sen kept moving. The further he got from the gate, the denser the streets became—stone paths repcing dirt roads, the murmur of voices growing into a steady roar. He was in.

  Sen’s heart was still pounding, but the adrenaline was already pushing him forward. He ducked into a side street as the caravan began to trickle past the gate. His breaths were sharp, quick, and uneven, but he didn’t stop moving.

  He’d made it.

  Now came the harder part.

  He still had no idea where to go. No idea who to trust, or who to avoid. He wasn’t even sure how to ask for directions if it came down to it.

  -The Market-

  The road ahead opened into a bustling town square, filled with merchants shouting out their wares in a nguage that meant nothing to him. Stalls lined the streets, piled high with fabrics, dried meats, fruits he didn't recognize, and weapons that gleamed under the morning sun. The scent of cooked food mixed with the musty tang of beasts of burden, and the sheer noise of bartering, haggling, and daily life made his head spin.

  Sen stuck to the edges, watching. The people here were dressed in yered robes, some in simple garb, others in fine silks. He caught sight of armored warriors walking in pairs—guards, probably. His presence didn’t raise arms yet, but if he made the wrong move, that could change fast.

  He needed Information.

  "Learn the nguage, fast," he said to himself. "Or you’ll be a dead man walking before the day’s out."

  Sen looked over his shoulder. The gates were behind him, but the presence of the guards wasn’t something he could shake off. They could be looking for him. He didn’t know their customs, didn’t know their tolerance for outsiders.

  He had made it past the gate, but he was still on borrowed time.

  Sen forced himself to think. How the hell was he going to learn a nguage quickly? He needed something, someone who could give him words and meanings fast. He had learned bits of Japanese before, but that was just enough to deal with the Yakuza back in his world, and even then, half of it was threats or sng.

  His eyes scanned the market, looking for anything that might help. Schools? Too slow. A schor? Too formal. A drunk guy who liked to ramble? Maybe.

  Sen exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. Standing around like a lost idiot was a good way to get himself singled out. He needed to blend in fast.

  His clothes weren’t helping—his worn, practical gear was different from the yered robes and armored outfits of the people around him. Even the mercenaries had a distinct look. He was an anomaly, and in a pce this structured, anomalies got noticed.

  First step? Find a way to look less like an outsider.

  His eyes darted across the bustling marketpce. Stalls lined the streets, merchants calling out in the foreign tongue, peddling everything from dried meats to finely woven garments. Colors and symbols he didn’t recognize adorned banners above shop doors, the sounds of commerce blending into a steady, rhythmic hum.

  Sen’s focus locked onto a clothing stall nearby, where a weary-looking vendor argued with a customer over the price of a dark blue robe. The fabric looked rough but durable—something a traveler might wear.

  That would do.

  Moving quickly, he adjusted his approach, walking as if he belonged. Confidence was key—hesitation got people noticed. He stepped past the stall, gncing at the garments hanging from wooden beams. His fingers brushed the fabric as if he were just another customer inspecting the wares.

  The merchant barely spared him a gnce, still busy arguing with the other man. Perfect.

  Sen’s hand darted out, quick and precise, lifting a folded set of robes from the stack. He kept walking, not stopping, not looking back. A simple snatch-and-go.

  No shouts. No angry footsteps chasing him down.

  Good.

  Ducking into a narrow alley, he unrolled the fabric and swapped out his outerwear. It wasn’t a perfect disguise, but it was better than nothing. He shoved his old clothes into a pile of discarded crates, no need to leave a trail and stepped back into the street.

  Alright. Next problem.

  Language.

  Sen’s gaze darted between potential targets. A group of borers sat near a food stall, talking loudly between mouthfuls of rice and fish. A pair of robed figures exchanged hushed words near an apothecary, their speech measured and precise. But what really caught his eye was the drunk.

  Middle-aged, disheveled, and already swaying before midday, the man sat cross-legged near a barrel of sake, waving his hands dramatically as he rambled to no one in particur. His voice slurred but carried a mix of simple words and exaggerated expressions.

  Sen exhaled. This might be the fastest way to pick up something usable.

  Keeping his posture rexed, he approached, listening in. The man was ranting about taxes, ungrateful sons, and the unfairness of life—perfect.

  Sen crouched down, tilting his head like someone vaguely interested but mostly just passing the time. He nodded when the drunk made eye contact, giving the universal look of go on, I’m listening.

  The man continued to rabble, seemingly happy to have an audience. “Tch! Kono kuso chōshū hito-domo wa… itsumo hitsuyōijō ni kin o makiageru! Yatsura wa oretachi o nanisamada to omotteru nda? Futte sora ni dekiru kome-bukuroda to omotteru dakedaro?"

  Sen made a thoughtful noise, committing the words to memory. "Collectors… taking… more than… rice sacks…"

  The drunk jabbed a finger at nothing in particur. “Sorede yakunin-tachi wa? Baka! Karera wa gōkana hōru ni suwatte, watashitachi no isshōkenmeina doryoku o kuitsubushite iru! Gen tte okukedo, watashinochichi no jidai ni wa, otoko-tachi wa puraido o motte ita! Meiyo o motte ita!”

  "Officials… Work… Pride… Honor.."

  Sen nodded again, absorbing what little he could. Words tied to concepts. Anger tied to grievances. The more this guy ranted, the more Sen could pick apart.

  After a while Sen sat back, arms resting on his knees, staring at the now-snoring drunk like he was some kind of broken-down nguage textbook. The old man had slurred his way through a decent handful of words Sen could use, but it was barely scratching the surface.

  Sen repeated the words under his breath, letting them settle in. He needed more, though—more vocabury, more structure, something to help him form actual sentences. Just picking up words wasn’t enough. If he tried to talk like this, he’d sound like a caveman barking random nouns.

  He pushed himself up and dusted off his stolen robe. The market was still bustling, full of merchants calling out their wares. If he wanted to learn more, he needed to listen in on actual exchanges—how people haggled, how money changed hands.