It was a half-hour ago when he said his goodbye. Properly of course. With bows, reluctance, and an incessant amount of thanks.

There was no amount of gratitude that could express how he was so grateful for the man's help. And Amy. And Daf, and perhaps the frazzled looking uncle who kept the brat occupied half of the times. Not the brat though. Not the brat.

He meant it was a truly generous act from them. After saving him, an unknown traveler which could be a bandit in disguise, distracting their caravan from behind-the-bush ambush. They still insisted that he kept his borrowed clothes. True, his still wet from all the water dear Amy splashed him over. But, lord!

Admittedly, the clothes were not to his taste. Not that he was unthankful. He wasn't a boor. It more of his big-town-slash-modern-world upbringing had made him more used to factory-made, higher thread count fabrics.

For him, the given clothes were a bit itchy. The coarse tunic rubbed against his side wrong, leaving a small rash on his skin. And the front. God. He wasn't those chiseled-builts that could pull up a v-neck look. It just windy for him.

The trousers were also different. Like most men, all he accustomed to was either a metal clasp holding it snug on the front or sometimes when he at home, without any company, the elastic pull of rubber's waistband. This one though was held by a piece of fabric, sewn side by side mimicking a belt that you must tie together to fasten.

Still, he was glad that part was over, while he still held hope to find a way back to his home, he didn’t put much optimism into it. He just had to make do. Like now. His rough-baked plan guided him to turned left on the next bend.

Which he promptly swerved right, avoiding the muddy puddle.

Frowning, he grimaced at the fellow pedestrians beside him. Splashing water all around, almost hitting him. So far his visit to this ...place was unpleasant, to say the least. And that him being charitable. In just one day. One day. He'd been dumped without provision and hit with god only know affliction. Not to mention being threatened with a freaking saber, almost splitting his throat. Even though the last one was done to help him. But still! A. Freaking. Saber. On. His. Throat.

Would it kill them, the mighty heaven and earth with its all-omniscient whatever local God that the native seemed to worship here to throw him some bone?

He meant, look at this! This—this muddy ground! How his soles packed and packed increasing layers of brown slush. Could he —he didn’t know! Dropped near town with decent paved streets? This was just an insult! Like those oversized macaroons on top of the already decadent ganache.

He could felt how his feet sunk with every step he takes. And he tried very hard. Very hard if he allowed to say it again for emphasis. To ignore the biting sunk of THIS DAMNED INSECT! Shoo, you bloodsucking parasites!

Like the forest's road, it seemed the town street on this place was constructed from packed dirt. Unlike the forest road, the town was less concerned with basic pest control. Even the one they should be able to predict. He meant that annoying kid only said 'Oh.' when it started raining. Which basically tells him that this was predictable, knowable, common knowledge right?

And that, that...Verdi. Only once he ever felt that kind of loss of control —when he got sleep paralysis. Which was scary in its own right. Knowing you're awake but couldn't move. Or worse, when you thought you already moved yet it turned out to be a phantom move. He endured it a few times. Trying to force wakefulness by rolling his body down from his waist-height bed. Then for a second he felt that he had hit the floor. Which he hadn’t. He backed where he started. The move only happened in his mind.

He hated that. It creeped him out.

But this, this knowing his mind was unlinked, separated. Being unable to keep his instinct in check when he felt that he should still held full control. Being a passenger in his own mind? He still remembered how the other He. The other Euca, laughing at him, at the world. Lord. Bless their gracious heart.

And now, he was heading toward the White Corner. Well, walking. He'd love to take another ride mind you. But those carriages he'd seen, the plain unornamented one at least, seemed to be rent-only. And he had been only in this town for two hours at most.

Most of the time he’d been cooped up in the caravan with Amy. And even if he wasn’t. It wasn't like he knew where to found such renting station or how to rent such carriages for that matter.

Should he pay a deposit? If so by how much? Could the driver be trusted and not redirect him to some corner alleyway to be robbed bare? You knew, a reasonable, everyday question.

So here he was. Stuck walking toward the recommended inn. Which he asked the town guard. At least if they could be bribed, which was likely, they'd be bribed by a decent, forward-thinking inn who had a sense of good marketing.

The guard still needs a reputation to uphold after all. Or so he hoped.

And as he walked, stealing a peek or two around the buildings; the stores and their signboard. He felt a little thankful. It was a great mercy that somehow this place —this world— spoke modern English.

He didn’t think he could survive if he was forced to learn another set of languages just to communicate. Particularly those pictographic kinds with tonal inflection. Not that writing appeared to be common, two-third of shops he passed seem to favor picture on their signboard.

For example, he just saw a wooden one that displayed a carving of a frothing flagon. Which he surmised as a tavern. Then there was this hammer and tong hitting an anvil next to it, which was almost certainly, a smithy. There were also several signs which beyond him. One of them was the white marbled building with an open arch as its entrance. Its sign was displayed as a double concentric ring that burst out several triangles like a sun.

Though it was exciting. Informing. Something that he much loved, given how the situation was, he forced himself to walk fast. At least in the same pace with the rest of the pedestrians.

Slow walk was dangerous. Nothing screamed more of a mark than the appearance of gawking tourists. He learned this 'truth' on one of his trips. The few that his family managed to shook out of him. Not that his protest could do much. Visiting grandma's house was a given during extended holiday.

There, his cousin took him to one of the open markets which sold various knick-knacks. Print your own t-shirt; children’s toys like stuffed dolls or cup and ball; charms made of jadeite that fashioned into a ring or necklace; and infomercial-like demonstration of a sharp knife. You name it, they have it.

It confused him at that time when his cousin told him to dress down. The vendors were hawks, she said. They could smell big townies and charged them threefold.

You must walk like you knew what you wanted to buy.

Every step needs to be mettled by confidence. Each turn of eyes ought to be bolstered with purpose.

Then and only then you'd be treated as local.

That was why learning from her street wisdom, he tried to play the part of strolling young man who just having a walk in the fine afternoon. None of that excited, turning head. Neither stopping to gape. All his stare was a side glance. All his face was stoic appreciation. Like he knew the town as well as the back of his hand.

Yet even with all that, he almost failed. Almost stopped just to went to the corner and fiddling with the thing. The exciting thing.

It was when the shower just finished. One of the not-horses got its feet stuck quite deep in the mud. Which by the movie he watched, he guessed would be a quarter-half hour ordeal of several muscled men, pushing, lifting the not-horse from the mud. And when they failed, he must ready himself to offer help out of courtesy. Even when he himself was assured his useless hand would not.

He didn’t need it though. And nor the men. The coachman simply clapped his hand twice before the not-horse neighed so loud, it pulled itself in an arc so high it released from the mud.

Which of course he responded by shouting how. Loudly.

So loud in fact that it was heard by that annoying, yet in this particular case, helpful brat. Never saw a [Surefoot] skill weirdo? He said.

That, connected the dot for him.

The physic-defying flower? His odd-named mental fog? Skill?

This was not just a fantasy world. This was a system-blessed fantasy world!

He remembered immediately mumble status and almost shout like five years old. Which he didn’t. Because duh.

And the content. It amazed him. Still, he had no times for more than cursory glances. A quick grab.

That was hy he itched to fiddle. Play around with the thing. It might even hold a clue on how could he get home.

Still, first thing first. He needed to reach the inn and he needed to reach it five minutes ago. He was dead tired from the so-called traveling. And bless the man's heart, but Mr. Terence's carriage doesn't exactly have a good suspension system.

And with his hurried steps, it was around twenty, perhaps thirty minutes later that he arrived at the inn. The property was distinct with how cursive White Corner was carved on the hanging signboard.

Unlike the other inn he passed, this one seemed ...fancy. The outer wall was made from proper stone and behind the open windows, there was a slight patch of flowerbeds. Feeling his pocket once more, he opened the door.

"Welcome to the white corner, how might I help you, young sir?"

A voice greeted him just when he tried to get a feel of the atmosphere

It was a man. A standing man. Which with how he was smiling behind a dark wood desk made straight across the front door, he must be the inn's receptionist.

"Hell—" His mind was blank for a moment. The word choked on his throat. I-is that?

"Hello..."

Forcing down his surprise he managed to utter the word. "H-how much for the room? For one night..."

His surprise seemed to be a norm for the man though, who just tilted his head a bit sideways —flashing a helpless laugh. He nodded at the response! As it should be! The man was an elf! Or a half-elf. He had no idea what the correct length of ears that tout someone as a full or a half.

But wow! An actual freaking elf!

"Is this your first visit, young sir?" His voice’s clear as a bell.

"Yes, the gatekeeper recommends me this inn," Trying not to stare at the man's ear. Which he failed most miserably.

"Oh, it must be sir Dol then." The receptionist shook his head. "Only him would do such a thing on third. Such a nice man... even when madam already—"

"Forgive me.” The elf stopped mid-sentence. Looking a touch apologetic. “This old man can't help but ...reminiscing, young sir..."

Old? That wasn't right, Euca thought. Oh Right, elf.

"...for the second floor we charge fifteen silvers a night, that includes breakfast and supper. For the third floor, it's a bit more. Half a gold for one night. However, it'd already include bathing if young sir wants to."

"I think I'll take the second floor one? How much is it if daily bathing was included?"

No way he'd skip on baths. He was already so sticky from all that mucking around.

"Seventeen silvers."

"All right, I'll stay for five days for now."

Rummaging his pocket, he pulled a brown leather pouch. Untying the green knot, it revealed coins upon coins. Shining with golden luster. With bated breath, he plucked one of them and handed it to the elf.

The man nodded, accepting his payment. Success! Euca felt his heart shout from joy. The coin works. He didn't need to be starving on the street!

"Very good young sir, Would you like us to prepare the bath now?" he said, handing Euca the changes.

"Yes please, but bring my supper first."

God, he was starving.