The morning street was a bit charming. He was pleasantly surprised to found there was a part of the town that wasn't that ...backwater. Trotting down the street, he could feel his feet gripped firm into the cold hard surface. A hundred times better than those muddy, sticky roads.
Just two, three minutes ago, he paid quite a deposit (more than three days stay at his inn) to obtain a day pass to this place. It read One, Inner. Which with how his just washed shoes sang, indicated that the town separated into multiple tiers. Inner. Outer. Each fancier than the last. At least that was what he assumed.
He meant, would you look at that? It was paved! Well, not with good pavers. The friction-brimming, rain-shielding alternating stones layered on top of a textured concrete bed might be way too advanced for this pre-industrial outback.
Instead, it was made from flattened stones of various sizes. Several were as small as the palm of his hand, others could be as big as a public trash can. From their dull, gray sheen and how it was irregularly shaped, he could surmise that these were locally sourced. Perhaps from that river he saw when arriving at the town premise.
Not that the stones were bad. It was a hundred times better than those gnat-infested abominations. Still, if he was allowed to point just one tiny little flaw, the smallest bit that not in any way discounted the merit of this wonderful road. It was that the road wasn't built with weather in consideration.
Just from the stones' reflection. The way they shone under the morning sun, he could tell with almost certainty that these smoothed surfaces would be quite slippery when the rain came.
And if yesterday was any indicator, it didn’t look good for him. He needed to find out how to rent those carriages as soon as possible. And perhaps looking for a good shoe and a new umbrella.
Another stuff to do. How his list grows.
But, that wasn't all this part had to offer! Every eight-ten meters or so, he could see series of lampposts installed. Streetlights! And just by the barest observation, it was clear that it was different than the one he had at home.
These ones were erected using an iron-made pole. Or at least covered in a very bad lacquer. Maybe. He wasn't sure. What he was sure though, was that white opaque crystal that mounted on its exposed cage-like top. That was magic. Pure magic.
He needed to take a look at the other tiers someday. Would they be grander? Better? More wonderful? Hmm. He should consider moving there. Yes. Yes. Well, he'd take a look at it. Perhaps by the end of the week when he more or less settled.
"Make way!"
He staggered back. Finding that both of his feet suddenly had no steps to stood. In a split second, the world slowed. His ankle bent, twisted. Giving way to the gravity to claim him bare.
In a panic, he flailed his arm up and down. Left and right. Then by a great, great miracle, a sharp jolt. Pain. It shot through his left palm, cushioning his fall halfway to a mere bump in the rear. It was his left hand. Sacrificing itself.
“Ugh. W-wha—”
Not even a sentence done, he was welcomed by the rolling dust. Shout and surprises filled the air. Thick. Loud. Choking.
Rubbing, protecting his eyes, he glimpsed a man. Middle-aged, all fours, almost sprawled. Beside him were fallen fruits and a knocked-down stall. Two steps left side was a woman, a young one not a day older than twenty. Maybe. He wasn't sure with all the dust. But he could tell at least that she was helping, fussing, her older counterpart, trying to prop the latter up.
Behind him was a young boy, crying.
It was chaos through and through.
He crawled, dragging himself into a wall by some kind of shop, its placard was obscured. He waited, waited, waited. Waiting till the chaos stopped. Settled. Yet, it didn't happen. Not for one moment, for one second that it showed any indication it was going to stop. Tick and tock, the screams grew. Tick and tock, the dust billowed.
The exclamation, the cursing, everything still going strong. Continued. That was odd, he mumbled, wiping out the grimes and gravels that pressed his leg with rashes. Wasn't it just him? But that sound, that bang... Like in every second, there were shouts. Something falling. Something breaking, kicked, crashing. Screaming. This—this wasn't just a one-off accident. What was happening?!
His eyes widen as realization hit him. W—Whatever was causing this—this chaos, intended it. It wasn't an accident. It was on purpose.
He must escape.
But where?
Where?
Closing his eyes. He let his ears took the lead. Muddling through the cacophony of people flailing, a sound stood. It was this weird tap-tap-bam-tap-bam. Irregularly rhythmic and accompanied by loud exclamation going distant.
Left!
He turned his head to the sound source, sharp.
Then he saw it, just on the shy edge of his vision.
Behind the obfuscating curtain of floating dust, the billowing choking grime, a silhouette of a carriage was galloping; pushing pedestrians left and right to the side.
“What in the name?”
His mind raced. Spun as his feet scooted — staggered away. A terrorist attack? He mustered a possible answer. Drawing conclusion from the similar incident in Berlin, Paris, ...Tokyo. Yet it couldn’t be. His flapping brown traveler cloak, his leather-made trousers. He was still in another world!
Did another world has terrorist too?
"Are you okay?" A voice cut his thought. Somewhere in the process, he missed her. A little girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old had stood, looking concerned beside him.
She offered him her hand. "Get up. Hurry."
There an insistence, a rush on her voice. He, still reeling from witnessing a terrorist incident, nodded unconsciously, grasping the offered hand. He was shaking. He tried his best to get up however. He was lucky the alleged terrorist was getting away from him, but they could be back at any moment. So, pushing his shiver and shake down as the best as he could, he pivoted his hand on her, trying to get up. At least that what he intended to do before a throbbing, dull pain flared on his upper calf.
He fell back.
He grimaced. He knew that familiar red. That familiar soft, heat, and pain. It was a bruise.
He hissed. Oh god! He was injured in the middle of a terrorist attack!
"Come on, come on, sir. Stand!" The young girl insisted again. Pursing his lips in half-smile, he redirected her sight her to his leg.
“Oh,” Was all that she said before she —to his surprise— moved both of her shoulders below his armpit—
“Wha?”
—propping him up.
“T-Thank you,” he said, his eyes water.
Slowly he moved his arm. Releasing it from the girl’s shoulders. Under her worried look, he nodded. Trying to assure her and also himself that he could walk. Step by step. Large and wi—
“Ugh.”
It hurt! It freaking hurt. Instead of receding, the pain came back with full revenge. Flaring, throbbing, pricking, gashing. Everything at once. Everything at the same time. Stopped on his track, he took a deep, deep breath. Small steps, small steps. Not longer than a length of his sole.
With a wince, a trepidation, and gritted teeth, he walked.
And walked.
And walked.
The pain didn’t come.
It seemed the pain only flared in the case of big movement. Small ones should be fine. Relieved, he crouched for a bit, massaging the bruise in continuous circular motions. The sounds went increasingly far, he sighed. Let just massage this for a minute.
He pressed his index and middle finger together, trying to get the redness, the swelling to, well, less swollen. Or at least, less painful. He wasn't a chooser, really. However, not in the half minutes he had been doing that, the girl turned her head sharp. Without even saying anything, she grabbed his other arm, pulling him forward.
"Ah?!”
“Shh, walk. Slowly. But walk."
What?
What was wrong with her? Why she kept insisting that he must hurry? He meant he was thankful that she helped him stood, but he could do a bit of resting. His leg was still bruised after all. And he didn’t see it’d return to a normal walking condition soon. Wait. Did the terrorist come here?
Did they?
Horrified, he tried to hurry his step, small but rapid, following the girl. As he walked, the surroundings began to clear, the dust starting to settle. He walked, walked, walked. But his leg meant that he wasn't going fast. It wasn't wrong to say that he was almost that — crawling.
"And what do we have here Tom?"
A voice boomed behind them. Two men. The pedestrian, few that stood between them and the men were parting —giving ways. At once, the street seemed to fell into a still. Silence. Just few whispers spoken here and there. The young woman, the one who helped the old lady, shook her head in a distance.
What was happpening?
And as both came near, meter by meter, he looked at them. Really looked at them. Their attire was these leather armors covered by dark mail plates.
"Last-ers, Del! And two of them!"
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