Satou stands up, takes a few steps, but not knowing what he should do, where he should go, sits back down.

Bereft, he takes out his wallet and counts: “One thousand riyals, in notes of hundred each,” and recognizes in it that it was all he had to stop himself from sleeping on a bench tonight. Of all the things that he had to consider and consider well, nightfall troubled him most. What was he to do then? He needed to find a place to stay—that much he knew he had to do—and perhaps she had a home, somewhere—an apartment she could go back to if she missed her train—but where…

“System,” He tried. As expected, nothing happened. “Of course. That would be too convenient.”

The daylight was sinking. Time now was of the essence. He needed a plan, and quick. The day half-sunk, what should he do now? He tried to think of something—something clever, something helpful—but all he could do was repeat to himself the same question over and over again: What to do now? What to do now? What to do now?

The fact that he had burnt himself out somewhat was not helping; nor was it of any help that his inexperience at being independent in life was making his current predicament twice the ordeal it ought to have been for someone else.

Ask for help, maybe? He tried. But who? And help him how?

“What did an isekai protagonist do, anyways, once they were here?” He brooded over it, but the futility of such a line of thought quickly became apparent to him: It didn’t matter what they did. Not only did things play out differently in reality from an author’s frivolous fancies, his circumstances, to begin, with were quite novel from anything he’d ever watched or read. This was new; this was real. But in some ways less bizarre…

The reasonable actions one undertook when they found their belongings stolen during a vacation trip in a foreign country seemed the most apt to employ in his case—but not the answer here. He could not go to the authorities or to an embassy and tell them what had happened to him. What would I say to them? Right.

He imagined himself walk up to a policeman, stop, and tell him with a straight and serious face: “I lost my memories. Can you help me?” He cringed. If all went well, he would learn, even if the man would be of little help; but he was more likely to get sent to an asylum instead, or a mental clinic, given that he was unlikely to answer even one of their most basic inquiries correctly.

This world does have some basic degree of human rights, right? Probably. But he was in no hurry to test that out.

Then, another worrying prospect surfaced:

What if people of this world knew what an otherworlder was? What if they find out what I am? How would they treat me?

God, there was so much to consider. So much he didn’t know. So much so, that despite still being quite physically sprightly, his body aching to be put into action, and him having barely moved since he had come here and sat down, he could feel a strong sense of fatigue set in on him, envelope him, because he had no idea what he ought to do next.

But that’s just how life goes… The thought did little to cheer him up.

He did not have all the time in the world. The clock was ticking, he was well-aware of it, and the knowledge that he was wasting his time only made him feel all the more restless and tired. He had all the motivation in the world, the willingness to undertake any and all ordeal, but him having not one concrete task to direct it towards had become his fatal bottleneck.

And in a way, it was quite comedic, too, that in all the times he had fantasized about reincarnating to another world, it had never once occurred to him to seriously consider how he would go about it once he was here.

So he tried now, by starting small.

In his mind, he made a list of the bare-minimum he would need to get done before night fell over him: food, water, shelter: the basic triad; but also information about his new world—all of which, still, were just as vague for him to put into action.

But it’s a start, if any…

He tried to come up with more, expand this list of his—but nothing; nothing—except that same question playing on repeat over and over again in his head: What to do now… What to do now… What to do now…

He wanted to heave a sigh; and maybe he would’ve if a breeze hadn’t brushed past him.

His shirtsleeve, still wet underneath, the coolness of it, unexpectedly fortuitous, caressed him deeply to his soul.

Any respite was welcome, and wanting to relish it he closed his eyes. In the darkness came to him a panoply of sounds: the low rumble of cars, behind him; talks and tin of crockeries from the arcades; faint footsteps, all around him; and rising out of it all the distant chugging of a train, slowly fading away like the fog in his mind—the serenity of it all pulled him out of the tiny confines of head, and for once he saw the bigger picture at play.

I’m overthinking this, he told himself. I can plan all I want but at the end of the day, I’ll have to go, get up, and wing it—and this answer to him seemed, despite its naïve simplicity, just right. Yes, what I need is movement. Not sit here and plan all day. Complicated as it was, this labyrinthine of uncertainties he was currently facing could still be treated as though it were something very simple, and treaded with improv; and in such new light: him stressing over how he would go about it, the dangers he might have to face, seem quite silly.

He was in no danger. He wasn’t in some lawless wildlands, where a dilemma or confrontation lurked at every corner, but in a city, a civilized society, which had laws, citizens who abided by those laws, and respected your rights, even if to an extent you undermined theirs. The greatest threat he faced at best were not on his life, but at his pride.

With newfound assurance, Satou stood up, resolute in his poise, and asked himself the same old saw: “What to do now, Satou-kun.” But no longer did it carry for him the same gravitas as it had for him earlier.

Briskly, he made sure all his belongings were accounted for so that he didn’t leave anything behind.

Once sure, he slung the satchel up on his shoulder, and made his way out of the plaza.

At the summit of a long flight of stairs, he turned back and faced the entrance of the station one last time.

“King’s Crossing,” he said. This is where I started. This was where his journey began. Whatever the place meant for the denizens of this world, to Satou, it meant nothing trivial. King’s Crossing: this was the place where fate had chosen to leave him to his own devices, here, at King’s Crossing, and he would never forget it.

“It would’ve been nicer if I had a guide as well,” he remarked, good-humoredly, and by no means did he mean it as a complaint. He was content with the roll of his dice, having been bestowed more than was called for, and he was grateful that he wasn’t reincarnated somewhere else, more inconvenient: a lush forest for instance, where right about now he should’ve either been thriving, or struggling; having killed his first set of goblins, or bandits, or bleeding to death and starving.

Just the thought of it was enough to make him shudder. To him, it did not come off as something abstract, but all too real. Suddenly, he felt twice as more grateful in his current standing, and he felt pity too, for all his fellow isekaied brothers and sisters who weren’t so lucky as him.

He clasped his hands for a prayer and with a slight bow bid them all his best wishes.

All paths lead to their own set of hardships and rewards, and the path he was meant to walk down seemed quite harmless in comparison: holding no prospects for physical struggles, resource scarcity, dysentery, indentures, or saving damsels in distresses.

Except in my case, the damsel was I. He chuckled, amused.

A silly comparison, he knew, comparing himself with tropes; but it had put him in a lighter mood nevertheless.

And here he was, standing at the edge of a long-held dream come true.

Understandably, he felt more than a little nervous—trepidation and exultation thumping in his chest—an excitement incomparable to anything he’d ever felt in his entire previous life. He considered himself lacking in so many ways: so many facets of life that were vital prerequisites not only to survive out in the world, but also to thrive, even in a civilized society; but he felt sure in himself that he would learn, could learn, learn it all, change, and learn it all well—step by step, one by one—until he no longer resembled the Hasegawa Satou he was now.

Not that I’m much of a Hasegawa Satou, even now…

Ah, right. I’ll need a new name as well. Satou won’t cut it.

And not just a new name.

He needed to drill it into himself that he could no longer go about acting in his same old ways.

He could no longer be laconic, taciturn, but had to be consciously initiative, sociable, open to undertake any and all challenges that came his way; which included confrontations as well: something he dreaded to think of even as a possibility, because he was alone now, and he needed to stand up for himself.

A change of tact was an imperative if he wanted to succeed, thrive, and not squander his second life; and for reasons that he considered himself as someone not with good nerves, easily set on the edge, tense, and with a self-confidence down in the dumps, who easily got flushed, flustered, and shy, this by no means was a trivial conviction for him to make, but one that was necessary.

“Alright,”

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, as much as he could, curling and uncurling his fingers as he did so, and slowly and deeply as he had breathed it all in, breathed it all out.

Then he began his descent.