Dave awoke to the relentless sun beating down on his face, the heat seeping into his bones and leaving his mouth parched. He groaned as he peeled his eyes open.

His vision swam as he staggered to his feet, his head pounding with pain. The sight before him was stunning, a rich emerald expanse of fields that seemed to stretch on forever, punctuated by the towering blue and white glaciers.

He took a hesitant step forward, his knees shaking with exhaustion. As he moved, he could feel his strength slowly returning to him.

He wondered how far the night hunter took him. Tall mountains blocked most of the view, most likely the domain of the Dragon Emperor lay beyond their jagged peaks.

"It's certainly pretty," Dave murmured at the glacier mountains. "But where am I?" He scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of...anything, really. But all he could see was the endless vista of mountains and wild fields.

Dave slid his bone knife into his belt and trudged onward.

Small creatures akin to a mixture of owls and kittens scattered away from him as he walked. The change of scenery from the hellish landscape that he was reincarnated into was nice.

He felt a gnawing sense of thirst creeping up within him.

"Sherlock," he murmured, "where do you think I can find water?"

The sound of the violin resounded in his soul, like an invisible hand pointing towards the grass.

"Ah," Dave looked at small water drops of dew upon the grass blades. "Right."

Dave knelt down and took a deep breath, savoring the clean, refreshing scent of the dew. He cupped his hands, scooping up a handful of the precious liquid and drank deeply.

"That's better," he breathed, his eyes closing in contentment as he collected more cool dew. "I really needed that."

After a while, he rose to his feet, as he surveyed the horizon. He felt a sense of purpose stirring within him once more.

"I wonder what else this place has in store," he murmured, taking a deep breath and starting forward once more.

Dave tried to think of when he went camping last. He could not recall a single thing about wilderness survival. Pangs of hunger pulsated within him.

"Suggestion on which way to go?" He asked the ghost of the detective.

"Remain calm and focused," Sherlock's violin sang. "Spot a river and follow it. Try to get to higher ground and locate a trail."

Inhaling the crisp air, Dave contemplated the expanse ahead. Recalling his boy scout days, he sought solace in his past memories of rural life in the Midwest, a place which contained no god-emperors or bat monsters.

"Alright, Sherlock, let's find a river," he spoke.

With each step, Dave was enthralled by the distant peaks beckoning him — amused spectators of his expedition. At times he paused, listening intently to the ghostly detector of wisdom residing within him.

After some time he spotted a waterfall coming down the mountain. He headed towards it.

"Well, I'll be," he murmured. "Not a bad find, eh, Sherlock?"

The haunting strains of the violin answered him, a wry symphony echoing in his ears. Dave couldn't help but smile as he approached the waterfall.

The water was very cold. Nevertheless, he stepped into the waterfall to get himself clean.

He winced as the frigid water stung his skin, the icy embrace jolting his senses as it washed away the dried blood. He shivered involuntarily, an odd giggle rising in his throat as he considered the absurdity of his situation: a reincarnated programmer-turned-survivalist, standing naked in a waterfall.

As the crimson traces made their retreat under the relentless water, Dave stared at the river skirting the hills.

Cold, drenched, yet refreshed, he stepped back from the deluge.

"Sherlock, old chap," he muttered, "this is turning out to be quite the unexpected adventure, wouldn't you agree?"

The violin agreed. Dave followed the river, wishing he had shoes.

Wincing with each step, he carefully descended the riverbank, navigating the treacherous terrain.

The jagged rocks beneath his tender soles delivered a clear message: any sense of diplomacy between them and his feet was collectively abandoned.

"How I miss my loafers now," he mused as he thought of languishing beside monitors in his fluffy slippers.

The violin offered a song of commiseration, its strings strumming a melodic requiem for Dave's struggle against pointy rocks.

 

. . .

 

As per usual, his wish came in a rather perverse way. Dave froze as he spotted a corpse of a man tangled up with the river brambles.

Dave studied the twisted form of the dead body caught in the river.

Cautiously, he approached the body, swallowing his reservations and whispered a hasty apology to his recently deceased benefactor. He removed the pants, shoes, a bag and a cloak from the body, somewhat grateful for the icy waters that numbed his senses as he performed the task.

After exhuming a brown cloak filled with holes, Dave dug through the dead man's bag. It was filled with dirt, small rocks and sand. Whatever content it once had were either eaten by wild animals, got washed away by the river or rotted into nothing.

Dave sighed, wrung the clothes and hung them on a sturdy branch to dry. After they started to look dry-ish, he dressed himself.

Dave was about to depart when the violin voiced a sharp note in his ear.

"What?" Dave paused.

"Oh, right... That corpse might have a memory that could help me." He tiredly caught onto what Sherlock was suggesting.

He glanced with his Phantomancy senses at the body. The spirit remnant shimmering above the corpse was old and wispy, made up of extremely thin, transparent branches.

"To think, here I am casually chatting with the dead to get directions," he muttered to himself.

Dave reached out and touched the ghostly tree.

"Which way is the nearest town?" He thought to the ghost.

Within the weakened spirit's memory, a whisper of information reached his consciousness - the nearest town laid at the very foot of the mountains, if Dave walked through the valley on the left for several hours.

"Thanks," Dave muttered, allowing the remnants of the spirit to dissolve into oblivion.

The cloak and the boots were still a bit wet and Dave continued to shiver until the sun baked him completely dry.

The landscape stretched out before Dave, a verdant tapestry of wildflowers swaying like an idyllic symphony upon the breeze.

The wind whispered secret messages through the tall grass, while enormous dragonflies, jeweled aerobats of this realm, danced amidst the meadows.

He couldn't help but marvel at the stark contrast between this paradisal meadow and the forensically rich killing fields he had left behind. Where once bloodied bodies and dead souls colored his world, now petal-infused perfume filled his nostrils.

Dave suddenly heard a resounding, metallic hum, and he found himself facing a swarm of glistening bugs, their prismatic exoskeletons clashing garishly in the idyllic backdrop.

He felt his heart quicken as the technicolor armored insects closed in like a living metallic patchwork quilt, their cacophony an assault on both sense and sensibility. He couldn't help but think that to see these creatures born of a nightmare realized in this pastoral dreamscape was an act of some absurd deviant that combined tinfoil and insects into one awful package.

Nevertheless, he raised his knife and assumed a defensive posture.

"Sherlock," he muttered, his weapon glinting, "some assistance would be great."

The violin produced a melody for him resembling the Mortal Kombat Theme Song.

As the melody of the phantom violin filled the air, seeming to mirror the very vibrancy and volatility of this impromptu arena, the bugs reached Dave.

He lunged at the nearest metallic insect, driving his knife through its gleaming exoskeleton. The sensation was, he mused, akin to impaling a finely-crafted art installation.

Like a pixelated plague, the remaining bugs swarmed around him, nipping at his body. Dave's knife danced, each calculated stroke met with a sickening crunch.

Finally, as the last bug succumbed to Dave's rhythmic strokes, an eerie silence settled over the meadow – beauty tainted by violence.

Dave panted as he wiped the colorful goo and innards from the knife.

He surveyed the carnage with a disbelieving grimace before snorting, "Well, that was about as graceful as a drunken ostrich on ice skates."

He sheathed his knife with a grumble, taking heed of the numerous superficial wounds that dotted his skin. The claws of the bugs added lots of new holes to his already extra-raggedy outfit.

"Of all the ways to go, being taken out by a bunch of techno-bugs in a field of flowers would be extra embarrassing," he muttered.

With a sigh, he dusted himself off, looking at the dead insects, wondering if he was on their home turf or if they were simply another bewildering anomaly of this world.

He stuffed the bug corpses into the old bag.

"Phantomancy," the melody suggested.

"What?" Dave asked.

A sharp note resonated in reply.

"Listen to the bug ghosts?" Dave scratched his head, attempting to unpack the logic of his phantom companion's suggestion. "Might as well check the ghostly messages of the grass and the pebbles while I'm at it," he muttered to himself, a twinge of sarcasm lacing his tone.

The violin simply hummed in response, a melody infused with a sense of wry amusement.

"Fine, fine," he sighed. "I mean, I can't imagine there's much to be gained from talking to a bunch of scrap metal wraiths, but who knows?"

He reached out with his magic senses. Tiniest, ghostly fractures like fractal snowflakes were hanging in the air and all over the ground where the life of the bugs had ended.

Dave squinted at the shimmering fractures. "Bug ghosts!" he muttered to himself in disbelief. He paused to shake his head, rubbing at the scratches the metal bugs left on his arms.

"Alright, let's hear what these little fragments have to say." Dave leaned in closer, straining to listen as he brushed his hand over the sparks. In a burst of static, the tiny cracks dissipated, releasing a vague sense of cold, pain, anger and confusion. Dave shook his head, "Well, that's a whole lot of nothing. We'll just chalk it up to experience, shall we?"

He plodded on, wondering if he was the only ghost whisperer in the world or if mages like him were as common as rocks.

As Dave trudged onward, leaving the memorable encounter with the metallic bugs behind, his gaze caught what appeared to be a medieval town in the distance. It stood behind imposing walls, like a fortress sheltering its inhabitants from the outside world's peculiarities.

A somewhat suspicious ring of very thick, dark clouds spun in a perfect circle around the city. Since this cloud also existed in the memories of the dead adventurer, Dave wasn't too spooked.

"Ah," he mused as he got closer, "just the town I was looking for."

Approaching the city, he appreciated its aesthetic blend of antiquity and architectural oddness likely caused by use of magic.

"Well," he muttered as he neared the ramparts, "let's see if they'll welcome a friendly Phantomancer with open arms... or unleash another colorful calamity."

The violin played a calm song. Sherlock didn't see the town as threatening.

"You're right Sherlock, at least these walls aren't built of the dead," he muttered.

Admiring the town's rustic charm, Dave optimistically ambled towards the gates, his grimy cloak billowing with every step. Sardonic observations aside, he couldn't deny the allure of the warm glow that emanated from within.

As Dave eased into the queue outside the town gates, he found himself amidst a motley ensemble of fantastical beings. There were catgirls and foxgirls with gem-like eyes and sinuous tails, punctuating their vivid expressions with flicks and sways. Humans of all sorts and colors and shapes intermingled with birdkin boasting resplendent plumage.

Unconventional carts in the shape of snail shells and giant beasts commanded Dave's attention.

"And here I thought a snail's pace was a figure of speech," he mused, chuckling at the bizarre cart nearest to him.

He observed the peculiar cast of characters, wondering just what sort of place he had found himself in, where the line between reality and myth had been so eloquently obliterated.

It was then that Dave noticed, to his great surprise, that the cart nearest to him was actually being driven by a snail of truly monstrous proportions. An old wizard was on a seat perched atop the snail's neck, clad in emerald robes.

The old man looked decidedly unimpressed with Dave. He yawned as he lazily held the reins leading to the giant gastropod.

"Lo, weary traveler! Fancy a latte?" a dark foxgirl suddenly declared from a round window in the snail's shell.

Dave simply stood there, gazing up at the phantasmagorical cart. The unexpected offer of a latte completely derailed his train of thought sideways off a metaphorical cliff of mental cohesion.

A large sign made from colorful letters caught his eye as he tried to process the words of the fox-person. Assuredly he was not asleep. The foxgirl was real.

"Cambria Snail Cafe," the sign above her read, in bold, swirling script.

"Well, it's certainly not every day that one encounters a snail-driven café at the gate of a fantastical medieval town," he mused.

Inhaling the tantalizing aroma wafting from the round window, Dave marveled at the notion that foxgirls, giant snails, wizards, and lattes could somehow coexist harmoniously in this peculiar location without the universe collapsing in on itself from excessive whimsy.

"How much would a latte cost?" Dave finally asked.

"Three coppers," the girl shot back, her dark tail swishing.

"Do you take metal bugs as payment?" He asked, showing the kitsune barista one of his kills.

"We don't take bug carcasses as payment,” the wizard interjected. “Only Shandria currency or mana transfers."

"Shandria currency?" Dave muttered, his patience wearing thin. "I don't suppose you accept unadulterated sarcasm as a form of payment?"

The foxgirl snorted, covering her mouth with a leather glove.

"You are in the City of Shandria proper, adventurer," the wizard said. "I suggest you trade those bugs to a blacksmith for some local coins - gold, silver and copper."

"What are... mana transfers?" Dave asked.

"World currency," the Wizard said, waving his own black bracelet. "You probably won't survive a transfer though, from what I can see your level is far too low for that. Do you have a banking skill?

“I don’t think so,” Dave sighed.

“Then go to town and get cash,” the old man retorted.

"Right," Dave nodded.

"Alternatively," the wizard added, "you could ask to undertake a quest within the town, and upon completion, be rewarded with Shandrian currency."

Dave rubbed his chin, considering the wizard's proposal. "Right, so getting mauled by metal insects was fun, but now we're talking about questing? What's next, saving the kingdom from a fire breathing dragon - all before lunchtime?"

"That's how adventurers work, yes," the foxgirl beamed. "Murdoc's a grumblebum, but he's on point - Shandria is great, everything you desire lies within these walls!"

"Gotcha," Dave sighed, feeling only somewhat inclined to risk his life for a coffee.

His stomach growled. He rubbed his empty belly and looked back at the wizard. "You wouldn't happen to know a good place to eat around here, would you?"

"Visit the blacksmith first, boy," the wizard advised. "Maybe have a bath and dinner at a tavern after. You smell like death."

Dave grumbled under his breath, resisting the urge to snap back with a barrage of sarcasm at the wizard's condescending remark. He decided to heed the advice, if only to avoid drawing further attention to his odor.

A blacksmith could turn his bounty of metal insects into a few measly coins, and he could really use a drink and food.

"Right, blacksmith it is," he muttered, his grumbling stomach echoing his disgruntlement.

"Adventurer's gate is over yonder," the Wizard said. "Just tell them you got some bugs to sell."

"Thanks," Dave sighed.