Kent sat in the mud, dazed, while the creature named Xixi cheerfully smeared its slobber all over his filthy face. Kent wasn't naturally dark-skinned—he just hadn't bathed in ages, let alone brushed his teeth. Spotting him from a distance, the two castle servants shook their heads and slowly went back to their chores. One muttered, "Poor Kent, always so obedient. If Hallman's nephew had really been sent here instead, we'd have our hands full."
"Forget it. As long as we're not the ones sent to the back hills, a little extra work is fine. Those hills are crawling with wild beasts, the shelter is terrible, and supplies only come once a month. If heavy snow hits, you can go months without food. Worst of all, there's not a single soul around—they say the last few sent up there all lost their minds." The other servant glanced sideways at Kent, still sitting on the muddy ground, then said to his companion.
"Enough of that. Tomorrow when we get paid, I'm heading straight to the tavern for a proper drink. My greatest wish in life is just one cup of wine every day."
"Get back to work. I think it's that sultry tavern keeper you're really after."
...
Kent's mind was a whirlwind of confusion. Arthur—the Earthling now occupying his body—had known from the start that he'd been transmigrated, but he didn't know why or where. If this had been some corner of ancient Europe, Arthur, now Kent, would have jumped for joy. He knew the broad currents of European history; he could find some massive patron to latch onto, or at worst, use his knowledge to make glass mirrors, cement, or some other "golden finger." But once Arthur understood with absolute certainty that this was another world entirely, all that remained was bewilderment and fear of the future.
From the scraps of the original Kent's memories, Arthur knew this was a world without human rights. Not that human rights had ever truly existed anywhere—but on Arthur's planet, they had at least served as a fig leaf. Here, there wasn't even that. A slave like Kent could be killed by his master on a whim, without the master facing any trouble at all. Slaves here were no better than the pigs back on Earth. Servants ranked second from the bottom, then came commoners, and above them all, the nobility. As for the nobles, all Kent knew was that his knight-lord was the master of these lands—anything beyond that was a blank.
"Damn it!" Kent's inner voice roared. "I'll treat this like starting a brand-new game. I refuse to believe the distilled wisdom of thousands of years of civilization won't give me some kind of edge. I'm a slave now—but I sure as hell don't plan to stay one. I'll live one day at a time. With my brains, there's no way I can't handle these half-naked, golden-haired apes. ...Ow!" Slowly coming to his senses, Kent shoved aside Xixi, who had been "washing" his face with drool, and scrambled to his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. But before he could finish, that cursed Xixi bumped right into his swollen, aching backside. What could he do? A person has to keep living. Arthur didn't have the guts to kill himself, so survival was the only option. And when a man is pushed to the edge, he often finds himself letting go—like the old saying, "The cart will find its way around the mountain."
"Hmm. I'm Kent now. Blond hair—now that's a rare breed. That color went extinct on Earth ages ago. Face: 85 points. Physique? These muscles are just carved out of being skinny—I'll give that a 60. Age: sixteen. Hmm, not a bad overall score." He glanced down at his private parts as well. "Oh, not bad at all. Already that big at sixteen? Impressive. 100 points." Kent scrubbed himself joyfully in a large wooden tub, occasionally peering into a wooden basin nearby to study his new reflection. He could only make out the rough contours of his features—nothing like the clarity of a real mirror—but the boy was thoroughly pleased with himself.
After his bath, Kent felt wonderfully refreshed. The only problem was his clothes—they were filthy. He had washed them, but they hadn't dried yet, so he had to settle for wrapping a relatively clean piece of cloth around his waist, leaving the rest of his body to enjoy some fresh air.
Sighing, he thought to himself: "If I'm going to survive in this world, I need knowledge. But this Kent can't read a single word. There's only one place worth trying." He glanced over at the massive two-story wooden building. He remembered clearly that there was a large study in there, though he had no idea what it might hold.
"Actually, going to the back hills isn't entirely a bad thing," he mused. "If I suddenly change my personality, my habits, or the way I talk, people are bound to get suspicious. Out there, I'll have some breathing room to adjust. And I can't just spend my days tending horses—I need to find something to keep my mind busy. Might as well check out that study." With that, he headed toward the so-called castle, sneering at the structure. "This is supposed to be a castle?" he muttered inwardly. "How would the ancient castles of Europe ever measure up to this?"
"Anthony! Harry! Are you there?" Kent stood at the door and shouted. Anthony and Harry were the two servants in charge of the castle's daily upkeep.
"Oh, little Kent! What's the matter? Harry had something to do today and left early." Anthony came out, puffed up his chest at the sight of Kent, and then, taking in Kent's strange getup, asked with a hint of disdain.
"Brother Anthony, do you happen to have any old clothes to spare? Mine are ruined. And to show my gratitude, I'd be glad to do some work for you." Kent was annoyed by Anthony's condescending manner, but he held his tongue—after all, servants stood a rung higher than slaves.
Anthony's face darkened the moment he heard Kent asking for clothes, and he was about to snap at him. But then came the offer to work. He glanced at the sun—barely past midday—and thought of that cramped, low storage room. His expression shifted into a smile. "Poor Kent! I do have two sets of clothes. But in return, you'll have to clean out the storage room. How about that?"
"That's wonderful! Thank you, Brother Anthony!" Kent beamed on the outside, but inwardly he was groaning. He'd expected to tidy Anthony's quarters, not clear out the storage room. Still, he didn't dare show a trace of displeasure. He also noticed something about these people: they were a lot like Europeans in temperament, saying whatever was on their minds, with little in the way of scheming.
"Ugh! Damn it!" When Kent changed into an old, worn-out outfit and followed Anthony to the so-called "storage room," the sight nearly frightened him out of his wits. The storage room was actually the castle's underground cellar and warehouse, lined with sacks of grain and enormous wooden casks—probably wine or ale. The moment Anthony walked away, Kent couldn't help cursing under his breath.
"Cleaning the storage room" sounded simple enough: turn over every sack of grain one by one, check for anything spoiled, and toss the bad ones out. The casks, thankfully, didn't need to be moved—they were even bigger than Kent's bathing tub. What did come as a relief was that each sack of grain weighed only about twenty-five kilograms, not the hundred-kilogram burlap monsters he remembered from Earth. And as a bonus, Anthony had set aside a dark loaf of bread for him. It wasn't much in terms of taste or texture, but it was real food—far better than the black, sticky sludge his mouth had been used to.
Kent had a wry thought as he eyed the sacks: "Dig deep, store grain." This world clearly treated food as hard currency—why else would anyone hoard so much of it? But the boy had already learned a trick or two. Going through every single sack would take him at least half a month, so he only moved the ones near the surface and around the edges, leaving the rest exactly as they were. It wasn't that he didn't want to do an honest job—it was that tomorrow the supply wagon would head for the back hills, and he'd be trading this chore for another.
Still, he had a plan: tonight, he would slip into the study and take a look around. Over the past two days, he'd memorized the castle's layout. The two servants went home to the village after dark, leaving only a pair of guards to patrol the grounds. As a slave, Kent had no right to set foot outside the castle gate. He hadn't seen Hallman or Torry once. The old Kent would never have dreamed of sneaking into the lord's study—but the new Kent was a different man entirely.
"Eh? What's this doing here?" When Kent hauled the last sack aside, he spotted a battered wooden box tucked in the corner. It was small, and it would never have been noticed if he hadn't cleared the grain. Before, the sacks had been piled against the left wall; now they were stacked on the right, with the huge casks blocking the front. The box sat right in the seam between barrels and grain, hidden from both sides. Kent glanced from the enormous cask to the low doorway and understood: unless that cask rotted away, it would never leave this room again.
By the dim, flickering light of a candle—this world's candles were rendered from the fruit of some plant, a trade Kent knew well—he studied the broken box at his feet. He reached out to open it, then pulled his hand back. With anything unknown, better safe than sorry. He found a stick and used it to carefully pry the lid loose.
"Gold coins!" A yellow gleam flashed from inside. Kent leaned closer and saw several coins lying there, next to a single book. Nothing else. He snatched up the coins, and the look on his face went through about ten different emotions at once. Then he looked around, only to realize with dismay that he had nowhere to put them. His clothes were just a piece of cloth—no pockets, no nothing. Reluctantly, he set the coins aside and picked up the book.
It was bound in dark, almost black leather. Kent ran his fingers over it, but with his meager knowledge, he couldn't identify the material. The book was thick—about five centimeters—but not very large, roughly the size of a cheap desktop calendar. The cover bore a strange emblem that struck him as oddly surreal. Whenever he looked at it from one angle, it seemed to be a hammer; from another, a flask. There was something indistinct and dreamlike about it.
"Good heavens—I can't even read this!" When Kent opened the book and saw the squiggly, tadpole-like characters crawling across the page, the truth hit him. He didn't know this world's writing. He'd been an illiterate slave his whole life, hadn't he? He tossed the book aside in frustration and searched the box one more time. All he found was some decayed clothing. Nothing else.
Now Kent was in a bind. Seven gold coins and an unreadable book, and nowhere to hide either. From Anthony's idle chatter over the past few days, Kent had learned just how much seven gold coins were worth. When Anthony and Harry went to the tavern, they could drink and hire a dancing girl for less than a single silver piece. And a single gold coin equaled a hundred silver, while one silver equaled a hundred copper. Kent was absolutely certain that if anyone found out he had those coins, he would disappear without a trace. He glanced at the sacks of grain and the heavy casks, and a wild idea began to take shape in his mind.