"Crrunch…"
The sound echoed in the silent room. The final chew of a piece of hard bread that had to be soaked for a long time in the clear soup to become soft enough to bite. Finally, my aching mouth had completed its task.
There was nothing left on my wooden plate except the drying stains of yellowish broth. The "Kartoffel- und Karottensuppe" was gone.
Lisa sat across from me, not having moved an inch. She had finished her meal a few minutes ago. Her plate was clean and neatly arranged. But she didn't budge.
Her light blue eyes, the color of a spring sky that had just cleared up, were fixed on me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. It was an excessive, worried stare, as if I might collapse at any moment.
She followed me from my messy black hair (Friedrich was never tidy), to my tense shoulders, to my hands that still trembled slightly when I lifted the spoon.
And I knew exactly the reason behind her excessive observation: the strange incident this morning.
When I "woke up" or more precisely, was forcibly awakened by the repeated "God, creator of the universe" voice. I had frozen like a statue in this chair. My eyes were empty, staring into the void. My hands gripped my head as if trying to extract something from inside my skull.
It lasted maybe a minute, maybe five. Long enough for Lisa to realize something was very wrong with her brother.
She must have thought I was sick, I thought to myself while wiping my mouth with the coarse linen sleeve. Or maybe crazy.
But strangely, she didn't ask many questions. Just stared. Waited for me to say something.
"Brother, do you want me to wash your plate too?"
Lisa's voice cut through my daydream. Her voice was soft, a bit high for a girl her age, but there was a calming quality there, like the sound of a small bell in the distance.
But this time, I caught a small tremor beneath that tone. Pure worry.
"No need," I said too quickly, almost cutting her off.
I stood up from the creaky, rickety wooden bench. "Want me to wash yours too?" I added, trying to sound casual, while reaching out towards her clean plate.
Lisa's face changed.
Not surprised by my offer. Not happy about the help either. Her expression was simpler: astonishment.
Her thin eyebrows rose slightly, forming a gentle curve on her pale forehead. Her lips, usually set in a neutral line, were now slightly parted. Her blue eyes blinked once, quickly, before staring back at me.
In Friedrich's still-jumbled memories in my head, it was indeed Lisa who did all the housework while their mother was at church or doing odd jobs.
Friedrich, the older brother, almost never touched the dishes except to bring them to the table. It was an unwritten division of labor that had been in place since their father's death: Friedrich earned a living (or tried to), Lisa took care of the house.
So my offer wasn't just politeness. It was a deviation from the norm.
"Alright... then...?" she said hesitantly, her voice rising at the end like a question. But she still handed over the wooden plate.
When her small, delicate fingers touched my larger, rougher hand, her touch was warm.
I took the plate without further word, turned, and walked to the corner of the room that served as the dishwashing area.
During those five steps, my eyes swept around with full awareness for the first time since "arriving" in this world.
This combined dining and living room was quite spacious for a working-class family, maybe three by four meters.
The rectangular dining table we sat at was made of old oak, darkened by oil and time. It was about two meters long, enough for four people to sit comfortably (or six squeezed in).
Its surface was covered with signs of use: knife scratches, depressions from hot plates, wine stains (or something like wine) that had never completely disappeared.
Around it were four wooden chairs. Three of them were old, matching the table. One looked newer, the wood lighter, the carvings simpler, a replacement for a broken one, perhaps.
On the right wall, there was a wooden-framed window with glass that was a bit foggy at the edges. Morning light came in through it, soft and golden, not too bright yet.
It was still early morning, probably just past eight o'clock. Outside, the sky was milky gray with a hint of orange on the eastern horizon.
The weather felt bitingly cold, that damp spring chill that penetrates the bones. Wind came in through gaps around the window frame, carrying the wet smell of earth and wood smoke from a neighbor's fireplace.
I shivered a little because it was quite cold.
I reached the "dish sink," which was actually just a large wooden bucket placed on a low stool. Next to it was a clay jug filled with water.
I poured the cold water into the bucket; it was clear but not perfectly so, probably well water. Then I started scrubbing the wooden bowl that still had remnants of yellowish broth, using the ash cleaner in a small container beside it.
The texture of the bowl was cloudy on the inside, marked by years of scrubbing away the same food: simple soup, porridge, sometimes stew if they were lucky.
My mind, restless since arriving in this world, quickly shifted from the manual task to bigger questions.
If this truly was another world, shouldn't there be some kind of "system," right?
In so many fantasy stories I'd read on Earth, there was always a mechanism that distinguished the fantasy world from the real one. Status windows, skill trees, levels, MP, HP, something that proved the rules of reality were different here.
That this was a place where the laws of physics could be bent, where magic existed, where gods might actually intervene.
That curiosity moved me, even though part of me felt foolish. But what harm was there in trying?
I glanced towards the door to the inner room; Lisa was no longer visible. Maybe she had gone to her room.
I whispered softly, my voice almost inaudible:
"Status."
"Open."
Nothing happened. Just the sound of water dripping from my hand into the bucket.
"Window," I tried again, a little louder. "Status menu."
"Interface."
"System."
Still nothing. No transparent blue window appeared in my field of vision. No green numbers floating above objects. No welcoming ding! sound.
I tried a few more variations but the result was the same: empty. Just the cold water on my skin, the sharp smell of ash, and a creeping feeling of embarrassment.
Maybe this world wasn't like that, I quickly thought, drying my hands on the cloth apron. Maybe this was just a "normal" world with a different history and geography.
But then I remembered the voice: "God, creator of the universe." And "God, the DEAD creator." That wasn't normal. That was... something else.
"Brother."
I nearly slipped. Because Lisa was suddenly there, standing in the kitchen doorway, only three steps away. I hadn't even heard her approach.
She just stared at me strangely and seemed to decide to ignore what I had been doing.
"Don't forget to go to the Compagnie maritime de Weimar building."
Her voice was flat, but those light blue eyes were still full of unconcealed worry. She was observing my reaction, as if waiting for me to show signs of confusion or amnesia.
And as soon as our gazes met, she shook her small head, as if dismissing her own strange thought.
"What time?" I asked, as if it were the most natural response in the world. And it was.
"Eleven o'clock." Lisa's lips twitched into the hint of a smile, but it didn't fully form. "You have an interview appointment with them, don't you?"
Her tone was flat, but there was concern beneath it. She was still testing, seeing if I remembered, or if I had truly gone "insane" as she feared.
"Yeah, I remember," I said indifferently, refocusing on the bowl. I scrubbed it harder, as if the broth stain were the source of all my problems in this world.
But Lisa didn't leave. I could feel her gaze on my back. Then I heard her light footsteps approaching.
She stood beside me, her arms now folded across her chest, her posture upright but not threatening.
"The appointment is at eleven, right," she said again, as if needing a third confirmation. "But you should leave at ten. You know how crowded this city gets during the day. Cobblestone streets, carts everywhere, people jostling..."
"I know," I mumbled, still not turning around. How many times had I nodded and agreed since this conversation started?
"Your clothes are ready." Her voice was soft, caring. "Mother and I really prepared them. The seam at the elbow is fixed. The loose button is tightened. We even..." She paused for a moment, as if considering whether to continue. "...we even saved up to rent an iron from Frau Schneider so it would look neat."
That made me stop. I turned, looking at her. "You rented an iron? How much?"
Lisa shrugged, but her eyes didn't leave my face. "Two Pfennigs. Just for your best jacket and shirt."
Two Pfennigs. The price of two loaves of bread. For their family, that was a significant expense.
"Why?" I asked, my voice softer than I realized. "It's just an interview."
"Just an interview?" Lisa let out a short sigh, a sound of restrained frustration. "Brother, this is the Compagnie maritime de Weimar. The largest colony company in the Lahelu Empire. Their crew wages start at ten Groschen per month, that's almost ten times what Florence earns as a clerk!"
She stepped forward. "If you get accepted, we won't have to worry about money anymore! Mother wouldn't have to wash dishes at the tavern anymore. I could... I could enroll in a textile design school, not just do odd sewing jobs."
Her eyes shone for a moment, pure hope hidden behind her firm demeanor. But then that light dimmed, replaced by deeper worry.
"This time... this time it's important," she whispered, almost to herself. "Don't be late again."
Again...
That word hung in the air. In Friedrich's jumbled memories, there was a fragment: a previous interview at a local carpentry shop. Friedrich arrived late because he was helping with a church mass. He wasn't accepted.
Lisa comforted him that night, even though her own face was pale because they needed that money to pay the rent.
"I won't be late," I said, trying to make my voice sound reassuring.
But inside, I wondered: Did I want to work for a colony company? Did I want to be part of colonization? My goal was to return to Earth, not to seek wealth here.
"Mother's gone to church again." Lisa changed the subject abruptly, as if unable to bear the momentary tenderness. "Praying for your success today."
"I'm going to the market." Lisa turned around. "Mother asked me to buy carrots. For tonight's soup. With meat, if there's any money left."
Her steps were quick, light. At the threshold of the front room, she stopped. Didn't turn around. Just stood there.
"Promise, brother? Ten o'clock?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
"God, creator of the universe."
That voice.
Again.
But this time, it was completely different.
Not the subtle whisper from the first "awakening." Not the annoying robotic repetition either. But that single sentence made my head feel like it was about to burst.
Like glass being crushed inside my skull.
Like a hot iron being thrust into my inner ear.
"Aagh!"
I doubled over, my hands gripping the edge of the wooden bucket until my knuckles turned white. The world around me tilted, spun, colors melting into a painful white light.
My stomach churned, rose to my throat, an intense, physical, unstoppable nausea.
"THE GOD WHO DIED BUT NEVER TRULY DID."
"Dead!"
Then I vomited.
The remains of soup and bread, bitter yellow liquid spewed onto the wooden floor, splattering around my feet. It burned my throat, tasted acidic in my mouth.
"Brother?!"
Lisa ran, kneeling beside me. Her warm hand pressed against my forehead. "You... what is it? Are you sick?"
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. The world was still spinning slowly. The voice had vanished, leaving a terrible emptiness in my head, as if something vital had been ripped out.
"My stomach..." I finally managed to say, my voice hoarse. "Sudden stomach ache."
"Stomach ache?" Lisa looked at the puddle of vomit on the floor, then stared at me, her eyes widening. "Oh no... the bread! This morning's bread! I bought it from the new baker at the market yesterday! It was cheaper..."
She stood up, her face pale. "It must have been stale! Or poisonous! I... I didn't check it properly! I was only thinking about saving money!"
Tears began to well up in her eyes. "I'm sorry, brother! I'm so sorry! You're sick because of my mistake!"
"No, calm down..." I tried to say it wasn't her fault, but Lisa was already too panicked.
"This morning you were silent, staring blankly... I thought you were just nervous for the interview! But you were sick! Poisoned!" Her hand covered her mouth. "You need to see a doctor! Or at least rest! Today's interview..."
"No," I cut in, louder than intended. I stood up shakily, leaning on the bucket. "I'm fine now. Just a little nauseous for a moment."
"But."
"Lisa." I looked directly at her. "I'm fine. Really."
She looked at me, uncertain. Her eyes scanned my still-pale face, then went down to the puddle of vomit, then back to my face. "Are you sure? You look pale as a ghost."
"Sure." I took another breath. "Maybe just something in the food didn't agree with me. It's not the bread."
But Lisa still looked guilty. "I'll throw away the rest of the bread. And I won't buy from that baker again." She sighed. "I'm really sorry, brother. I just... we need to save, and..."
"I know," I said gently. "It's okay. Really."
She nodded, but the guilty expression didn't leave her face. Then she took a cloth and started cleaning the floor. "You don't need to do this. Go get ready. I'll clean up."
I wanted to help, but my legs were still shaking. And Lisa had already taken over with an efficiency that showed she was used to cleaning up messes.
"Ten o'clock, brother," she whispered while cleaning. "There's still time. But if you're still not feeling well..."
"I'm going," I said firmly. "I'm fine now."
She nodded again, saying nothing. But her look said she didn't fully believe it.
I stood alone in the kitchen, which was now starting to warm up from the morning sun climbing higher, still feeling the remnants of nausea and a strange metallic taste in my mouth.
My hands automatically started tidying up the messy dishwashing area, throwing the dirty water into a drain in the floor.
My mind drifted to the job interview. On Earth, I had experienced a few interviews: for an internship at a startup, for an entry-level position at a software company, for a small promotion.
Some with fake smiles and a "we'll call you" that never materialized. Until I finally got accepted at that software company with a mediocre salary, enough for rent, food, and a little savings.
And now... another interview. In another world. For a job as a colonial ship's crew member.
I walked to the window, wiping the foggy glass with the back of my hand. Outside, the sky was still milky gray, but the orange tinge in the east had widened, turning it into liquid silver.
It would be a clear day, perhaps.
People passed by on the cobblestone street in front of the house: a middle-aged woman with a large basket on her head, walking with steady steps towards the market.
Two young boys ran by laughing, chasing a small dog. An old man pushed a wooden cart full of firewood, his back bent from the burden and the years.
I washed my hands once more with the remaining cold water, scrubbing the imaginary remnants of vomit from my skin. Then I dried them with the coarse cloth hanging on the edge of the bucket, a cloth that was thin and frayed at the edges.
I walked towards the front door, passing the dining table where it all began this morning.
On a wooden rack near the door, hung a thick jacket made of dark brown wool. It had been neatly prepared by Lisa: folded, cleaned, perhaps even painstakingly ironed
I put it on. The smell of mustiness and wood smoke immediately filled my nose.
I reached into the jacket pocket. My fingers touched cold metal objects.
I took them out: four metal coins. Small, thin, about two centimeters in diameter.
They were the color of copper, dulled by hand oil and time. On one side was an embossed profile of someone's face, a man with a thick beard and a simple crown.
Beneath it, an inscription in Rethian: KAISER VAN KÓCK. On the other side, the number "1" with a circular inscription: Pfennig.
Ah, right, based on Friedrich's memories, which were becoming more coherent now. In the Lahelu Empire, there were four main types of currency.
The system was complicated, not decimal like I was used to. From the memories I managed to gather: 12 Pfennigs = 1 Groschen. 24 Groschen = 1 Thaler. And 1 Gulden = 2 Thalers.
My head immediately spun. How much was that bread earlier? One Pfennig? So, four loaves? Or...
The system was truly complicated, just like the world before the 19th century and this world. I squinted, trying to remember.
The year 1631. The year of... Woland?
Who was Woland? The name suddenly emerged from the depths of memory. A vague image from history books Friedrich had studied: a man with a black beard, sharp eyes.
He led a great rebellion against the cruel and corrupt First Rhein Empire. He killed the Rhein Emperor in battle, establishing the short but revolutionary Kingdom of Diskordia.
The collapse of the once-mighty Rhein caused his name to be immortalized as the basis for the common calendar across the continent.
So he was like a Julius Caesar version of this world? Or maybe more like Oliver Cromwell? Quite interesting, honestly.
But. Not a priority. History wasn't my goal now.
I put the coins back in my pocket, making sure the jacket was properly adjusted. Then I headed for the solid wooden door with its rusty iron hinges.
I pulled the handle, pulling it towards me.
And the outside world immediately struck me.
The sound of church bells rang out.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
Three times. That meant nine o'clock.
And as those bells tolled, I stepped outside.