Thomas walked down the street, which was filled with boisterous peddlers. Carriages moved in a single-file line on one side, heading into the city, while carts of people exited through the main gate on the other. He desperately wanted to check out all the stalls, talk to the locals, and figure out the lore of this world.
'God, whoever wrote this cruel joke of a transmigration is a real dick.'
He took a deep breath of the air and veered off the main street onto a branching road. From there, Thomas simply wandered the town until noon—browsing various shops, discovering the residential areas, and observing both the poorer and richer districts. The main shops clustered near the center, and the houses grew less extravagant the farther he traveled from the slums.
'Ironic that the richest homes have their backs to the slums. Strategically, it makes sense—they're safest from attack. But really, it's begging for a revolt. Guess that explains the guards at the entrance. And the tax if the slum residents even want to see proper civilization. The poor stay poor, the rich get richer. Glad some things are universal.'
'Either way, I need someone to teach me the language. For that, I need something to offer. And since I currently have nothing, it's probably best to interact with those who also have nothing.'
Eventually, he found his way back to a bakery he had passed earlier, hoping to get some bread. What followed was an awkward game of charades as he tried to explain what he wanted. The baker was a large, burly man with a shiny bald head and a beautifully maintained handlebar mustache.
'Take care of what you've got, man. Good on ya.'
Thomas pointed to the coin and repeated the English word until the baker started repeating a local word in return. This was how he learned the name of the coin: an Iso. Luckily for him, the baker patiently conversed with him for quite a while. Through the interaction, Thomas managed to pick up a few words—bread and coin, at least he hoped. It wasn't much, but it was a start. By the end of the exchange, he left with a small, stale, dense loaf of bread and no Isos left.
Thomas considered every job he might do without speaking much. Manual labor was the only feasible option. Once he learned more of the language, he could aim for something better—assuming he lived that long. Any job he could get now would barely be better than slave labor—or worse, he might actually end up a slave if things went south.
He returned to the slums with this in mind, heading back to where he started. Slaves wouldn't need money, so he had spent all of his on bread. Judging by their skinny frames, they'd likely be willing to talk to him for food.
'God, I hope this works. Otherwise, I might as well become a slave myself just to get something to eat.'
Eventually, he reached the stall that housed the slaves. They were all chained together, the final chain affixed to a post in the corner. The floor was covered in hay, which was better than bare mud. The stall was completely open in the front, with no guards in sight—nothing stopping him from walking in and talking.
He approached slowly, trying not to appear threatening. God only knew what they had endured. Repeating the word for bread and pointing to the loaf, he introduced himself as the strange man with food for the foodless.
'Insert crazy man with bread, approaching starving slaves. Sounds safe enough.'
He tore off a small piece for himself—just enough to quiet the hunger gnawing at him all day. Then he carefully ripped the rest into twenty pieces, one for each slave. Some of them looked fearful, but most of their eyes never even left the bread in his hands. He handed out the pieces carefully. It wasn't much—barely a single bite for each person—but even that little bit meant something to those with nothing.
'Hopefully I can bring more next time. But for now, even this tiny amount is something.'
He spent the rest of the day in the stall "talking"—or trying to. He focused on learning how he could earn money. It took time, but he finally got an answer: mining. The slaves pointed deeper into the valley while miming pickaxe swings and making "tink tink tink" sounds.
'It's honestly a bit adorable seeing these people so adamantly playing charades with me.'
They were incredibly kind, taking him in despite the language barrier. No doubt the bread helped his case, but still—it gave him a bit of hope for this world.
When night came and he had nowhere to go, the slaves let him sleep in their stall. Let is a strong word, since they couldn't exactly kick him out. The night was bitterly cold and pitch black. The clothing he had on barely helped, and he felt his fingers growing numb. Light glowed faintly beyond the slum wall—proof that life existed outside. But inside the slums, light was a coward. Few people moved through the dark with small glowing pebbles, barely enough to see two steps ahead. One light, somewhere in the distance, glowed more confidently. He didn't know where it came from, but it stood out in the dark.
'If this mining thing doesn't work out, I might just be fucked'
Hunger, darkness, and desperation clung to his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep.
Thomas was jostled awake by one of the slaves who had been particularly helpful with language lessons. They kept repeating the word "mine" while pointing farther into the valley. The sun was just starting to rise—the slums still barely lit.
'Same shit, different alarm clock. God, I hate waking up for work.'
Grumbling internally, Thomas smiled at the slave and got up briskly, heading deeper into the valley toward the mines.
'I really need to learn their names. It feels demeaning calling them "slaves" in my head.'
Soon he arrived at a mine shaft, firmly reinforced with timber. Lanterns glowed inside, casting an inviting light that contrasted sharply with the darkness outside. At the entrance stood the same guard who had escorted him out of jail before, next to a haphazard pile of pickaxes. A line of about ten people in rough clothes waited to speak with the guard. Each walked up, exchanged words, grabbed a pickaxe, and went inside.
When it was Thomas's turn, he tried his best pronunciation and said, "Mine. Iso. Mine. Iso. Yes?"
A flicker of recognition and relief passed over the guard's face—it seemed he remembered Thomas. At least now he was just a bumbling foreigner, not a total lunatic. The guard spoke slowly in simple terms, "Yes, gibberish mine gibberish Iso."
Turning away, he called to a man behind Thomas. They spoke briefly, exchanged a few gestures, and the man beckoned for Thomas to follow him inside. Pickaxe in hand, Thomas obeyed.
'I once helped my uncle with some landscaping. This can't be much worse… right?'