Strangeness, the foreign and unfamiliar, often presents itself as an opportunity—a challenge, even—to broaden our understanding of the world and the countless things woven into its fabric. It is the hammer that cracks the brittle shell of ignorance, forcing open new doors to knowledge, insight, and the collection of perspectives we often take for granted. It dares us to venture beyond the comfortable confines of what we know, stripping us of preconceived notions and obliging us to confront the infinite mysteries beyond our comprehension.
By embracing the strange, we do not merely dip our toes into the unknown—we wade into it, immerse ourselves in its depths, and, if we are brave enough, allow it to reshape us. It is within the unfamiliar that personal growth flourishes, where empathy germinates like a seed in freshly turned soil, giving us the ability to truly see the world through eyes not our own.
Yet, for all its promise, for all its potential, embracing strangeness does not come without its price. There is discomfort. There is fear. There is a primal resistance—a whisper in the back of the mind that pleads for retreat, for normalcy, for the safety of the known. To welcome the strange is to walk willingly into the fog of uncertainty, where each step may lead to revelation or ruin. It is to stand before the abyss of the uncharted and dare to ask, What if?
In a world that so often seeks comfort and routine, the idea of welcoming the unknown may seem absurd, even foolish. But those who walk this path find their horizons stretched, their minds opened, their spirits tempered by the fires of experience. For, in truth, the strange is not a monster lurking in the dark; it is merely another face of existence, deserving not of fear, but of exploration and understanding.
However...
At this very moment, the boy known as Mikoto Yukio had absolutely no intention of embracing the so-called "strange."
Because the "strange" had already embraced him.
Firstly, there was the setting.
Mikoto did not wake up to the soft sheets of his bed, nor to the warmth of a kotatsu, nor even to the cold, antiseptic glow of a hospital room. No, he woke up face-down in the dirt. A dirt road, to be precise, lined with scraggly patches of wild grass and accompanied by the distinct, nose-wrinkling scent of something rotten. It smelled like decomposing wood, wet hay, and perhaps, just perhaps, something that had once been alive and was now very much not.
Secondly, there was his body.
Something felt off. Not in the typical I-haven't-slept-enough or I-might-be-sick kind of way, but in a deeply unsettling, I-don't-think-this-is-my-body kind of way. His limbs, though responsive, felt wrong. There was an unfamiliar lightness to his frame, as if someone had subtly shrunken him overnight.
Plastic surgery? That was the obvious answer.
Maybe some kind of advanced procedure that left no scars? But who the hell would shrink his height? That alone pissed him off to no end.
Strangeness? No, this was straight-up nonsense.
"Damn, I hope Aunt Maya is smart enough not to tell Mom about my disappearance..." Mikoto muttered under his breath as he trudged along the dirt path, weaving through patches of grass and looming trees.
He had been walking for hours, yet his body showed no signs of fatigue. That alone should have raised alarm bells. Even though he wasn't out of shape, he wasn't exactly the type to go on marathon hikes. The human body—his body—should have been demanding rest, thirst, or at the very least, some semblance of exhaustion.
But there was nothing.
The thought gnawed at him. His stomach twisted in discomfort, his fingers felt numb. The more he thought about it, the worse it got—this sensation, this inexplicable wrongness crawling under his skin like an itch he couldn't scratch. He felt like a foreigner inside his own body. A puppet whose strings had been unceremoniously yanked in a new direction.
And yet, this wasn't even the worst part.
Because the worst part?
He had no idea where the hell he even was.
For all he knew, he wasn't even in Japan anymore.
"Damn it, you old fool! Just leave the cart and let's go!"
Mikoto's head snapped up. His pace quickened instinctively as he honed in on the voice—a woman's voice, sharp and exasperated.
There. Just up the road.
A large wooden cart, hitched to two brown horses. The thing looked heavy, laden with crates that visibly weighed it down. The road itself had betrayed the vehicle, as one of its wheels had sunken into the dirt, refusing to budge.
And there were two people standing beside it.
The first was a bald old man, complete with a full gray beard, deeply lined wrinkles, and a scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his face. His attire was ancient, like something ripped straight from a medieval painting—a black tunic, gray pants, and brown boots.
The second was a woman, and, well—
Mikoto's eyes immediately caught on to her bright pink hair.
Now, pink hair wasn't exactly unheard of in Tokyo. Hell, it wasn't even uncommon. But there was something off about hers—something unnatural in the way it cascaded down her back, nearly touching the ground.
And it wasn't the color that caught his attention.
It was the pair of pink wolf ears twitching atop her head.
Cosplay?
That seemed like the most logical answer. His little sister used to run around in Disney princess dresses, so he figured people had their preferences. But something about this was too real.
Then the old man barked, "Oh, quiet, you brat! I ain't leaving this cart with all this cargo behind!"
The woman rolled her eyes as the man continued. "Why don't you use that monster strength of yours to just lift the damn thing then? Or better yet—your magic. My horses are getting tired."
Magic?
Mikoto's eyebrow twitched. Oh great. A roleplay scenario. He had no idea what the hell kind of backwater cosplay event this was, but at least the people were committed to the bit.
"You hired me to escort you, old man," the woman shot back, her voice laced with irritation. "I keep wild animals and Astrothians off your ass, and that's it."
"Astrothians?"
Mikoto stopped dead in his tracks.
Alright. Nope. Nope, nope, NOPE.
This was not Tokyo. This was not Japan. And this sure as hell was not some medieval cosplay convention.
Mikoto exhaled sharply.
Well, nothing for it.
Time to announce his presence.
He cleared his throat.
"Uhm... excuse me?"
Two heads snapped towards him so fast he was mildly concerned they might get whiplash.
Shock flared across their faces.
And then—
"By the Gods...!"
The pink-haired woman took a step forward, eyes wide with disbelief.
"As I live and breathe..." she whispered.
"A real Spawn of the Goddess Octavia!"
Mikoto blinked.
…What.
Mikoto could only blink in sheer confusion as he instinctively took a half-step back, as if he had just walked into a tavern brawl he had no business being in.
Odd reaction.
"Erm, sorry, but I'm kind of lost," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head.
And while he had about a thousand questions—like why he was suddenly speaking this strange-yet-strangely-familiar language like a seasoned native—he shoved all of those existential crises into the "I'll deal with that later" compartment of his mind. Right now? He was just relieved to be interacting with actual human beings instead of waking up in an abandoned, eldritch-infested void.
But then—
"Lost, ye say, lass?" the old man started, his bushy brows furrowing.
The sheer level of bewilderment in his tone made it sound like Mikoto had just claimed to have gotten lost inside a single-room cottage.
Mikoto barely had time to process that before something else hit him. Something horrible. Something unforgivable.
"Lass?"
Did he just—
"I'm a guy, though."
The moment those words left his lips, the atmosphere changed. The air froze over.
Both of them looked at him as if he had just announced that he was the Supreme Empress of the Moon.
"Impossible," the pink-haired woman stated flatly. She even folded her arms and gave him a scrutinizing look, her wolf-like ears twitching in evident disbelief. "The blessing of the Goddess Octavia is already rare enough. And in any known record of said blessing, the Goddess has only ever favored women above men."
Mikoto's confusion was multiplying at an exponential rate.
"That makes no sense. I am a guy. Why would I lie about that?"
Rather than acknowledging this completely logical statement, the wolf-eared woman simply narrowed her brilliantly sharp salmon-pink eyes at him as if trying to uncover some hidden deception.
The sheer audacity.
"Stop being such a harpy," the old man grumbled at her before turning back to Mikoto. "Sorry about her, erm—?"
"Mikoto. Just call me Mikoto," he introduced himself, figuring it was better to steer the conversation away from his alleged womanhood.
The old man muttered something under his breath, rubbing his beard in thought. "Sounds like an Easterner's name."
Mikoto simply chose not to engage with that.
"Well," the old man continued, "the name's Emil, and this lady right here is—"
"I can introduce myself, old man," she cut him off sharply before clearing her throat.
Oh? We're fancy now?
"My name is Fiona Von Achenbach, daughter of Duke Arthur Von Achenbach." She even curtsied.
Mikoto was thoroughly unimpressed.
"I'm sure we'll be good friends," she added, with a confident little smile that made it clear that this was not a suggestion.
"Right… well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Emil-san and Fiona-san."
Instant confusion. Both of them raised an eyebrow at the exact same time.
"San?" Fiona repeated, her head tilting. "What's with putting that behind our names?"
Mikoto blinked. Oh, right. "Well, it's a custom of my people. You know how we Japanese are with our honorifics," he explained with a sheepish chuckle.
"Japanese, eh? So that's the official name for you Easterners." Emil hummed thoughtfully before shaking his head. "Even someone as old as me can learn somethin' new every day."
Mikoto just barely resisted the urge to tell him that yes, Emil-san, that is indeed how civilizations work.
"And you said you were lost?" Emil asked. "Well, as soon as I get me carriage loose, I'll take ye to the village."
Mikoto exhaled in relief. "That would be much appreciated. Do you need a hand?"
"Aye, now that would be much appreciated. Me old bones ain't what they used to be, and this harpy ain't any help, as ye might've guessed," Emil added, shooting a very pointed glance at Fiona.
Said Harpy merely rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a tired sigh.
Mikoto, ever the gentleman, approached the stuck carriage at the back. It looked to be a simple wooden cart loaded with what appeared to be bags of wheat and various supplies.
Mikoto was not expecting to actually lift the thing.
With his frail and tiny new body, he figured he would just apply a little effort, move it an inch, and pretend that he contributed. That was the plan.
What happened instead was:
1. He gripped the carriage.
2. He lifted it.
3. He accidentally sent it WAY too high.
The horses absolutely lost their minds.
A loud, panicked whinnying filled the air as the startled creatures bucked and kicked, nearly knocking over Emil in the process.
Mikoto instantly slammed the cart back down.
Silence.
Emil was the first to recover.
"Well, I'll be!" he bellowed with a hearty laugh. "Who would've thought that scrawny body of yers had that much strength?"
Fiona, however, was completely unfazed. Instead, she merely gave him a "you're an idiot" look and sighed. "Uneducated, are we?"
Emil rolled his eyes, but she continued anyway.
"This… boy is a spawn of the great Goddess Octavia. She is the Goddess of War, Magic, and Navigation. Spawns of the Gods and Goddesses inherit their qualities. It would be surprising if this boy were physically weak," she informed matter-of-factly, as if this were some basic truth that everyone should just know.
Mikoto?
Mikoto just stared at her.
("Gods? Goddesses? What kind of RPG nonsense is she talking about? Is this some kind of elaborate roleplay again?")
Oh. But then, his eyes drifted to her twitching wolf-like ears.
("Wait a minute. Those twitched. Those actually moved.")
His entire thought process derailed.
She must have noticed his intense stare, because just as she opened her mouth to speak—
"Well, thanks, lad. The cart is unstuck, so we can be on our way!" Emil cut in cheerfully.
Mikoto immediately latched onto that excuse to ignore reality.
"R-right. Thanks," he muttered, quickly falling in line beside them.
He did not miss the way Fiona kept subtly glancing at him.
--------------------
[Beurtenhove Village]
When Emil had said "village," Mikoto had imagined something small and quaint. Maybe a couple of wooden huts, some dirt roads, a single market stall if they were lucky.
He did not expect a full-blown medieval town straight out of a fantasy novel.
The air was alive with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. The cobblestone streets were packed with merchants shouting their wares, travelers negotiating deals. A beautiful stone fountain stood proudly in the town square, its clear water cascading down into a shimmering pool. Lively music from an unseen bard troupe played in the distance, setting a festive atmosphere.
Mikoto stopped in his tracks.
This was not some historical reenactment village. This was real.
And he was stuck in it.
Mikoto was overwhelmed.
Not in the normal sense, where one might feel a little anxious in a new environment. No, this was a sensory overload of the highest magnitude.
The place was bustling—no, exploding—with activity and energy, like someone had taken every single Renaissance Faire ever hosted and smashed them together into one chaotic, medieval mess.
Small, colorful buildings with charmingly crooked rooftops and market stalls packed shoulder-to-shoulder lined the narrow cobblestone streets, their awnings flapping in the crisp afternoon breeze. Everywhere he looked, there were merchants shouting their wares, villagers bartering, children darting between people's legs, and livestock freely roaming around as if they paid taxes.
A chicken scurried past him. A dog chased it. Then, a child chased the dog. Then, an angry baker chased the child while brandishing a rolling pin.
Mikoto stepped aside to avoid getting caught in whatever insanity that was.
The air was a full-course meal by itself. The unmistakable scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich, smoky aroma of roasting meats, undercut by hints of spiced cider, earthy herbs, and something distinctly fried. His stomach betrayed him immediately with a loud, gurgling growl.
Mikoto's eyes trailed toward a large, rowdy-looking building at the far end of the street. It had an old wooden sign hanging above the entrance with faded lettering—probably the name of the establishment—but more importantly, the sound of rowdy laughter, clanking goblets, and upbeat music seeped from its doors.
An inn.
Which meant food.
And possibly answers.
But before he could take another step, Emil suddenly let out a hearty chuckle from beside him, having long since parked his cart and horses elsewhere.
"Well, what do you think, lad?" Emil grinned, folding his arms proudly. "Quite the lively place, innit?"
Mikoto opened his mouth to respond—
"For peasants, mayhap," Fiona cut in sharply, her tone soaked in aristocratic disdain.
Emil whipped his head toward her with the speed of an owl snapping to prey.
"Oh, hush you!" he barked. "Ye see the inn over yonder?" He pointed to the lively establishment up ahead. "Just tell ol' Emilia I sent ye. This freeloader stays there too, so at least ye'll have a familiar face."
Mikoto nodded, relieved that he at least had a clear objective.
"But I'll be seein' ye around, lad!" Emil waved cheerfully before disappearing into the crowd.
Mikoto returned the gesture before turning to Fiona.
She merely raised an expectant brow. "Come now, Mikoto, was it? Let's not dilly-dally."
And so, he followed her.
For approximately five seconds.
Before something horrible happened.
"Look, mommy! Look at the pretty girl!"
Mikoto froze.
Fiona stiffened.
A small girl pointed directly at him, eyes wide in innocent amazement.
Mikoto's soul left his body.
"It's rude to point, dear," the mother scolded gently, leading the child away.
But the damage had already been done.
Mikoto mentally imploded.
("Yeah, I do not like this face one bit.")
He sighed, rubbing his temples as he stormed into the inn behind Fiona, fully ready to repress this memory forever.
The inn was just as chaotic as the outside.
Warm candlelight flickered against the wooden walls, casting deep shadows that swayed with every movement. A massive stone fireplace dominated the center of the room, with a whole pig rotating slowly on a spit, its golden-brown skin glistening under the fire's glow.
The ceiling boasted chandeliers, their soft light adding to the rustic charm of the space.
The long wooden tables were draped with fresh linens, holding platters of food and wooden goblets overflowing with frothy ale. Merchants, peasants, and travelers alike filled the seats, their conversations merging into a single loud, drunken symphony.
In the corner, a group of musicians strummed their lutes, adding to the already boisterous atmosphere.
Mikoto drank in the sight.
("They're really driving home that medieval feel, huh?")
Before he could appreciate it any further, however—
His wrist was seized.
"Come."
Fiona yanked him forward without warning, weaving effortlessly through the chaos as Mikoto stumbled after her like a bewildered duckling.
They stopped in front of a woman wearing a modest green dress, her shoulder-length raven hair framing emerald-colored eyes that immediately locked onto him with a fox-like glint.
"A new one, eh?" the woman mused.
Mikoto immediately felt uneasy.
Before he could even register what was happening, she grinned like a Cheshire cat—then promptly began patting his head.
"Well, aren't you quite the adorable little thing?"
Mikoto's soul left his body. Again.
He felt so much smaller than he already was.
Fiona looked deeply unimpressed.
"The old man bid us to come to you for refuge for Mikoto here," she explained, her voice as dry as sandpaper.
"Mikoto, huh?" The woman—Emilia, apparently—tilted her head, her smile widening. "A cute name to boot, aye?"
Mikoto resisted the urge to walk out the door, across the street, and into a conveniently placed oncoming horse-drawn cart.
"Thanks…" he muttered.
But then—disaster struck.
"But he shall stay within the confines of my room if that is all right," Fiona announced way too casually. "It does have two beds, after all."
Mikoto's brain crashed.
"Uuh, pardon?"
He turned to voice his very reasonable concerns, but—
"Ah, trying to keep him to yourself," Emilia grinned wickedly, her tone laced with blatant mischief. "Sneaky, sneaky."
Fiona stared at her, completely deadpan.
"Well, it's all fine," Emilia shrugged, "just don't have too much—"
"Come."
Fiona did not let her finish.
Before Mikoto could so much as blink, he was yanked away yet again, dragged upstairs like a sack of grain while patrons laughed, drank, and remained blissfully unaware of his ongoing existential breakdown.
As he was dragged to his fate, he couldn't help but reflect on his life choices.
("That Emilia woman didn't seem to make a fuss over my appearance like Emil-san and Fiona did. Good thing these drunks are too far gone to notice.")
But most importantly—
("Damn, I hope Mom, Hinata, and everyone else aren't too worried.")
If only he knew.