Dima was blissfully devouring the generously laid-out delicacies, drooling as he eagerly consumed dish after dish, washed down with hearty wine.
A desire to howl with happiness filled him—he had suffered in the fields for over a week, sleeping in a makeshift shelter and eating whatever he could find. And now, at last, he had found himself in a place where food abounded, and the atmosphere invited for a good rest.
He even felt as if he were in a cozy Japanese restaurant: the soft light diffused throughout the room created an ambiance of calm. The wallpaper in warm shades, soft cushions on low tables, jugs of wine, and garlands of herbs and flowers on the walls—all contributed to the perfect relaxation.
Next to him sat Kiechi. Unlike him, she was eating carefully, taking small, truly feminine bites. "Oh, these women, even in the dense Middle Ages, are keeping an eye on their figures!"
Dima thought with a smile as he watched her restrainedly enjoy her dishes. Kiechi was casting curious glances at the guy who was consuming food in astronomical quantities.
Even though he had managed to get himself all messy within just five minutes of lunch, her face reflected understanding and kindness, and she readily offered him new dishes from the table.
"Mr. Dima, where did you get such unusual clothing?" she asked, her curious gaze examining every aspect of his outfit, which didn't conform to local traditions.
"From another world," the guy replied without the slightest doubt, continuing to eagerly chew on roasted chicken. A mock surprise played on Kiechi's face; although she knew that, her interest was further piqued by his openness. As the heir of the clan and with the trust placed in her by her grandfather, she felt obliged to be informed.
Dima, having been instructed by Ason on the matter, saw no reason to hide anything. They were alone in the room, and Kiechi was considered the second person in the clan.
"Mr…," her voice was interrupted. Dima set down his wine cup, looking at her with displeasure.
"Let's skip the 'Mr,' just Dima or Dmitry," the guy said, emphasizing her lovely face, which sparkled with confusion and slight bewilderment.
"But that's not acceptable! You are the envoy of Chorus!" she objected according to protocol, waving her hands animatedly. For her, protocol and politeness were an inseparable part of life, something mundane that couldn't be ignored. This contrasted sharply with her grandfather's casual manner of communication.
"Envoy, and so what? Right now, I'm as poor as a church mouse and I'm sitting on your neck," he said, wearily leaning back against the cushions. "I'm not bringing any benefits, unlike you, Ms. Kiechi."
"If Hor appointed you as an envoy, there must be a reason behind it. Hor very rarely interferes in the lives of mortals and certainly doesn't do it for amusement," she insisted, emphasizing her point of view.
"I'd really love to believe that," Dima scoffed sarcastically. "He could explain this 'reason' to me, Ms. Kiechi." He stared at the painted ceiling, his gaze caught by a pattern created by an skillful master.
— No, if we've switched to friendly communication, then you should address me by my name as well, — she replied with insistence in her voice. Dima nodded silently, finished his wine, let out a heavy sigh, and collapsed onto the pile of soft silk cushions. He watched her reaction carefully; his nonchalance slightly unsettled her, and she looked at him in bewilderment, as if searching for meaning in his words and actions.
The guy clearly did not want to end the conversation on such a chaotic note. After a pause, he spoke again.
— Listen, Kiechi, I can see how curious you are, so I propose a deal: you ask a question, I give an answer, and vice versa.
The girl's eyes sparkled with excitement. She turned to him, radiating liveliness, and eagerly asked:
— Mr. Dima, tell me about your world!
He thought for a moment and asked:
— About what specifically?
— Um... how is your world different from ours?
Dima exhaled, realizing that the question was as vast as the previous one. But he did not want to offend her by passing the question back.
— We've long surpassed your stage of development. In terms of technology, we are two hundred fifty years ahead, or maybe even more.
At first, Kiechi's face reflected kind surprise, but then it tightened with a cold seriousness like snow.
— Don't think I'm insulting you. It's just that you have magic. I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw it in action.
— But you don't have any?
— No, at least not the accepted kind. In my world, magic is either a deception or sleight of hand. Perhaps that's why we developed faster: there are no alternatives.
She nodded but continued to eagerly await deeper explanations.
— Alright, now it's your turn to ask.
— Okay, Kiechi, tell me what's happening on the shore? — His thoughts wandered to the invasion, to Lie, Min, and Hina, to the simple fact that without this victory, there would be no uprising.
Kiechi sighed heavily and placed her hands on her knees.
— The barbarians have divided their forces into three parts. The first and largest landed in the capital of the Kimo clan. We fought them, and we suffered heavy losses, just as they did.
— And the other groups? — Dima asked, his voice wavering with tension.
— At the moment, the other two groups are trying to land in the territories of the Umi and Kali clans.
Dima nodded, lost in thought, his attention lingering on Kiechi's beautiful bare neck. She noticed his gaze and blushed slightly, looking away.
— Dima, how do ordinary people live in your world? — Her question sounded simple, but it carried depth. Kiechi, the granddaughter of the leader of one of the great clans, why would she even ask about common people?
In Dima's mind, there were many different options, but he chose to settle on the one where she genuinely wanted to make this world a better place. While this seemed unlikely, Dima wanted to believe it.
Having run through various response options in his mind, he said:
— It all depends on the country. Some people live quite normally—they're not starving, they use medical services, buy apartments and cars, and travel.
'Only, most of these benefits come from loans or a lifetime mortgage,' he thought to himself, honestly reluctant to explain all the pitfalls of his world. 'Hmm... I wonder if they know about things like banks?' This question popped into his head by itself, but he decided to hold off on asking it for now.
Kiechi leaned in closer, her warm breath brushing against his face, causing a slight embarrassment.
— Do all people live like that?
— No, in that respect, we are no different. There are both poor and rich. It's just easier to climb up in my world. We don't have nobles, and legally everyone is equal.
— But what about in real life?
— It's much more complicated: corruption and nepotism significantly complicate the life of an ordinary person, hindering their rise. But that doesn't make rising impossible in principle.
Kiechi nodded, but her interest remained unquenched.
— What is a car?
Dima smirked and replied:
— It's a cart without a horse; and no, don't ask me for clarification, otherwise we won't finish until tomorrow morning.
— Alright, now you ask, — Kiechi said, sensing a slight tension. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to answer many of his questions and the game would be over.
— I saw the coats of arms on the castle gates; they definitely aren't yours. Can you explain?
Kiechi exhaled calmly and smiled as she answered.
— Yes, of course. You know, our kingdom was founded by ancient clans? This castle was once owned by one of them. Time passed, the strong absorbed the weak, and many clans met that fate.
— So you managed to oust the ancient clan? Interesting, — Dima remarked, genuinely admiring the overall isolation of the Mena. 'Though if you look at Ason, it's not surprising.'
— No, — Kiechi quickly corrected him. — It disappeared long before our rise. We only defeated the ruling clan that took its place. Just like it before us, this castle has changed hands more than six times.
At the word "six," Dima let out a slight whistle.
— What happened to that clan?
Curiosity burned within him; he wanted to hear more about this unknown fragment of history.
— Nobody knows. Not even the name. Monks, at my grandfather's request, tried to uncover the truth, but all in vain. This clan is not mentioned in any surviving documents, as if it never existed.
He thought to himself, 'Hmm... Sad to let oneself be destroyed and disappear from history without a trace; I wouldn't wish that on anyone.'
Kiechi hesitated for a moment, then resolved to ask the question that had been tormenting her:
— Dima, how do you fight?
— Um, very bloodily, — it slipped out of him, but his interlocutor was not satisfied with that reply. She leaned closer, her eyes glowing with interest.
— Please tell me more!
He smiled, feeling that this would be a long conversation:
— Ah, where to begin?