The sun was a heavy coin in the sky. Yoshio, sweating from the fieldwork he'd interrupted to help his family during the summer holiday, lifted a hand to his brow and squinted into the glare. He blinked, wiped his face, blinked again—and when the bright haze cleared, he realized he wasn't standing in his own village anymore.
Where am I? He thought. This must be a dream—there's no other explanation.
He forced himself to look around, the cautious, cool-headed way he always did when confronted with the inexplicable. Strange beasts roamed the horizon; a dragon cut a slow arc across the sky. Yoshio's lips twitched in the barest surprise. His hand drifted to his pocket—and found a letter.
"Oh. What's this? A letter?"
The paper was folded, a compass affixed to the top. The writing inside was neat and direct.
Hi, Yami Yoshio. This is Alice—the circle of wizards who brought you here. We need your help, but first you must pass a test. Go to the village of Nuroha and stop the trolls that are attacking there. If you succeed, you will gain special powers. The compass will point you toward the village. Help them, and we will bring you home.
Yoshio stared at the words, thumb feeling the cold metal of the compass. "Ridiculous," he muttered to himself.
A carriage careened around a bend, wheels grinding. It clipped the side of the road and careened toward him. Yoshio shoved himself aside and was thrown against a hedgerow as the carriage skidded and coughed smoke. A figure tumbled from the wreckage and rolled across the road. Yoshio scrambled over and dragged her upright.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"You should have stayed out of the way," she snapped, rubbing her arm. Blond hair fell around her shoulders, blue eyes sharp beneath them. A scythe lay by her side—village tools still clinging to her hands.
"Who are you? What are you doing in the road? Are you a bandit?" she added, suspicion plain on her face.
Yoshio hesitated. Explaining that he'd been teleported would get him nowhere. He forced a smile he didn't feel. "I'm from the Far East. My name is Yami Yoshio. I'm a traveling merchant."
"Why do you have two names?" she asked, puzzlement creasing her brow.
He asked her name. "Karen," she said.
"Karen's my family name," she added when he blinked. "And you—Yami—sounds noble. Last names are for nobles, no? I heard the Far East is full of demons."
He shook his head. "I'm not noble. I live in a small house far east and sell wares. I'm looking for Nuroha."
Karen peered at the compass and pointed. "The village's on the hill opposite. Come on."
They boarded another cart. Yoshio took off his straw hat—the habit of a different world—and peered at the rooftops as they passed. The countryside smelled of smoke and cut hay, foreign and yet oddly familiar. He wondered if he could do what the letter asked.
As they entered the village, heads turned. Villagers watched them with thin, wary eyes—suspicion lined with something colder, a fear that felt like hatred. Karen guided him to a small detached house with smoke curling from the chimney.
Her younger sister rushed to the door the moment they stepped up the path. "Welcome," she said with small, breathy warmth, then blinked at Yoshio with a grin that was almost snake-like. Her violet eyes went wide as she took him in. "Who is this? Sis—your boyfriend?"
Karen flushed, scrambling for a denial. "No—no, he just came out of nowhere. I helped—ah."
"Name?" Yoshio asked awkwardly, unused to half-stated intimacies.
"Yoko," the girl said, with a quick tilt of her head. "What's yours, brother?"
"You can call me Yoshio," he replied. "Nice to meet you, Yoko."
They set about preparing dinner with brisk, nervous energy. Yoshio ate largely out of hunger, and they laughed to keep the night from feeling too large. He was shown to a small guest room opposite a closet and a window. Outside, a storm began to gather; rain and wind battered the panes.
Later the sisters poked their heads into the room. "It's scary out there," Yoko whimpered. "Can we sleep here?"
"Sure," Yoshio said. It was a terrible night to refuse.
They curled up on either side of him. For a few hours sleep came in slanted, shallow pieces. Then the night cleaved open with the sound of screams.
"Help! Troll attack!"
Yoshio bolted upright. He saw flames from the village, houses burning, villagers fleeing like scatter. Across the glow a hulking silhouette moved—fingers long as clubs. One monster shouldered into a house and ripped the door clean, dragging out a poor soul. Yoshio saw the thing's claws tear through flesh; a man's abdomen was opened and his entrails poured out like a loosened rope. There was no time for shock.
"Karen! Yoko! Wake up!" he shouted.
Yoko moaned in her sleep. "Five more minutes," she said, voice thick.
Karen scrambled to her feet. "Back door—now!" she said.
They ran for the back, but where the yard had been there was only splintered space: a broken path and a low tumble of debris. The house had shifted, the back exit gone. Instinct drove them to the front door, which they forced open into rainy, smoky chaos. The street was a tangle of ruined carts and scattered goods. A troll—one of the smaller ones, about three meters tall—spotted them and roared.
Yoko slipped. "Sis! Brother! My foot—"
They dove toward the side of the well and crouched, hearts hammering. The troll lumbered closer, smelling, sniffing. It grinned with a mouthful of chipped teeth.
"Where do you think you're going?" it said with a guttural chuckle. "You'll be our dinner."
Yoshio's mind raced. He had to buy time. He fumbled for a stone and flung it hard.
"Hey, stupid troll—look over here! Catch me if you can!" he yelled, reckless.
"Run!" he cried to the sisters. "Go!"
They bolted. The troll lowered its head and charged after Yoshio. He ran, drawing the creature away from the house. He guided it past burnt carts and collapsing roofs, deeper into the village, where shadows pooled thick between the ruined market stalls.
He'd barely made it to the square when he realized his mistake. Ahead, a cluster of trolls waited—massive and terrible—each three meters tall, skin like weathered hide, weapons clutched in huge hands. One of them, larger and bulkier than the rest, wore a battered hammer like a king's scepter. He stepped forward, disdain in his voice.
"This is my prey," the hammer-troll said. "Do not interfere. I will take it and enjoy it. Ahahaha!"
Yoshio's knees shook, but he stood his ground. The hammer-troll sniffed the air. "What class are you?" he asked, amused.
"Class?" Yoshio echoed.
The troll laughed, sharp and cruel. "Where have you been, bronze boy? This world is ruled by class. If your class is low you cannot stand. I am Hammer-class—Silver S. I hunt for Ragnarok. I have the right to serve next to our leader. You—if you survive—will be trophies."
Yoshio clenched his jaw. He had no class, no rank. He was nothing but a traveling merchant from another world. He held his breath and tried to think of any way out.
The hammer fell with a blow that split a yelp from him. Pain exploded in his skull; hot red oozed down his face. He saw stars and then deeper, black wells of nothing. The world folded inward. The troll's laughter dissolved into a high, distant ringing.
Karen and Yoko screamed as the hammer crushed him. Blood pooled and ran; the scene blurred into madness. Yoshio's vision slid toward a place that had no edges.
In that hollow dark a voice spoke—low, like wind over glass.
"Do you wish to become stronger?"
Yoshio's throat worked. A shape resolved from the darkness: a creature ten meters tall, mane white as bone and two horns curving from its temples. It looked nothing like the small beasts that prowled the village. The creature's eyes burned with a cold light.
"I only want to protect them," Yoshio said. His voice was small even to his own ears. "I owe them a favor."
"Do you wish to become stronger?" the creature repeated, patient as a tide.
"Why do you keep asking the same thing?" Yoshio muttered. "I don't want to die here. I want to protect them now. Right now I'm just a corpse bag."
"Do you wish to become stronger?" the creature asked again.
All right. Yoshio's answer came like a rasp. "Yes. I want to be able to do something."
"Approved," the voice said.
Pain and a cold fire filled Yoshio's chest. White and black light braided around him, a door opening through his skin. Something took hold of him—not cruelly, not kindly—just with the mechanical inevitability of a key turning. His body knit itself back together as if someone were sewing with invisible thread. Blood that had fallen upwards was pulled back, seams closing with a sound like dry paper.
Far in the square, the troll raised its hammer and paused, the swing dying midair as if pulled by a string. The other trolls froze, eyes turning to the place where Yoshio had fallen. A figure rose where the boy had been—taller, with long white hair and twin horns curling from the forehead. White light leapt off him in cold, luminous shards.
The troll staggered backward, clutching its belly. "What—?" it moaned. The creature's bravado broke like thin glass.
Yoshio—no, something that wore his shape—moved like a wind that meant to be a blade. He caught the hammered weapon as it arced down, felt the weight settle in his hands, and threw it with a force that crumpled the troll's skull. The hammer smashed into bone with a wet, final sound. He grabbed the weapon and swung again; the troll's arm snapped like a twig.
"You—bronze ward—cannot hurt me!" the hammer-troll bellowed, shock and rage warping his voice.
The new Yoshio didn't listen. He leapt, a white blur, and struck the big troll again and again until the creature's knees folded and it slumped. The other trolls hesitated, then fled, leaving the square strewn with broken tools and the odd, stunned cry of dying animals. Four more had their arms smashed, bones shattering under the force. The rest scattered into the night.
When the battle stilled, Yoshio's strength failed like a lamp burned too long. He collapsed, white hair spread over the cobbles, horns dark against his scalp. Darkness claimed him.
When he came to, Karen and Yoko knelt above him, faces pale and tear-streaked. Yoko reached for his hand as if to make sure he was solid. Karen's relief had edged into wonder.
"You woke up!" Yoko cried. "Brother—are you all right?"
Karen pressed a trembling palm to his forehead. "Thank you, Yoshio. I was so afraid you'd died. You saved us."
Yoshio's mind tried to knit together the frayed threads. What happened? The white hair, the horns—were they real, or some fevered mercy? He remembered the voice. He remembered the transformation like a tide.
Karen sat back and told him, voice quick and practical, what she knew. While he had been…unconscious, she and Yoko had dragged the wounded trolls they could move and sold them to the empire's patrolmen who had arrived after the alarm. The empire bought corpses and prizes; ragged coin had bought them a little stability. Karen tapped her purse; a small pile of coins glittered.
Yoshio felt a weight at the bottom of his pocket. He fished out a letter—a fresh strip of paper, edges warm from his hand.
Yoshio. You have successfully completed the mission. Go to the empire and buy new equipment; you will find me there.
"What is this?" Yoshio breathed. "Another letter?"
He looked at Karen and Yoko. The thought of leaving them behind made his chest ache.
"Karan," he said—then corrected himself. "Karen, Yoko. I should go to the empire and buy equipment."
They looked at him as if the word "go" were an impossible thing. Then, in the same breath, both sisters said, "No. We'll come with you. You saved our lives—we owe you."
"But it's dangerous," Yoshio protested.
"We have no objection," Karen said, her voice firm. Yoko nodded like a child making up her mind.
Yoshio found he could not refuse them. He gathered what little he had—what his strange new form still allowed—and together they set out toward the empire, the compass in his pocket pointing steadily ahead.