He sat up fast, and his heart was hammering like a war drum.
"What the hell?" His voice rasped, rough from smoke and shouting. He patted his chest, his arms.
No wounds. No blood. His uniform was gone too, replaced by a simple tunic and pants, coarse but clean. His fingers brushed a familiar weight around his neck.
The locket. He clutched it tight, the silver cool against his skin. Franca's face flashed in his mind, and her kind eyes were a lifeline in this madness.
He staggered to his feet, the flowers brushing his legs. The field stretched wide, framed by rolling hills in the distance. There was no gunfire, no screams, and just pure silence. His skin prickled, with a faint heat simmering beneath it like coals banked low in a fire.
He shook his head, brushing it off, since it was probably just shock. He'd been shot, hadn't he? That rebel bastard's smirk was the last thing he'd seen.
A low rumble snapped him out of it. He spun, hand dropping to his side where a machete should've been.
Nothing. Just empty air.
A cart trundled toward him, wooden wheels creaking over the dirt path cutting through the field. A man perched atop it, reins loose in his hands as two burly oxen plodded along. He was round-faced and ruddy, his grin wide under a floppy hat.
"Ho there, stranger!" the man called, waving a meaty hand. The man was the figure who walked toward him. "You look like you've seen a ghost or ten. Need a lift?"
Rodrigo narrowed his eyes, sizing him up. The cart was piled with crates, some glowing faintly with runes etched into the wood. Suspicious as hell, but his legs ached, and standing here just gawking wouldn't get him answers.
"Where you headed?" he asked, keeping his tone gruff.
"Havenport, just down the way." The man patted the seat beside him. "Name's Tomas. If you don't wanna walk, hop on. Beats walking, I reckon."
Rodrigo hesitated, his soldier's instincts screaming trap. But he had no gear, no bearings. He climbed up, settling beside Tomas with a grunt. The cart lurched forward, and the oxen snorted, their breath puffing in the crisp air.
"Quiet one, eh?" Tomas chuckled, glancing at him. "Not from around here, I'd wager. You got that lost look. It happens sometimes, folk like you washing up in odd places."
Rodrigo didn't answer, but his gaze was fixed on the glowing crates. "What's with the lights?" he muttered, nodding at them.
Tomas beamed like a kid showing off a toy. "Essence lanterns, my friend. These things keep the roads lit at night. Handy stuff, that Essence. It runs half this world, one way or another."
"Essence?" Rodrigo frowned, the word foreign on his tongue. Sounded like some magic trick, and he didn't trust tricks.
"Oh, you'll see plenty in Havenport," Tomas said, waving a hand. "Infusers make it sing. Bind it to weapons, tools, you name it, and it keeps the trade flowing."
Rodrigo's jaw tightened. Magic. Great. He'd fought men with guns and steel, not fairy tales. "Sounds like a con," he said, his voice dripping with cynicism.
Tomas laughed, loud and hearty. "Skeptic, huh? Fair enough. You'll change your tune once you see it."
The cart rolled on, the field giving way to a winding road. In the distance, Havenport came into view. Stone walls rose high, their surfaces carved with more of those glowing runes.
Beyond them, rooftops peeked out, a mix of slanted tiles and squat chimneys belching faint smoke. Ships bobbed in a harbor to the right, their sails catching the wind while strange pipes jutted from their decks, puffing steam.
It felt a bit medieval, sure, but with a twist.
Rodrigo's eyes widened despite himself. He'd stormed cities before, but nothing like this. Tomas caught his look and grinned. "The first time's always a kicker. Wait 'til you see the market."
They reached the gates, guarded by two men in leather armor, spears in hand. One waved them through without a word, his eyes sliding over Rodrigo like he was nothing special.
Good. Last thing he needed was attention. The cart rolled into Havenport proper, and the noise hit him like a wall, with vendors shouting, hammers clanging, and the chatter of a hundred voices. Cobbled streets wound through stalls piled with goods, such as fish glistening on ice, bolts of shimmering cloth, and trinkets that flickered with light.
Tomas steered the cart past a towering building of gray stone, its windows aglow with orange light. A sign swung above the door, reading Essence Guildhall in bold script.
"There. That's where the Infusers train," Tomas said, nodding at it. "They got some real power in there. If you ever feel a spark, that's the place to go. You'll see them people usin' their element and Essence in their weapons and all that."
"Element? What do you mean by that?" Rodrigo glanced at the sign for a split second.
"You know, the usual. Fire, water, earth, and air. Them people up there get assigned to one element and master that element to infuse them with their Essence. Not so many people out there that really stood out to me when it came to that though."
Rodrigo's skin tingled again, that odd heat flaring briefly in his chest. He ignored it, his gaze drifting instead to a market stall ahead. Weapons lined its table with swords, axes, and a bow with a taut string. But there, at the edge, sat a machete.
Its blade was broad and wicked, etched with faint fiery patterns that seemed to pulse in the sunlight. His hand twitched, a pull he couldn't explain that was tugging at him. It was his old blade reborn, but… different. Kind of alive, you could say.
"Oh, you eyeing that?" Tomas asked, slowing the cart. "Good catch. The machete looks like a Fire Infuser's work in my experience. Weapons like that pick their wielders, or so they say."
Rodrigo snorted. "Weapons don't pick anything. Men do." But his words felt hollow. That machete called to him, and he hated it. There's too much strangeness already.
Tomas shrugged, pulling the cart to a stop near a fountain. Water splashed from a carved fish's mouth as it glinted in the sun. "Well, this is my stop," he said, hopping down. "The market's yours to roam. Watch yourself, stranger. Havenport's friendly 'til it ain't."
Rodrigo climbed off, giving Tomas a curt nod. "Thanks, old man," he muttered, the word tasting foreign. He didn't like owing anyone, but the ride had saved him hours of stumbling blind.
Tomas waved and trundled off, leaving Rodrigo alone in the bustling square. He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, the locket pressing against his chest. Franca's smile flickered in his mind, soft and steady. "What the hell am I doing here, Ma?" he whispered, his voice lost in the crowd.
He turned, his boots scuffing the cobblestones. Havenport sprawled before him, a maze of noise and light. His skin burned again, hotter this time, like a spark begging to catch. He clenched his fists, shoving the sensation down. Whatever this place was, whatever that heat meant, he'd figure it out.
Alone. Like always.
The machete lingered in his thoughts. He'd be back for it, and he'd be sure of that. Not because it called him, he told himself. Because he needed steel in a world this strange. That was all.
Question was, how would he get that blade back? People here had gold coins as currency, and not dollar bills or whatever currency that modern Earth had to offer for this world.
And it clicked. He didn't have any money, at least not any money that this world would accept. Somehow, he had around three dollars tucked in his pocket, though it wouldn't help. For people here, those bills were just paper.
Nevertheless, he started walking, and the crowd parted around him. A soldier out of time, a stranger in a land he didn't understand. But Rodrigo Mundragon didn't break. Not in war, not in death, and not here. He'd find his footing, one step at a time.