Read In the World of Dominance :: Chapter 8: The Humor of the Historian, Tuk.

The grand hall of the prince’s palace was intimidating, with high ceilings and towering pillars that seemed to stretch into infinity. The air was thick with tension as Tuk entered, trying to keep his breathing steady. The prince sat on his throne, his cold gaze fixed on Tuk, as if he could see right through him.

Tuk swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the prince’s expectations pressing down on him. The scroll in question was clutched tightly in his hand—a seemingly innocuous piece of parchment that had caused him endless headaches for the past month.

When faced with danger, humor was Tuk’s shield—a way to deflect the sharpness of reality. Nothing goes wrong if you mix some truth with lies.

The prince’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Historian Tuk,” he began, his tone calm but with an undercurrent of menace, “It has been a month. You assured me that this scroll would be decoded by now. And yet, I see no results.”

Tuk could feel sweat trickling down his back. He knew he had to tread carefully. The prince was not someone to be trifled with, especially when it came to matters of the scrolls. But Tuk also knew that his best defense was his wit.

“Your Highness,” Tuk started, forcing a smile onto his face, “I must admit that I was overly optimistic in my initial assessment. You see, when I first looked at the scroll, I thought it was written in a dialect I was familiar with. But as I delved deeper into the text, I realized it was something far more complex—something so ancient and convoluted that it would take a genius centuries to decode it.”

The prince raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “So, you’re suggesting you lack the skill to decipher something as vital as this?”

Tuk quickly shook his head, feigning shock. “Oh, not at all, Your Highness! I would never dare imply such a thing. But the truth is, this scroll… well, it’s a bit like trying to translate a cat’s meow into poetry. Each word has layers of meaning, hidden beneath centuries of linguistic evolution. For example,” Tuk continued, holding up the copy of the scroll and squinting at it, “this symbol ☥ here—at first glance, it looks like the word for ‘person.’ But upon closer inspection, it could also mean ‘fire,’ or perhaps even ‘a cross with rope.’ And deciphering which one is correct requires careful consideration.”

The prince’s eyes narrowed. “And how long will this ‘consideration’ take?”

Tuk hesitated, trying to think of a way to soften the blow. “Well, Your Highness, given the complexity of the script, I estimate… let’s say, several months per word.”

“Per word?” The prince’s voice was dangerously quiet now, the calm before the storm.

Tuk nodded vigorously. “Yes, per word. But think of it this way: the longer it takes, the more thorough and accurate the translation will be. We wouldn’t want to rush such an important task, now would we? After all, haste makes waste, and waste leads to bad taste, which could leave us all in a dire state… if you catch my drift.”

The prince’s expression remained unreadable, but Tuk could see the gears turning in his mind. Realizing he needed to do more to avoid the prince’s wrath, Tuk decided to throw in a bit of humor.

"And, Your Highness," Tuk added with a grin, "if I were to rush this and get it wrong, who knows what kind of disaster might occur? We might end up finding a purple dinosaur instead of a dragon! And as much as I’m sure everyone loves Barney, I doubt anyone here is ready for a sing-along."

The prince’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the hall was deathly silent. "Barney?" he repeated, clearly baffled. Tuk could feel the tension mounting, and he hurried to explain.

"Uh, yes, Your Highness," Tuk stammered, "Barney is… well, he’s a purple dinosaur who loves to play with his friends. A bit more hugs and songs than fire and destruction."

The prince stared at Tuk with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, his expression unreadable. But then, to Tuk’s immense relief, he saw the corner of the prince’s mouth twitch ever so slightly, as if he was trying to suppress a smile.

"Historian Tuk," the prince finally said, his voice still cool but now tinged with amusement, "you are fortunate that I find your… creativity… amusing. Very well. I will grant you additional time. But be warned: my patience is not infinite. If you fail to deliver results, no amount of humor—purple dinosaurs or otherwise—will save you."

Tuk bowed deeply, hiding the sigh of relief that threatened to escape. "Thank you, Your Highness. I assure you, I will work tirelessly to uncover the secrets of this scroll. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a way to turn Barney into something a bit less… lizard."

The prince dismissed Tuk with a wave of his hand, and as Tuk left the grand hall, he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. He had narrowly avoided the prince’s wrath this time, and with any luck, he’d buy himself enough time to figure out just what in the world that scroll actually said.

To commemorate a significant triumph, the warriors invited me to their celebration—a gesture of gratitude for helping with their weapons. I hesitated, knowing that being in close quarters with these seasoned fighters could be a double-edged sword. Yet, I agreed, thinking it might be the perfect opportunity to avoid any suspicion about my gender and get a better read on these brawny brutes who could easily crush me with a single swing.

As I stepped into the tavern, the atmosphere hit me like a heavyweight. The tavern exuded dark luxury; polished wood gleamed in the low light, and grand tapestries of bloody battles hung on the walls, each thread steeped in violent history. The air was thick with the strong smells of fine drinks, roasted meats, and the overpowering scent of heavily feminine perfumes thick enough to choke a horse. The Warriors, already deep into their cups, were laughing loudly, surrounded by women draped in silks, batting their eyelashes like they were trying to start a breeze. 'It was all a bit much.'

The warriors, their faces flushed with a dangerous mix of victory and alcohol, filled the room with loud laughter and the harsh clinking of goblets. The women, dressed in luxurious silks that shimmered in the low light, teased and flirted with the men, their eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker. The noise was almost unbearable, a chaotic mix of music, laughter, and the unsettling feeling of impending violence.

I tried to remain inconspicuous, shrinking into the shadows with a goblet of wine, nodding along to conversations that barely penetrated the roaring din. The warriors celebrated with reckless abandon, toasting to victories past and battles yet to come. But beneath their bravado, I could sense an undercurrent of fear, a silent acknowledgment that some of them would not survive the next conflict. It was a terrifying thought that added weight to every clink of their glasses.

Hours passed like centuries, each moment dragging with the suffocating weight of the atmosphere. My pulse quickened as I finally saw an opening to escape the suffocating tavern. Carefully, I navigated through the throng of warriors, their drunken movements making it easier for me to slip away unnoticed. As I stepped into the cool night air, the tension in my chest eased but still lingered, a reminder of the close call I’d just escaped. The silence of the night was eerie, a stark contrast to the overwhelming noise I had just left behind. “Time to put my spy skills to use,” I thought, as I disappeared into the darkened streets.

Though a little tipsy herself, Tuk strutted through the deserted alleys like she was auditioning for the lead role in SpyxFamily, taking each step as if she were a top-secret agent on a high-stakes mission. She imagined herself as a super-cool spy, sliding through the shadows with stealth and grace. In reality, she looked more like a clumsy penguin on a midnight stroll, and the few merchants who spotted her gave her the kind of puzzled looks usually reserved for people talking to their own reflection.

Mission: “Blend In” = Failed

The night was eerily quiet, with only the faint hum of vendors packing up their stalls. The market, now winding down, was still a maze of colorful tents and flickering torches, casting long, shadowy shapes across the cobblestone paths. I seized the chance to buy supplies—things that would make life in this rough world more bearable. Among them, something I never thought I’d come to value so much—sanitary pads.

I moved between stalls with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, scanning the dwindling crowd. Then, one small stall caught my attention. A local merchant was demonstrating how to craft both sanitary pads and cologne. The pads were made from a blend of woven fabric and some sort of absorbent moss—primitive, but effective enough. His hands worked with a precision that spoke of years of practice, assembling the pads layer by layer, while next to him, fragrant oils and herbs were mixed into small vials of cologne.

The process was fascinating. The use of herbs for both hygiene and scent reflected a deeper understanding of cleanliness in this world, even if the methods were simpler than what I was used to. “These should hold up,” I thought, studying the pads. "Different, but as long as they keep me clean, they'll do."

Despite my fatigue, I paid close attention. Learning how to make these on my own could be a small victory, a step toward some comfort and sanity in this otherwise unforgiving world.

I bought enough supplies to last a month, along with a detailed manual on crafting the cologne. It felt like a modest triumph, a bit of preparedness for the uncertain road ahead. With my bag heavier but my mind a little lighter, I wound my way back through the maze of tents and alleys, ready for whatever came next. But unfortunately, all my fortune was gone.

"Ah, even in another world, I still have no money. I’m a bimbo through and through," I muttered dramatically, clutching my empty coin purse.

'Argh! I miss binge-watching anime so much!' I fumed silently, frustration bubbling inside as I made my way back to the tavern.

Next Mission: Survive the Prince's Wrath