CHAPTER 5 – NPCs and Reality

After finishing with Diana, I headed toward the kitchen. Carts groaned under the weight of bloodied survivors. Men and women stumbled out, faces pale, eyes hollow. Some wept into open palms, others clung to family like they’d been resurrected. Not one looked victorious—they looked cheated.

War gave survival but stole everything else.

And me? I didn’t feel a shred of sympathy. My brain muttered: If I’d written backstories for these NPCs, readers would cry. Empathy by narrative cheat code. But here? Nothing. Their grief was real, yet it was still just words on a page I hadn’t written.

Finally, I reached the kitchen and helped with the cooking, mostly distributing vegetables. Silence gnawed at me—most workers nodded curtly or pointed. Even as the author, no one cares about me? Aren’t protagonists supposed to be admired?

Hours slipped by, and by evening I was half-dead. Dinner arrived: a single ladle of rice porridge on a banyan leaf. Scarcity made me grateful. They could have ignored me entirely. Yet they fed me, despite clear hostility.

I sat in a secluded corner. The porridge was bland—no spices, no salt. Compared to my mother’s cooking, this is a ragged hut versus a castle. I ate in silence; leaving food unfinished would be a massive insult.

Afterward, spearwomen escorted me back to my tent. It suddenly hit me—I hadn’t asked their names.

“If you don’t mind… what are your names?” I asked.

They exchanged glances. “I am Grisha. She is Hela.”

No titles, no backstory—speedrunning character introductions.

Curious, I asked about clothes. Grisha explained: Currency is scarce. Everyone earns contribution points. Work today, get points tonight, exchange tomorrow. Clothes first, food later—good plan.

I asked why they guarded me. Silence, then Hela spoke: We are not hostile to Serpentilers. We have pride; we do not do tasks half-assed.

I tilted my head. “Why not hostile to Serpentilers?”

Her eyes softened slightly. We had a Serpentiler comrade, Vash. A fool in camp, but the bravest on the battlefield. Remove the ‘V,’ and you get Ash.

Vash sounded like the kind of side character I never wrote but should have—the goofy, loyal one who dies tragically. Grisha and Hela told me his story: rejected love, one arm lost, fighting to the end despite bleeding from countless wounds. Vash came alive—an NPC deserving a spotlight.

By the time we reached my tent, I felt oddly closer to Grisha and Hela. They pointed out their own tent nearby—ready to assist if needed. I sat in dim light, circling thoughts.

Why was I so comfortable talking to strangers here? Was it because no one knew me? Or because I still treated them like “characters”? The answer didn’t come. Only a quiet, unsettling mix of both.

A strong, low voice snapped me out of thoughts. “May I come in?”

A young boy entered—shorts, t-shirt, piercing oceanic eyes. Samraaditya.

“My mom told me to give you this diary,” he said, handing it over. “She thinks writing in it will help your treatment.”

He vanished into the shadows before I could reply. Perfect assassin vibes. I examined the notebook: brown paper cover, fountain pen resting neatly atop. Perfect.

I wrote about my life since arriving, titling it Life of the Uncommon Protagonist. Exhausted, I drifted into sleep—but not peacefully.

The nightmare returned: slick ground, walls decorated with organs, headless corpses, and skulls staring at me. I jerked awake, drenched in sweat, lungs burning. Slowly, tension eased. Fatigue from the kitchen work helped me sleep.

Next morning, the camp stirred. I bathed, washed grime and sweat, and wore my suit jacket over my undershirt. Shirt clipped to dry.

In the kitchen, chaos had multiplied. Head Chef waved me over. “Ten contribution points for yesterday. Start working your ass off—more members returned from the battlefield.”

I got to work, distributing ingredients, arranging supplies, and running between stations. Then chaos struck.

A massive man barreled in—scar across his cheek, eyes blazing, Zweihänder in hand. Each step shook the floor. Instinct took over—I dashed behind the Head Chef.

“Come out, scaredy cat!” the soldier roared. “You Serpentilers killed my family!”

The Head Chef bellowed: Fighting is prohibited in the kitchen! She deflected his blade with a spatula, sparks flying. Pots clanged, knives scattered, rolling pins became spears. I scrambled like a mouse, heart pounding.

She vaulted, slammed a chair against his sword, jabbed behind him midair. Chaos and grace combined. Finally, backup arrived—a massive man executed a perfect German suplex. The soldier went down hard.

The Head Chef straightened, chest heaving. I realized: this wasn’t just a cook. This was a warrior contained in a kitchen apron.

The man behind her—muscular, neatly dressed, black hair, full beard, oceanic eyes—was Vikramaditya. Husband to Diana, father to Samraaditya, protagonist of my novel. And I was hiding like a coward.

He calmly said: “Don’t mind me. Saw the commotion, came to check.”

High school dreams of heroics felt laughable. The pale man helped me up. Head Chef insisted: Take the day off. You’ll hinder us otherwise.

Outside, I sought the clothes shop. Vikramaditya appeared again. “Don’t you think it’s time to learn to protect yourself?”

I nodded. Fear rendered me useless yesterday, even with Taekwondo.

He led me to an open ground beside Diana’s tent. Horses grazed lazily. I forgot about clothes, but survival came first.

“Explain more about this world,” I asked.

He replied calmly: Someone else will guide you nightly after kitchen duties.

Aditi? My stomach twisted.

He snapped me out of it. “Ready?”

I pondered my weapon. A protagonist’s weapon is an extension of their soul. He interrupted: “Let’s spar.”

“…Where are the weapons?”

Bare hands. Reflexes. Versatility. My soul left my body. “Hhhhuuuuhhhhhh???”

Bare hands are where every true warrior begins. My training arc went full hardcore mode.