I wake up in a bed.

This is immediately suspicious.

Because I don’t own a bed like this.

This bed is made of wood.
Not processed wood.
Not polished wood.

This bed looks like a tree died angrily and nobody apologized.

I stare at the ceiling.

It is not a ceiling.

It is a collection of wooden beams holding hands out of fear.

No fan.
No light.
No crack in the plaster shaped like a country.

Just wood.

Old wood.

The kind of wood that creaks when you think too loud.

I sit up.

The mattress responds by threatening to collapse.
It smells like hay, dust, and historical injustice.

Okay.

Either I’m dead—

—or I’ve been isekai’d into poverty.

I swing my legs off the bed.

The floor is cold. Stone. Uneven. One slab is slightly higher than the others, like it wants attention.

I look around.

The room is small. Painfully honest.
No screens.
No switches.
No plastic anything.

There’s a wooden table with three legs. Not four.
There’s a stool that has seen violence.
There’s a clay jug of water that looks like it judges hydration.

On the wall—

A hook.

Just a hook.

Nothing hanging from it.

A hook waiting for its moment.

I don’t like that hook.

I stand.

My body feels… normal. Too normal. No system screen. No HUD. No “Welcome Player” nonsense.

I check myself.

I’m wearing clothes.

Not my clothes.

Rough linen shirt.
Loose trousers.
Bare feet.

This fabric has never met a factory.
This was bullied into existence by human hands.

I look down at my hands.

Still mine.

Same scars. Same fingers. Same bad nail-cutting habits.

Good.

At least they didn’t reroll my face.

I spot a small wooden chest near the bed.
Inside—

Folded clothes.
Simple. Brown. Gray. Unoffended by fashion.

A belt. Leather. Cracked.

A pair of shoes that look like they’ve walked away from hope.

Ah.

The starter kit.

Tutorial gear.

“Welcome to the world,” it says silently.
“Best of luck surviving tetanus.”

I get dressed.

The clothes fit too well.

Which means one of two things:

1. Destiny
2. The system is cheating again

I tighten the belt. It squeaks like a mouse being interrogated.

I take a breath.

Then I notice the smells.

Smoke.
Bread.
Animal.

Not cooked animal.
Present animal.

Also—iron.

Old iron.

The kind used for locks. Or tools. Or… opinions.

I walk to the only door.

Wooden. Thick. Scarred.

No handle.

Just a latch.

I open it.

And step outside.

The noise hits first.

Voices.

Dozens of them.

Shouting. Laughing. Arguing. Bargaining.

No engines.

No horns.

No phones.

Just raw, unfiltered human sound.

I step into a street.

Narrow. Cobblestone. Slightly damp like it rained recently or cried.

Buildings press close on both sides. Tall. Leaning. Wooden frames with white plaster, like they’re whispering secrets to each other.

People walk past me.

And I freeze.

Not because of what they’re wearing.

But because of how they’re wearing it.

Long dresses. Aprons. Shawls. Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled.

Simple clothes. Functional. Repaired more times than replaced.

This isn’t cosplay.

This is a time period that doesn’t know what irony is.

A woman brushes past me carrying a basket of vegetables. She doesn’t apologize. She looks tired. Focused.

Another woman argues loudly with a merchant over bread prices.

Another sharpens a knife at a stall like it’s normal behavior for a Tuesday.

I walk slowly.

Observing.

No electricity.
No glass windows—just shutters.
No signage beyond carved wood and painted symbols.

I see a blacksmith.

Actual hammer. Actual anvil.
Actual sweat.

I smell burning coal.

I hear a church bell in the distance.

Not digital.
Not scheduled.
Just… ringing.

I stop.

Think.

Okay.

Stone roads.
Handmade clothes.
Iron tools.
Church bells.
No gunpowder smell.
No horses yet, but the infrastructure is horse-ready.

This is not medieval-medieval.

This is later.

Post-plague.

Early modern.

My brain clicks.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

“…1600s,” I whisper.

A woman walking by looks at me funny.

I nod like I said something normal.

And then it hits me.

Why the street feels… off.

I hadn’t noticed it consciously.

But now I do.

There are a lot of women.

Not “slightly more.”

Not “statistically interesting.”

Noticeably more.

Groups of women.
Women working stalls.
Women hauling crates.
Women arguing politics with alarming confidence.

Men exist—but fewer.

Scattered.

Some missing limbs.
Some old.
Some quiet.

I swallow.

1600s.

Europe-ish.

Church bells.

Iron tools.

And a gender ratio that feels like history made a decision.

I don’t say it out loud.

But my brain does.

Wars.

Plagues.

Burnings.

The kind of century where survival is a hobby and accusation is a sport.

I look down at my clothes again.

Simple. Common.

No insignia.
No money pouch heavy enough to matter.
No sword. No book. No status.

Good.

Very good.

In a time like this—

Standing out is how you get tied to something.

I take a step forward.

Blend into the crowd.

A nobody.

A commoner.

A man named Larz P. Ennis.

Who presses buttons.

And has absolutely no idea what the next stage is—

—but suspects it involves fire.

Somewhere.

Soon.