Northern Continent
Somewhere in the southern plains of Country Whiskey.
This country was unlike most others—vast and sprawling, yet sparsely populated. Its wide-open fields stretched endlessly toward the horizon, serving as one of the main food supply lines for the new world. Nearly everything edible was grown here before being shipped off to the other nations for trade and profit. In many ways, Country Whiskey was the breadbasket of the world—quiet, green, and lonely.
On one of its endless fields, where the grass reached just above one's knees, the air suddenly flickered. For a brief second, the space rippled like a disturbed pond before stabilizing. A young man appeared at that very spot.
He was dressed head-to-toe in white: a milk-white shirt, plain trousers accented with stylish chains, and boots that gleamed faintly under the sunlight. Even his hair was white, cascading down in soft locks that caught the wind. Everything about him—from his clean attire to his calm, noble posture—spoke of refinement and authority. He looked out of place in this countryside, like a celestial being dropped into a world of mud and hay.
After surveying his surroundings, the young man adjusted his cuffs and began walking, his strides measured and confident. It didn't take long before a small cottage appeared in the distance—a humble building of aged timber and stone, surrounded by knee-high grass. A few cobblestones formed a rough path leading up to its door, and not far behind stood a shed housing a few horses and cattle lazily grazing in the open.
The young man walked up to the door and knocked politely.
Knock, knock.
For a moment, there was silence. Then a gruff voice called out from within, tinged with a countryside drawl.
"Hold yer horses, I'm comin'!"
Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a large man with tousled blond hair. His shirt was half-buttoned, his belly protruding slightly, and the faint scent of whiskey floated from him like an aura. Despite the unkempt look, his rugged handsomeness still showed through the wear of years.
"Well, gravy on toast!" the man exclaimed, eyes widening as he recognized the visitor. "If it ain't young Windsor!"
"Uncle Charlie?" the young man asked, blinking in disbelief.
"That's me, lad—flesh and all," Charlie said with a grin, spreading his arms in mock grandeur. "Now, what in the good Lord's name are you doin' out here in this Godforsaken plain?" He stepped aside, gesturing for Windsor to enter.
"I thought you knew," Windsor replied, brow raised. "Didn't you receive any notice?"
"By God, I did not!" Charlie said, genuinely surprised.
"Uncle Charlie, did you receive any mail?" Windsor pressed, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
"I swear by the noble pride of our people, no such mail ever came my way," Charlie swore, his accent thickening. "Ain't seen a soul for years, lad. Not a blasted one."
He reached for a cup on the cluttered table beside him and took a sip. "Whiskey?" he offered, holding up a second glass. "This country's named after it, after all."
"No, thank you. I'll decline," Windsor said, glancing around. The place looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in years—bottles, scraps of paper, and discarded clothes lay strewn across the floor.
Charlie looked at him with wide eyes, offended. "Decline? Decline? Who comes to a place called Whiskey and declines one? That's downright blasphemous, that is!"
Ignoring him, Windsor sighed and asked, "Where have you been all this time? We thought you'd gone missing. No one could reach you."
Charlie chuckled, then slumped into his chair with a heavy sigh. "By the Lord's right hand, I haven't left this patch of dirt since I set foot here. Ain't seen a soul since. Been lonely as hell, I tell ya. No company—'cept the wind and the smell of horse dung."
He pointed lazily toward the shed out back. "was soo lonely, Nearly frightened old Molly to death, first few years."
"Who's Molly?" Windsor asked, eyebrows rising.
"Oh, that'd be one of the mares out back," Charlie said fondly. "She's been my only company, bless her heart."
"You did what? You know what—never mind. I don't want to know," Windsor said quickly, shaking off the image that crept into his head.
He walked toward the wall, where a rectangular black device was mounted—dust-covered and clearly forgotten. He brushed his fingers across it and pressed a button. The screen flickered to life, humming softly before a voice emerged, crisp and feminine.
"Welcome, Mister. I am a House Interactive Personal Assistant—in short, HIPA. How may I help you today?"
"Nice to meet you, HIPA," Windsor said with relief. "Can you please bring up all of Mr. Charlie's files and messages since his arrival?"
"Understood. Give me a moment," replied the AI. After a short pause, it chimed, "Search complete. Displaying all messages sent since arrival—two thousand nine hundred sixty-nine days ago, approximately eight years and one month."
A holographic display projected into the air before them, filled with glowing icons—thousands of unopened messages.
Charlie blinked at it, his jaw slightly slack. "Oh, gravy and grits… I remember you, HIPA! You're that nosy voice that kept badgerin' me with questions when I first got here. Thought you were dead, I did!"
"I didn't die, sir," the AI responded politely. "You simply turned my system off."
Windsor turned to face him slowly, disbelief etched on his face. "Uncle… are you telling me the reason no one could reach you for eight years is because you accidentally turned off your AI assistant?"
Charlie threw up his hands in mock exasperation. "Whatever would you have me do, lad? You know well I ain't got a clue about all this fancy tech nonsense. I like the old ways—paper, pens, a good book, and a fine bottle of whiskey. All this holographic gobbledygook can bugger off."
He muttered something under his breath and lumbered toward one of the rooms, leaving Windsor standing in the middle of the cluttered parlor.
Windsor sighed heavily, running a hand through his white hair. Unbelievable. His uncle—well, grand-uncle, technically—had spent eight whole years in isolation because of his stubbornness. He is Windsor's grandmother's brother. The man was born decades after Windsor's grandmother, which made him more like a relic of a different age than a modern soldier.
He glanced around the living room again. Dust coated everything. Whiskey bottles rolled lazily across the floor. Blankets and shirts lay tangled together, and cobwebs draped the corners like gray lace. The smell of alcohol and wood smoke hung in the air, thick and stale.
"This house needs serious cleaning," Windsor murmured.
"Yes, sir Windsor?" HIPA's voice responded, mistaking his words for a command.
He chuckled softly. "Not yet, HIPA. But direct me to wherever the cleaning supplies are. I might as well start."
"Certainly. The supplies are located in the storage room to your left."
"Of course they are," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
He was supposed to be here for training—something critical. Yet somehow, he found himself about to clean an old drunk's cottage instead. Brilliant, he thought wryly.