The room was rectangular and small, with walls made of hard, gray stones, a material unrecognized by Eric. Inside the room, a clay lamp was the only source of illumination, the smell of oil unmistakable.
Fur clothes were hanging on a bone stand, the bone longer than 2 meters with small branches protruding perpendicularly, convenient for hanging the clothes.
From a glance, one could tell the clothes hanging on this stand belonged to Buan.
"This appears to be Buan's room." Eric murmured, studying the room carefully while sitting on his bed.
This was the same bed he had woken up on.
A red shield with a golden falcon insignia decorated the front wall.
Eric stood up, moving cautiously on the reed mats underneath. His balance was off — Buan's body was heavier, taller, and more muscular than his old one. He walked to the small wooden table near the lamp.
A cracked bronze mirror rested there.
He lifted it.
The reflection staring back:
A young man with sharp cheekbones and storm-gray eyes. Black hair falling to the jawline, unevenly tied. Attractive — but haunted. Not the face of a coward, just someone worn down by ridicule.
He touched his reflection and whispered:
"We're in this together now."
He tested movement — rolled shoulders, flexed hands, stretched fingers. No tattoo. No spirit mark. No warrior blessing.
Just him.
Just Buan.
A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
"So what if I don't have a spirit tattoo? I have this amazing body."
He whispered to the empty room, voice low but confident.
"I'll build my strength my way."
The spirit-oil lamp flickered as if reacting.
His eyes sharpened.
He looked through the small window at the shining blue moon in the sky, illuminating the scenery. It was the middle of the night, and the tribe seemed eerily silent.
Buan's memories weren't detailed, just a patch of significant events.
If there was some ongoing ritual in the tribe, he wouldn't know.
He could very well be alone in the tribe right now, and he wouldn't have a clue.
"Let's sleep first," Eric decided before moving towards the bed.
Just before he could climb onto the brown, furry bed, the air in front of him shimmered as the runes appeared.
Buan's pulse stopped for a moment.
The letters sharpened.
"…What?" he whispers.
Another line appeared, drifting like smoke.
Then, like a punchline:
And underneath, smaller, sharper, dripping sarcasm:
Tip: Being alive is, regrettably, necessary for progress.
Buan stares.
"Death is usually not recommended anywhere…"
The system doesn't reply — not with full sentences.
Just a new line that feels like an eye roll in text form:
His blood turns to ice.
"Kidnapped? By whom?"
However, no answer came, only the stark realization of impending danger.
'This isn't the time to ponder; let's run to safety first.'
He hurriedly approached the falcon shield and removed it from the wall.
'This should come in handy.'
Without missing a beat, he put on the leather shoes and ran towards the door.
He swung the wooden door open in a hurry, the sight in front revealing itself.
His face turned visibly pale, devoid of its usual color.
In front of his eyes, about 400 meters away, five towering men were approaching, their muscles bulging under their tanned skin, fur clothes and accessories adorning their rock-hard bodies; however, one among them clearly stood out, his clothes and ornaments a league apart from the rest.
Eric instantly recognized them from Buan's memories.
'Of course, it's my brother-in-law and his goons.'
He almost wanted to laugh; however, there was no time as he saw one of them running towards him. They had also noticed him.
'I need to run!'
'But where?'
His mind raced as he looked frantically in different directions, deciding which was better to run off to.
Soon, an answer flashed in his mind, coming from Buan's memories.
'Village-head! He will protect me!'
In the memories of Buan, only the Village Patriarch bothered to help him; otherwise, almost all were afraid of the Vice-Patriarch and his son.
No one else would help him.
Deciding on his destination, he turned around and ran.
Fortunately, the Village Patriarch's residence was in the opposite direction from the approaching goons.
In the eerie silence of the night, the only rhythm he could hear was the rustle of the grass on the damp ground produced by his running steps.
In front of him was darkness, only receding away a little thanks to the moonlight of the blue moon in the sky. He could only see a narrow path, carved wholly by the footsteps of people who traversed it.
Cold winds struck his tall frame without any mercy, prompting him to shiver; the only solace was his fur clothes that provided some warmth. His bare arms, however, still felt freezing cold. He wanted to use his shield to block the unrelenting winds; however, that would slow him down, so he dropped the idea.
As if he wasn't suffering enough already, the smell of the herbs around him assaulted his nose relentlessly.
'Fuck the gods!' He screamed in his head, running without any breaks. 'Why am I in this mess???'
He looked behind him to check on his pursuers; however, there was only darkness.
He couldn't see more than 50 meters away.
Shivering in cold fear, he followed the path from his memories. He just had to follow this narrow, dirty, and bumpy path to enter the middle circle of the tribe.
Whoosh!
Something heavy and small brushed past him at a terrifying speed. It came from behind. He felt shivers run through his entire body.
He could guess what it was, and that didn't give him any relief whatsoever.
Just after a few moments, he was able to confirm his guess. It was a stone, roughly around the size of a fist.
Whoosh!
Another stone flew past him in the blink of an eye.
'Those bastards are throwing stones? Do they really want to kill me?'