Yukio pulled his hood tighter over his head as he stepped back onto the main street, trying to blend into the crowd as best as a half-elf with suspiciously clean clothes and mild post-brawl confusion could.
'Okay no more going into unknown dark alleys.'
He exhaled slowly, trying to calm down.
His eyes drifted to a wooden sign nailed over a market stall. The letters were definitely not Japanese, but… he could read them. Perfectly.
"Fresh loaves – 4 copper," he muttered under his breath, then blinked. "Wait… how am I reading this?"
He squinted at a different stall. "Dried meat – 6 copper per strip."
'Les goo! This body came with auto-translation DLC installed!'
He wasn't about to complain. If it made surviving easier, he'd gladly take it.
As he kept walking, he casually reached down to his belt and felt the weight of the coin pouch hanging there. Pulling it slightly open, he peeked inside.
'Lot of money, hehe.' He internally laughed like a kid who just got his favorite candy.
He stepped off the main path into a quieter corner by a bench and poured a few into his hand.
Tucked near the bottom, gleamed a coin unlike the others—golden but engraved with a radiant emblem, almost glowing faintly in the sunlight.
'These must be those holy gold coins,' he thought. 'They even look like they think they're better than everyone else.'
He'd overheard a merchant explaining prices to someone nearby earlier, and did the math in his head:
20 copper = 1 silver
10 silver = 1 gold
30 gold = 1 holy gold
He had 13 copper coins, 11 silver, 9 gold, and—his fingers paused—30 holy gold coins.
"…Holy shit."
He blinked. Did a quick recalculation.
'So 30 holy gold means... that's like, 30 × 30 gold... times 10 silver... times 20 copper…'
He gave up trying to calculate in his head. All he knew was: he was loaded. At least by the looks of things.
Bread was 4 pieces of copper.
"I could buy an entire bakery," he muttered.
He glanced around quickly and tucked the pouch away. No need to paint a giant target on his back.
Deep inside, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
.
.
After getting a better grip on how money worked here—and that he could probably swim in a bathtub full of bread if he really wanted—Yukio decided on his next priority.
"A place to sleep," he muttered.
"Preferably one without rats, murder, or a racist landlord. In that order."
The streets were lined with wooden buildings—some narrow and crooked, others wide and welcoming. Signs creaked in the breeze: Golden Experience Refuge, Sleepy Stag Inn, The stardust's Rest. It wasn't hard to find inns. The hard part was getting in one.
The first place had a cozy look to it, all polished oak and flower baskets in the window. Yukio stepped in, tried his best friendly nod at the old lady behind the counter.
Her eyes lit up—at first.
"Room for one?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
"Oh of course, dearie. Just five sil—"
Then her gaze shifted to the shadow under his hood, caught a glimpse of those silver strands, and froze.
Her tone curdled like spoiled milk. "We don't take elves. Out."
Before he could even react, the broom she was holding was suddenly very close to his face.
He backed out, hands raised. "Yup. Totally understandable, I'm going!"
The second place wasn't any better. Or the third.
Some didn't even let him explain. He'd step in, heads would turn, and someone would mutter "half-elf" like it was a racial slur. One barkeep actually spit toward him, narrowly missing his boot.
"Okay, cool, cool," he said under his breath after the fifth attempt. "Love the tourism industry here. Very welcoming. Definitely coming back with five stars on ElfAdvisor."
By the seventh try, Yukio was beginning to question things.
'Should I just sleep in a tree? Maybe elves have a natural tree-sleeping instinct?'
Just when he was about to give up and try the good ol' "find a random haystack" strategy, he spotted a less decorated inn with a fading banner over the door: Iron Fang Resthouse. No flowers, no lanterns, just a solid stone structure with some battle-scarred mercenary types sitting out front.
He quietly made his way to the reception counter and… stood there.
Just near it. Observing.
A burly man in a leather vest went before him and paid for a night's stay: 8 copper. The next guest, a woman with a weird tattoo on her neck, got a room for 7 copper.
Yukio nodded to himself. Okay. 'Average is 7–8 copper. That's fair. Don't get scammed.'
Finally, he approached the desk.
The clerk—a young guy, surprisingly clean compared to everyone else—glanced up, clearly waiting to size him up. His eyes flicked briefly to the edge of Yukio's hood where a silver strand of hair and the pointed tip of an ear peeked out.
No reaction. That was good, For now.
With a professional nod he said. "Room's 9 copper per night."
Yukio blinked. Well that was a good reaction!
He reached into his pouch and handed over a silver coin.
"Got change for this?" he asked casually.
He took the coin, counted out the proper copper in return, and slid over a room key without another word.
Yukio took the coins, slipping them into his inner pocket one by one.
'Huh... good to see there are people who don't care about the ears.'
In truth, he'd been so relieved to finally get a room that the thought of leaving the change as a tip had genuinely crossed his mind. But then his practical side kicked in, reminding him he didn't exactly have the luxury to throw money around—rich or not.
As he made his way toward the stairs to check out his room, he passed a few people lounging in the common area. He could see the shift in their expression.
Yep. There it was again.
He sighed. 'Well I guess not everyone can be Non racist in here.'
Yukio stepped into his room and shut the door with a quiet thunk.
It wasn't exactly luxury—more like "budget medieval chic"—but after everything today, it might as well have been a five-star hotel. A simple wooden bed with an actual mattress, a little writing desk, a wash basin, and even a window. He dropped his pouch on the desk with a satisfying clink and let out a long breath.
"Okay… not bad. No rats, no bloodstains. Guess I'm moving up in the world."
He checked under the bed out of habit. Nothing. Then pressed a hand to the mattress.
Firm… but not rock. Acceptable.
With a grunt, Yukio sat down and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The events of the day hit him in waves—the shadowy girl, the teleportation, waking up as a hot half-elf, almost getting mugged by seven guys and watching them trip over each other like clowns, then finally finding a place that didn't yeet him out for having pointy ears.
He slowly pulled off his boots, then his cloak, then lay down fully, arms behind his head.
" I am in a new world… I didn't die… and I'm rich by local standards." He smiled slightly. "Not a bad first day in Isekai land, all things considered."
A soft breeze came in through the cracked window. It smelled faintly of pine and firewood. Somewhere downstairs, the murmur of other guests drifted through the floorboards.
Noticing the breeze growing a bit cooler, Yukio sat up and walked over to the window. As nice as it felt, he glanced back at his pouch on the desk and frowned. "Yeah, no—last thing I need is some medieval ninja reaching in and robbing me blind." He gently closed the window, locking it with a quiet click.
Then laying down back on the bed, Yukio yawned, eyelids drooping.
And with that, he drifted into sleep, sword beside his bed, and the faint glint of silver hair catching the moonlight.
.
.
Yukio blinked.
No… he didn't blink—he was already in motion.
Steel clashed.
His arm moved on instinct, a heavy blade in hand—black as obsidian, with a dragon's head carved into the hilt, mouth open as if ready to breathe hell. The weight was familiar. Like it belonged there.
Across from him, the black-haired boy stumbled backward, sword barely clinging to his grip. He was bloodied. Bruised. Breathing hard.
But his eyes never left Yukio—no, not Yukio.
The boy's knees hit the ground, sword digging into the earth.
And yet—Yukio did not strike the final blow.
Because she arrived.
A blur of red, fast as lightning and just as fierce. Her sword glinted in the dying light, long and slim and forged in a style unlike anything Yukio had ever seen before. It glowed faintly with heat—The dragon sword.
Yukio met her strikes blow for blow.
His sword, dark and pulsing with a low hum, countered her divine speed not with quickness, but with power and weight and something else.
Her blade sparked as it met his—each strike ringing with a force that cracked the dirt beneath their feet.
Her blows were clean, perfect, practiced beyond mortal years.
Not-Yukio's sword cut through her strikes like smoke.
Each of his slashes hummed with a force, erasing the energy that laced her sword.
Behind his black mask—smooth, save for carved lips and a raised bulge that crossed from nose to brow—his silence spoke more than rage or mercy ever could.
.
.
In the heart of Lugunica's royal capital, beyond walls layered with enchantments and guarded by knights in polished plate, a chamber of shadowed stone and candlelight buzzed with unease.
The Round of councilors sworn to advise the king—sat in a semicircle beneath the great painted mural of Lugunica's founding. The warmth of the torches did nothing to burn away the cold weight in the air.
The High Councilor tapped his gloved fingers against the polished wood of the table, jaw tight with barely concealed irritation.
"We lost two battalions," he said, his voice clipped. "And it would've been more—much more—if Lady Theresia hadn't been there."
"That isn't speculation," chimed in Councilor Vendel, his voice older. "It's fact. Had she not arrived when she did… the left flank would've collapsed. And that boy—the half-elf, Altair or whatever name he goes by, would've turned the entire field red with Lugunican blood."
There was silence. Even the usual murmuring aides along the chamber's edge paused.
He tapped a parchment, then passed it along the table.
A sketch. Rough, likely drawn by a surviving scout. It showed a figure in black attire, blade in hand, and a mask that covered everything but the eyes.
"Multiple prisoners," Belov continued, "including two demi-human generals we captured in the north, were subjected to interrogation."
"You mean torture," muttered Councilor Hessa from the far end.
He ignored her.
"They knew nothing useful. Not his origin. Not his past."
The room fell still.
Then Elric muttered, "And he's a half-elf. Just like her."
.
.
Yukio's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he lay still beneath the soft linen sheets.
The inn was quiet, still caught in that fragile hour between night and morning.
He turned his head.
Outside, the world was painted in hues of dusky blue and pale gray. The sky hadn't yet decided if it wanted to wake up — the horizon just barely tinged with soft light. Probably five in the morning, maybe earlier.
Yukio sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. The room was cool, not cold, but still enough to bring a shiver through him.
That dream.
He clenched the blanket in his hand without realizing.
That hadn't been some random nightmare. It felt... different.
Every detail stuck in his mind like thorns—
The blood-soaked battlefield.
The masked swordsman.
The girl with the crimson hair.
That name-
His fingers brushed his own chest as if he could still feel the weight of that mask resting against his face.
"...So this body really belonged to someone else," he muttered under his breath.
The thought hit him like a cold stone in his gut. He'd joked about it—half-expected it, even. Classic isekai setup: reincarnated, dropped into a fantasy world, maybe some bonus powers... but now, he was starting to see the edges of the truth. He hadn't just taken on the appearance of someone.
He was someone. Someone who had existed here before. Someone feared on battlefields. Someone whose past was not empty
Yukio leaned back against the wall beside the bed, staring out the window at that slowly brightening sky.
"Altair, huh?" he whispered. The name felt foreign and familiar all at once.
He didn't know what that dream meant—why he saw it, but it wasn't just a dream.
It was a memory.
And it wasn't his.
He stayed there for a while, watching the light slowly climb over the edge of the rooftops, eyes wide open, mind very much awake.