I reached the village just as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the wooden palisade. Two guards stood by the gate, their faces weathered, arms crossed, and expressions carved from the same stone as the fence.
As I stepped forward, one of them grunted, "Hold there, traveler. What business have ye with Whitmere village?"
I blinked. The words sounded ancient, like something from a Shakespeare remix. The language was strange but somehow… I understood perfectly.
"Uh… I'm just traveling through," I managed, feeling like I'd been dropped onto a Renaissance Faire stage without rehearsal.
The guard grunted again. "Aye, many say such, but none come here without reason. What say ye truly?"
Before panic could bloom, something clicked in my head. My voice shifted—deeper, rougher, laced with an accent I didn't know I had. Suddenly I sounded like I belonged in this dusty village, not some clueless college freshman dropped from another dimension.
"I be a humble merchant, just seeking rest and supplies afore I'm on my way to trade goods yonder," I said, my tone rich with practiced charm and a hint of weariness.
The guards exchanged a surprised glance.
The other guard narrowed his eyes. "A merchant, eh? And what wares might ye be carrying that'd warrant such a long journey?"
I glanced down at my mostly empty backpack and smiled wryly. "Fine silks from distant lands, spices rare as summer snow, and stories from places none here have ever dreamed."
They chuckled, their stony expressions softening.
"Come then," the first guard said, stepping aside. "Ye may enter—but mark me, Whitmere keeps no fools or spies."
I breathed out, still amazed.
Thousand Faces, I thought, you just saved me from turning into an awkward tourist billboard.
I stepped through the gate, and everything hit me at once.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and fresh earth, mixed with a faint tang of livestock and something sweet—maybe freshly baked bread.
People bustled about in clothes straight out of those medieval history books I barely skimmed in high school. Men in rough-spun tunics, women with braided hair and long skirts, kids running around with wooden swords pretending to be knights.
The way they talked—their whole rhythm and cadence—was like stepping into a play where everyone forgot their lines except the accents stuck.
No one was glued to glowing screens or staring down at tiny rectangles.
No honking cars or distant sirens.
Just the clop of horse hooves on cobblestones, the chatter of market vendors, and the occasional clang of a blacksmith hammering out horseshoes.
It was like I'd jumped through a time portal to a past that felt more real than the future I was supposed to save.
I swallowed hard, wondering if my college ID would even get me a discount here.
The village wasn't some tiny cluster of huts like I imagined—it stretched out wider than I expected. Not quite a town, but definitely more than a sleepy village. Streets crisscrossed between rows of houses, stalls, and workshops. The hum of life was steady, like a slow river flowing with purpose.
People moved with intention, selling goods, repairing tools, chatting with neighbors. Kids chased each other past a fountain that looked like it belonged in a storybook.
And me? Standing there, feeling like I just showed up in the wrong movie.
Then it hit me.
Money.
Yeah, not exactly the "divine chosen one" thing to worry about, but—how the heck do I eat here? Or buy a lousy pair of shoes that won't scream "outsider"?
This wasn't some one-shot deal. If I messed up, got hurt, or just plain failed, I might have to come back. Again. And again.
So I needed cash. Practical stuff. Food, lodging, maybe even a weapon if things got ugly.
No divine gold raining from the sky.
Just me. And whatever coins I could scrounge.
Welcome to fantasy survival 101.
But wait—don't I have the perfect skill for this? Golden Hands. I mean, literally the power to create anything, right?
I looked down at my hand, willing it to glow. A faint shimmer appeared, and then—bam! Coins started materializing out of nowhere. Copper, bronze, silver, even gold, though some looked a bit… off. Like they'd been made by a toddler with a hammer.
"Okay, okay, this is awesome!" I whispered, eyes wide. "Could I really just make money like this? Imagine cranking out cash from thin air. Retirement, here I come!"
Then, out of nowhere, the system interrupted like a strict teacher on a bad day.
> Tip: Powers can only be used in Elysia. Abilities do not function in your original world.
Wait, what? What kind of cosmic joke is that? I stared at the weirdly shaped coins vanishing into thin air.
"So you're telling me, in my own world—where I'm broke and eating instant noodles for dinner—I can't use my divine powers to print money? That's some next-level troll move."
I rubbed my temples. "Fantastic. So, Golden Hands only works there. Great. Just great."
But seriously though—money's one thing, but I need power. Influence. Because let's be honest, just having coins in your pocket doesn't mean squat if you can't do anything with them.
Good thing I at least have some idea. I'm a merchant. Or at least, I think I am. The kind of plan I always roll my eyes at whenever some isekai protagonist pulls it off.
"Sell modern stuff, use your 21st-century knowledge, and boom—you're rich!"
Yeah, that cheesy trope just popped into my head.
So I asked the system, "Hey, can I actually sell modern things here? Like, bring some tech or medicines, or heck, even recipes?"
> Tip: Affirmative. Marketable knowledge and items from your origin world may be utilized within Elysia's economy.
"Oh, you bet I will," I muttered. "If I can pull this off, power comes naturally with success. Influence, connections, people wanting to listen because they want a piece of that sweet new gadget or cure."
I smirked. "Looks like I'm about to become a medieval Amazon seller. Take that, history books."
"But let's start tomorrow," I said, glancing up as the sky shifted from gold to deep orange. "The sun's about to set, and I'd rather not get stabbed before I make my first sale."
> Tip: Wise decision. Nighttime in Elysia's forests can be… unpredictable.
"Unpredictable? That's one way to put it."
I pocketed the phone and looked around, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread.