Chapter 3 — Casting for a Hero

An open path stretched from the forest edge straight to the village, and roofs with smoke curling from chimneys were already looming ahead, never fading. Alex walked between Martha and Garrett, his wrists bound by a coarse rope, the ends of which the peasant held. Every step resulted in a slight tug on his skin, reminding him that illusions were gone. His scuffed, brown-stained jacket now seemed to him not just dirty clothing, but a mark of shame. Martha walked slightly ahead, clutching a basket of herbs and flowers to her chest; the sweet scent of herbs mingled with the distant aroma of smoke and bread from the village.

Alex looked at the basket. It was the only thing he could offer without words. He quickened his pace as much as the rope allowed and nodded toward the woven side, then at his bound hands. The gesture was clear: let me carry it, I'll help. Martha instinctively pressed the basket tighter to her chest, her elbows hugging her ribs as if he were already reaching out to steal. Garrett jerked the rope—not hard, but sharply. A low, abrupt sound escaped his throat, full of irritation. There was no rage in his voice, only the exhaustion of a man who, instead of a peaceful herb gathering, had to lead a suspicious stranger in bloodstained clothes into the village.

Alex lowered his hands. The rope on his wrists shifted slightly, chafing the skin. He understood. Even a desire to help was read as a threat here. Not a "useful hero," but a "suspicious type trying to get closer." The inner voice that had recently insisted on his status and the Hero's Mark fell silent. All that remained was a dull realization: to help, you first need people to believe in you. And he had nothing to make them believe. No words, no shared past, no clean clothes. Only tire tracks on his jacket and dried blood that now felt foreign even to him. Garrett wasn't evil—just practical, like anyone who lives from harvest to harvest. This realization stung sharper than the rope.

He fell silent. His steps grew heavier. The open space between the forest edge and the village outskirts left no room for illusions: the forest was behind him, and ahead lay a reality that could not be rewritten with gestures.

Garrett made a short guttural sound, addressing Martha. She replied with something quiet, without looking back. Alex decided it was time to go big. He stopped, forcing Garrett to freeze as well. He spread his bound hands as far as he could and began a pantomime, starting right with the climax. Palm to chest—here I am. Then he lifted his face to the sky, spreading his fingers as if light were falling from above, made a circular gesture as if a portal were opening, and pointed upward toward the clouds. He finished by poking himself in the chest and circling his arms around—here I am, right here, summoned, the chosen one, with a mission. Desperation shimmered in his eyes; he poured all the drama he remembered from dozens of watched anime into the gestures: the summoning, the goddess, the fate of the world.

The isekai drama now looked pathetic. His hands were shaking. When he tried to add sound, his voice came out as a hoarse moan.

Garrett and Martha looked at each other. There was no awe in their eyes. Only that cautious, slightly disgusted wariness with which one looks at a person who might suddenly lunge or burst into tears. Martha took a small step back, clutching her basket tighter. Garrett, already irritated by the repetition of oddities, took a warning step forward. His hand rested on the axe at his belt not by chance, but with a clear hint: enough. His gaze grew heavier, as if he were already calculating how much effort it would take to quiet the madman before he attracted the attention of the entire village.

Alex saw it. He saw how his "heroic monologue" had turned into a circus on an open path. Shame hit his face like a hot wave, then sank into his chest. Not shame for the dirty jacket or the bound hands—shame for the attempt itself. He lowered his palms. The rope tightened. He gestured no more. He simply walked, looking at his feet, where the grass gave way to mud and the first hint of a village road. The genre hadn't worked. All that remained was silence and the feeling that he had made a fool of himself in front of two people who just wanted to get their herbs home. His cheeks burned with shame: for the first time, he was ashamed not of his appearance, but of how he looked in their eyes.

The village grew closer, no longer hidden by trees but right before them—mundane and devoid of any fairy-tale quality. No towers, no carved gates with magical runes. A dozen low houses with thatched roofs, darkened by rain and time. Mud instead of pavement, puddles reflecting a gray sky. Chickens scratched in the refuse. A thin dog raised its head, barked lazily, and lay down again. A few ragged children froze with sticks in their hands, staring at the stranger. Their faces weren't filled with wonder, but were simply curious and a bit frightened.

Alex watched and felt the last illusion crumble. In an anime, there would be an adventurers' guild with a notice board, a statue of a goddess in the central square, a market with magic potions. Here there was poverty, the tired faces of women hanging laundry, the smell of manure, smoke, and wet earth. Even if he suddenly gained power, there was nowhere to apply it. This was not a world of adventure. This was a world where people simply lived—and he didn't fit into it.

Martha and Garrett led him straight to the largest house—a log cabin with a wide bench by the entrance. The door opened. The village elder stepped onto the porch: elderly, wiry, with deep wrinkles and a sharp, assessing gaze. His hair was gray and cropped short. He wiped his hands on a linen apron and looked at Alex as if he were a puzzle that needed to be solved quickly and practically before dark.

Garrett spoke briefly, pointing to Alex, his ridiculous outfit, and the brown stains. Martha added a few phrases, her voice softer but equally wary. The elder listened, nodding. Then he stepped closer. He examined Alex from head to toe—not as a threat, but as an object to be classified. His eyes lingered on the stranger's gaze, his tangled hair, and an old scar on his forearm visible beneath the sleeve.

The elder asked questions, judging by his gestures and intonation: sharp hand movements toward Alex, pointing to the jacket, the sky, the path behind. The meaning could be guessed by the tone—who are you, where are you from, why the blood, where is your lord or community? Alex tried again. Without the pantomime this time, just words and gestures. He pointed to the sky, to himself, to the ground. "Summoned. Other world. Accident. Help." His voice cracked. The elder listened in silence. His gaze grew colder. Not a superstitious glint, not fear of the chosen one—just a tired understanding: a vagabond, a deserter, or a madman. When Alex fell silent, the elder turned to Garrett and said something short, with the intonation of a final sentence.

One of the peasants standing nearby was rubbing his arm. Alex noticed: on the forearm was a fresh, inflamed wound—a cut, dirty around the edges, with red streaks. His heart hammered. A last trump card. He pointed to the wound, then to himself, made a gesture of washing, of clean cloth, pointed to the well, then to his own shirt under the jacket—he wanted to tear off a strip. "I know how. Wash it. Don't touch with dirty hands."

Martha—or perhaps a healer who had just approached—caught his hand and pushed him away sharply. Not rudely, but firmly. They knew about washing wounds. It wasn't a secret, not magic—just daily life. And he, in bloodstained clothes, with dirty palms, reaching for someone else's wound, looked dangerous. The elder shot a glance at Garrett—get rid of him. Alex lowered his hand. In that moment, he understood completely: his knowledge wasn't better, it was just different. Here, it was worth nothing. The only tool he had was completely broken. Everything he had brought from his world proved useless in this one.

The elder nodded to the guard.

A large man with a club approached. The smell of sweat and leather hit his nose. He grabbed Alex by the shoulder, turned him face-to-face against the wall of the house, and began to search him. The hands were rough, confident. Alex didn't resist, but when the guard twisted his arm behind his back, the rope bit into his skin. The pain was sudden and very real—a hot abrasion on the wrist, blood appearing immediately. From his pockets, they pulled out the dead phone—a black rectangle that the guard turned over in his hands, not understanding what it was. An empty wallet with bank cards and apartment keys, which jingled and fell into the mud.

The guard showed the finds to the elder. The latter touched the phone, grunted, and handed it back. The guard smirked, slid the phone into his own pocket, and muttered something mocking, stroking the black rectangle—apparently deciding the object would be useful around the house or for sale. He tossed the keys and wallet onto the ground. Alex watched them sink into a puddle. The last thread to his past life vanished into another man's pocket. The pain in his wrist pulsed. This wasn't an abstract longing. This was real, physical pain of the new world—the first real wound here, not from a truck, but from a rope and rough hands.

The elder delivered a short verdict. By all appearances, the stranger was not a local, could not explain himself, had no lord, and held no value. Escort him past the outskirts before sunset.

Garrett untied the rope. Not out of pity—simply so he wouldn't have to drag a bound man through the whole village. The guard shoved Alex in the back. The peasants watched them go—not with malice, but with finality. You are not one of us. Alex walked past the houses, past the children who now hid behind their mothers, past the chickens scattering from under his feet. Every step echoed in the abrasion on his wrist and in his chest, where there was now only an empty, heavy silence.

At the outskirts, the guard pushed him harder. Alex stumbled, falling on one knee into the mud. The cold of the wet earth seeped through his trousers. Pain from the bruise shot through his leg. The guard turned and left without looking back.

Alex was left alone. Outside the village. The sun was already turning red, sinking behind the distant forest. The shadows were growing long. He stood there, looking at the receding village, the wisps of smoke from the chimneys, the thatched roofs that now seemed not an adventure, but simply a foreign home that had refused him entry.

There wasn't even panic inside. Only emptiness, quiet and deep. He was not a hero who would return after a first exile. He was a vagabond in bloodstained office clothes, without a phone, without a wallet, without a single word in the local language. Without skills that anyone here needed. Without a plan.

Somewhere in the bushes behind him, a gust of wind suddenly rustled, bringing with it a sharp smell of ozone and damp pine needles—alien, like before a thunderstorm. Alex shuddered. Deja vu. The feeling passed, leaving a chill down his spine. He turned and began to walk along the road—not back to the village where he would be driven away again, but away, into the deepening twilight. The first night in a foreign world was beginning without a roof, without a fire, and without the slightest idea of what to do next.