As dusk fell, the setting sun turned everything to molten gold.
Harano was panting like an ox, bent over with his head low, carrying his unconscious friend as he struggled up the mountain ridge. When he finally looked up, the scenery before his eyes opened up at last: gone were the endless, gloomy mountains, replaced by a vast expanse of gray, desolate wilderness.
Across the barren land ran a slanting river, its surface glittering under the afterglow of sunset, as if all the years were at peace in this moment.
Taking in this beautiful view, Harano let out a huge sigh of relief, a faint smile appearing on his lips, but that trace of a smile quickly vanished. He squatted down and gently laid his unconscious friend on the ground, checked his forehead and pulse, and silently sighed again.
They'd run into an accident while hiking in the mountains.
He was a college student studying abroad in Nagoya, Japan, on his winter break during second year, when his childhood buddy—his dumbass friend of three years in high school, Meng Ziqi—had come all the way across the sea to visit him—well, visit in name only; it was really just an excuse to travel. Meng Ziqi was an active little chubby guy, studying at a 211 university back home, who'd long wanted to have a go at Japan.
The two hadn't seen each other for over a year, but there was no awkwardness at all. While laughing their heads off and digging up each other's black history, they hung out in Nagoya for five or six days. But then Meng Ziqi quickly got bored, thinking Japan was nowhere near as interesting as anime made it out to be. So he wanted to check out some natural scenery, take a few photos at Ise Mountain to brag about later. But as soon as they entered the mountain, they ran smack into a thick, choking fog.
The fog was so dense, at one meter you could barely tell people from animals; at three meters, you could hear someone but not see them.
They'd never seen fog this insane before, and they even heard huge thunder peals inside the mist, flashes of light and flickers that seemed like lightning strikes. That made them afraid to stay put for fear of getting unlucky and being struck down by the gods, so they had no choice but to grope their way forward—which is how disaster struck. Harano was up front scouting the path, and stepped into empty air; his dumbass friend Meng Ziqi hurled himself forward to grab him, barely saving Harano from breaking his neck. But Meng Ziqi wasn't so lucky, threw himself too hard and smacked his head—couldn't see clearly in the fog, must've been a rock or something—and passed out cold right there.
When Harano finally managed to find a flat, relatively safe spot, and waited until the fog slowly began to clear, Meng Ziqi still hadn't woken up. So Harano had no choice but to ditch most of their stuff, keeping only one backpack with some emergency supplies and a little food and water hanging from his chest, then slung Meng Ziqi on his back and started a DIY rescue mission.
It was tough as hell—he couldn't find the trail they'd come up, his phone had no signal, no way to call for help, so he could only guess the general direction and force his way over mountain after mountain.
He'd been trekking for more than half a day, stumbling through twisty mountain paths until his legs were shaking, sweat pouring like a waterfall, and his breath coming in ragged gasps—almost to the point of despair. Only at dusk did he finally see a glimmer of hope for rescue.
But hey, hope is hope!
He got his breath back, double-checked Meng Ziqi to confirm nothing had gotten worse, then hoisted him onto his back again and hurried down the mountain, plunging into a thick forest.
He needed to get Meng Ziqi to a hospital ASAP. Hopefully this idiot would be all right—if not, Harano would regret it for life and wouldn't have the face to go home again!
......
It was way easier going downhill, so Harano moved noticeably lighter on his feet. As the forest thinned and the terrain leveled out, a mountain breeze brushed past, and his ears perked up—faintly, he heard the sound of singing in the distance.
He cursed under his breath—finally, people!—and put in an extra burst of effort, speeding up his descent. But the second he broke through the treeline, before he even had a chance to shout for help, he slammed to a halt, all joy instantly gone.
This was a natural terrace halfway up the mountain, with a massive black boulder in the middle. Right now, a group of oddly dressed little people were stomping and clapping in a half-circle around the boulder, like they were dancing or praying. In front of the rock, another person was slowly swaying their body and singing some weird song in a long, drawn-out voice. Most crucially, there was a person lying sprawled on top of the rock, apparently being used as a living sacrifice.
Honestly, the whole thing looked straight out of the underworld; it'd fit right into a horror flick.
Harano froze, didn't dare keep moving forward, adjusted his unconscious friend on his back, his gaze turning intense and wary.
He'd been studying in Japan long enough to know the country crawled with all kinds of weird cults—doomsday cults, immortality cults, worshippers of evil gods and monsters, you name it, and every so often someone would end up dead. Now he'd blundered into one in the middle of nowhere—if they decided to "sacrifice" him and Meng Ziqi alongside, nobody would even hear him yell for justice. There was no way not to be on alert.
Harano's sudden rush out of the trees wasn't exactly quiet, though. Among the little people, a guy in a straw hat holding a bamboo pole seemed extra vigilant; as soon as he heard the noise, he turned and called out, and instantly the whole group swiveled to stare at Harano.
With everyone staring, Harano raised his eyebrows, face growing icier and gaze darker, one hand steadying his friend, the other gripping the electric stick tucked in the mesh pocket of his backpack—a perfectly legal purchase. As a foreign student lugging around a non-Japanese-speaking idiot all over a foreign country, he had to carry some protection, just in case things went sideways. He hesitated, debating whether to slowly back into the woods, but worried moving back would spook these cultists and escalate things into a real shitshow—making it all the more dangerous.
Mainly, he had zero confidence that, in a strange forest, at dusk, muscles already jelly from exhaustion, he could escape a whole mob of people while piggybacking a little chubster.
For a beat, he said nothing, mind whirling, scrambling for a strategy. Opposite him, the group didn't speak either, just stared in stunned silence. Only the cold wind and the whine of the trees filled the air.
......
Jūbē was utterly confused. He'd just been singing a lament, praying to the Mountain God for mercy on his ailing companion, hoping for deliverance from sickness and a return to health—when out of nowhere, two strangers suddenly charged down from the mountain. Strangers who were clearly no ordinary folk.
It was hard to see the one being carried, but the one carrying was definitely unusual: sword-browed, star-eyed, and strikingly handsome, tall and powerful—easily over six and a half shaku (one shaku is about 0.269 meters), maybe even seven shaku, solid and imposing.
His hair was neatly trimmed, obviously well cared for, and though his skin wasn't as pale as a noble lady's, it had a certain shine—clear sign he'd lived a pampered, well-fed life since childhood.
The clothes were odd, but the fabric looked fine and high-class, with a soft sheen under sunset—prettier than ketsu (a kind of rough silk), way too nice for a nobody, not even your run-of-the-mill provincial lord would have such elegant threads.
Jūbē could swear on his ten years' service in Hosokawa Castle: this guy was definitely a big shot—possibly outright nobility. At any rate, not the type a regular household servant or Lang Faction footman like him could afford to offend.
Jūbē stared, dumbstruck, for a few seconds. Suddenly his heart clenched. Seeing the "big shot" glaring coldly at him with obvious displeasure—seemingly annoyed at Jūbē's lack of manners, just standing there like an idiot instead of bowing—he rushed forward and dropped to his knees, bowing low as he said: "Forgive me, lord, I am Jūbē, head laborer of Hibi Village. Might there be anything this humble one can do for you?"
Harano was now equally bewildered. Sure, Japanese people liked kneeling, but he'd never seen someone hit the ground with their forehead at "hello." And this guy's getup…
Up close, the old man looked at least fifty, very short, maybe only about 1.45 meters. He wore a faded, rough cloth jacket (some kind of short robe), with a deep blue vest patterned with six white circles on top (it looked like a knee-length vest), a narrow black cloth belt around his waist, a short knife about thirty centimeters long stuck in it, baggy trousers down to the mid-calf, and barefoot in ragged Blessing Grass Shoes.
So, how to put this?
This old guy had some constitution—Nagoya summers weren't cold, but winter's not exactly balmy, usually sitting around 4-5°C without much wind. But this guy's barefoot, wearing nothing but a single layer and a vest, shins out—was he made of iron?!
And that short knife looked suspicious too—not only was there no sheath, the blade was notched all over and stained black, as if from lots of hard strikes against other ironware. The more he looked, the more it screamed "murder weapon."
The old guy's hair was weird too. The front was either shaved or just balding, but in any case, he was half-bald, and the rest of his hair was tied in an n-shaped knot with a strip of cloth at the back of his head—a classic Japan Middle Ages museum hairstyle.
Harano couldn't understand most of what he'd said; the accent was thick as hell. He caught "lord" and "need," but the rest sounded like total gibberish…
Harano scratched his head, glanced at the group farther up and noticed they were all dressed basically like the old man—maybe without the vest with "six white circles," but just as shabby, just as thinly clad, and just as short. Anyone pushing 1.55 meters was a giant here.
Even if this was some elaborate COSPLAY of medieval types, these guys were too into it—too realistic. Not a single slip!
Harano looked around, adjusted Meng Ziqi on his back, and thought about all the bizarre stuff after getting lost in that fog and lightning in the mountains—
Ise Mountain is a thoroughly modern hiking area, with fancy new onsen resorts, demon folklore hot spots, mountain hostelries, spas, and climbing stations all over the place. There should have been tons of tourists, too. Yet all afternoon, piggybacking his dumbass friend, he hadn't seen a single living soul!
Not only no people, he'd come across wild animals again and again.
Rabbits and pheasants scurried everywhere, herds of deer wandered about, he'd even found what looked like a giant pile of wild boar poop in a valley, his phone showed no signal at all, he'd hiked through pine woods where loads of top-grade matsutake mushrooms were just lying around untouched, and flocks of white egrets leapt over the hills heading for Lake Biwa…
At the time he was too wiped out from trekking with a guy on his back to care, but looking back now—
A bad feeling crept into his heart. As wild as it sounded, it seemed like the only explanation—should he tell himself this was all a live-action variety show, one of those TV prank gigs on random tourists? He'd rather believe he'd transmigrated.
But could he really have transmigrated just like that, without any warning, while carrying his unconscious dumbass friend?
And if so… where the hell had they landed?