I spend the next five days slowly making my way overland to the city, following the directions on the crude map the old man gave me.

  After a day of travel, the surroundings slowly change, going from incessant farmland to a rougher wilderness. Still populated, but less densely, the next house or homestead often being invisible until I walk many kilometers. After two days of walking through the wilderness, this trend reverses, and farmland and husbandry grow more prominent again.

  From that point, I pass through three villages, too small to have even a proper tavern, all surrounded by scattered plots of farmland and further out, pastures. These are mostly populated by goats and sheep, or the occasional cow or ox. After the three villages, I find a larger town, probably the central gathering point for this area. It amuses me that I categorize them by whether or not they have a tavern, but it seems like a decent proxy for size. None of them are situated more than half a days travel from one another, which I guess makes sense when people walk everywhere. You want to be able to reach a market and come back in a day.

  Outside of these population centers I pass, there are a few huts and farms, but I have to believe those people live in the middle of nowhere deliberately. Most others seem to like the security and convenience of having their fields and animals close together. The occasional ox-wagon I pass also seem to align with that idea. Supplies seem to be carried in the direction of the city I’m hopefully heading towards, and empty wagons, and the occasional merchant comes back towards these villages.

  Once in a while, I’m passed by true caravans, a whole line of wagons filled with a variety of goods passing me by. It is sometimes hard to notice these until they nearly overtake me, and the first time I nearly jumped out of my skin. They give me some hope that I’m going the right direction though. After the first few times, I figure out the appropriate greeting for the scenario by virtue of observing other travelers. Thereafter, passing caravans are politely greeted and cause me little anxiety.

  I eat my way through several days worth of provisions, and my sack becomes noticeably lighter every day. I don’t lack for water though, passing by two streams and eventually a river. Between those and the water-skin I took from the bandit, I’m never thirsty.

  I mostly try to avoid people, especially after the incident. Any time I see a large group coming towards me, I quickly hide off-road. It is actually surprisingly easy to see large groups coming due to the dust they kick up on this road. I’m happy to say that I have no idea who or what any of those dust clouds were. There is also the occasional lone traveler, but we mostly just leave each other alone. Some give me wary glances, while others enthusiastically exchange greetings. I suppose you get people of every sort.

  There is a minor event when I take my scarf off after not seeing anyone for half a day or so. It’s on a smaller road in the middle of my journey, and I figure it will be fine. I know murphy, but walking and seeing nothing but trees for hours on end weakens the mind. I strapped on the sword right after leaving the town, and haven’t taken it off for any reason. A lone woman traveling probably makes a tempting target. I don’t feel like I can be paranoid enough in this regard.

  Unfortunately it bites me in the ass when I come across a man traveling in the opposite direction from me. I don’t pay much attention to him, and he to me. But right as he is passing by he apparently finally notices me, and lets out this bloodcurdling scream, and immediately dashes away from me as if the devil is on his heels. I try to stop him of course, but the shouts in a broken attempt at his language only serve to spur him on. He drops random possessions on the road behind him as he makes his escape. To keep me busy I suppose, but what the hell. Anyway, I just let him run off, chasing after him would just serve to make it worse.

  I yank the scarf back over my head and tie it with angry, jerking motions. Sweat trickles down my neck where the fabric traps the heat, but I keep it there, even when the road stretches empty before me. That idiot’s screams still echo in my ears. Let him run to the nearest guard post—by the time they drag their armored asses out here, I’ll be leagues away. Still, no point tempting fate again. My fingers brush against the sword at my hip as I adjust the scarf one final time, making sure not a single strand of hair peeks out.

  Then, I crouch down and sort through the scattered items on the dusty road, my fingers closing around a leather pouch that jingles when I lift it. The coins inside clink together as I weigh it in my palm, and I pause. The word ‘stolen’ floats through my mind, but I snort and shake my head. My other pouch—the one I definitely stole from that village—sits heavy in my bag. I hold both pouches up, one in each hand like a merchant’s scale. The new pouch is noticably heavier than the last. The mental gymnastics dance through my head: found isn’t stolen, right? I can’t exactly chase down a screaming madman to return his dropped coins. With a shrug, I tighten my grip on both of them Money is money, after all. The rest is… trash, if only he’d thrown away his boots.

  The coins in this new pouch are a deal more interesting than what I liberated earlier. There’s two new varieties of coinage. 3 large silvers and 5 small silvers. There’s also a whole set of square copper ones with a hole in. The copper ones baffle me. Why is there a hole in the middle? Maybe they use it to hang them on a string or something?

  Regardless, I’m now the proud owner of three hefty silver coins, each about 3 centimeters wide. I also have five smaller silver coins that measure 2 centimeters across, and when you add the 23 new tiny copper coins to the seven I already had, which are just 1.5 centimeters on each side and as flat as can be without slicing your fingers on the edges, it adds up to quite a collection. All of these coins look just like you’d imagine old coins would: they have that rough, worn appearance, as if someone bashed them with a hammer, leaving their edges cracked and uneven. Unfortunately, they also weigh as much as you’d expect from metal coins, and I find myself sorely wishing for my precious credit card.

  Since there’s no hope of obtaining such a thing, I secure the coins in one of my leather belt pouches. This seems a lot safer to me than the loose pouches that these people apparently favor. It just seems designed for a pickpocket to cut them off your belt. Conversely, I can keep the pouch closed with a little leather buckle, which is quite the bitch to undo, ergo, safe. I’m not sure why that man could untie his pouch so quickly. It’s almost like he had it ready to throw at me. Maybe he wanted to use it to distract bandits?

  I’m left wondering how much money it actually is though, as I have no idea about the exchange rate. The size of the large silvers seems to say they’re at least twice as valuable as the small ones just by virtue of the material, but I have no idea if it’s actually silver, pure, or something like that. Same for the copper, which I just call copper because it looks vaguely like it.

  When I have the chance, I create a shelter. When I don’t, or really, when I don’t feel like it, I don’t. I’m not sure if better to make one or not, but it cuts into my travel time, and I haven’t been mauled by any animals, so it’s probably fine to do without. I guess that, while this area is only sparsely populated, it’s still populated enough that most wild animals feel more comfortable elsewhere.

  One night, I jolt awake as cold water slams into my face and immediately drenches through my clothes. The rain hammers down around me, turning the ground beneath into mud that seeps through my back. Through squinted eyes, I watch dark clouds race across the night sky, their edges illuminated by the moon. The storm passes as quickly as it arrived, leaving me shivering and dripping. Every time I close my eyes to try sleeping again, my mind drifts to that other night—soaked in something far worse than rainwater… No. Not going there. I roll onto my side, but sleep stays stubbornly out of reach.

  Eventually though, I finally reach my destination.

  I’m not all that high above the plain, but my perspective gives me a good view of the city.

  It lies on the edge of the ocean, where a smallish river runs into the sea. Smallish is relative here, I’ve seen some truly massive rivers, but this one is barely ten meters wide where it enters the city, though small canals spread the water around after entry. I suppose they built the city here so they’d have access to both freshwater as well as the sea. The city sits right on top of the river, and it sort of divides the city in half.

  There’s an inner city with large crenelated walls constructed of rough limestone that I guess are roughly seven to eight meters high and and several thick. It makes me wonder if whether they’re solid or packed with dirt. That looks a volume of stone that’s too hard to obtain. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen any solid stone to quarry, though I guess that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, limestone was supposed to be relatively abundant. Maybe you can just dig down anywhere and find it? Every fourty to fifty meters a tower sits on the wall, complete with a tiled roof and an overhang that presumably allows it’s occupants to attack those below.

  Back home, I’d traced my fingers along crumbling ruins, squeezed through gaps where gates once stood, climbed over tumbled castle stones that whispered of faded glory. But this—this is what those ruins dreamed of being. The weathered limestone blocks lock together, each one nearly as large as I am tall. Shit, no wonder armies broke against walls like these. For once, reality matches the grandiose images in my head, and I find myself grinning like an idiot at the sight. Those Theodosian walls I’d read about? Yeah, I get it now.

  There is a second walled section on the west side of the river that has seemingly grown out of the inner city. It covers an area nearly the same size as the central walled portion but is more stretched out along the coast. It feels like this portion was added later, when the city grew too big for the inner walls. It’s surrounded by a much smaller brick wall that I can’t imagine keeps a determined attacker out, but would prevent casual entry.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  There’s a gate on every major side of the inner city, though the outer section has only as single opening, where the wall just ceases for about ten meters and then continues. Major roads stretch out from all three major arteries, all flanked by their own sets of buildings. Orchards with trees and fields with what I guess are vegetables—mostly since it’s not grain or corn—can be seen between the buildings. These seem to mainly be located outside either wall, though there’s a few visible inside the outer wall as well. Beyond this, on the majority of the plain surrounding the city, the fields of corn and wheat that I’ve been traveling through to get here seem to get denser, leaving no space unoccupied.

  Occassionally, between these fields, are copses of trees that don’t look nearly as wild and primal as the ones I saw during my journey here. I suppose they’re trying to keep an easy source of wood within easy access. On the far side of the plain, the remains of what I suppose was the last bit of that primal forest still remain, pushed further and further back by the encroaching farmland.

  The river’s traffic catches my eye as vessels of various sizes drift downstream. A few simple barges creep along, their oxen straining against ropes on the bank. Most boats drift with the current, their crews jabbing long poles into the riverbed to avoid the banks. One vessel stands out—it cuts through the water faster than should be possible, no oxen in sight. The canvas-covered cargo hold conceals its contents, though the way it sits low in the water suggests grain. Then again, who knows what’s really under there.

  I imagine the population outside the walls would retreat into the main city in the case of an assault. It seems impossible to fight a battle for the outer wall, given the large area it encompasses and lacking bulk. Makes me wonder why they built it at all. Maybe it was originally meant to be larger? The main wall is solid though. I wonder if magic would mean anything for its effectiveness. The thought I had earlier about pebbles comes back to me, and I wonder what a pebble launched at railgun velocities would do to the walls. Probably need something slightly bigger if you want to have a useful effect. There’s only so much the square law can do.

  On the seaward side, the city sports a port that spans nearly the entire length of the city, filled with tens of ships, one or two seem to be on approach further down the coast. There seem to be two main types. Trading ships dominate the western docks, their round hulls bobbing gently in the waves. On the eastern side, sleek warships crowd together, their oars lifted like the legs of resting waterbirds. The row of galleys stretches all the way to the base of a stone fortress that looms over that end of the harbor. The keep’s shadow falls across their decks, its height making even these warships look small.

  All in all, the city is a lot larger than I expected. I’d always heard that medieval cities were, well, not small, but bar a few bizarre metropolises like Rome or Constantinople, fairly small. It’s all a guess of course, but the extended area around the city should hold on the order of fifty thousand people. Of course, that’s basically the size of the town I grew up in in my world, but we had an industrialized society. It must take quite a bit of effort to supply a city this size. Guess that’s easier when you’re located at the mouth of a river and bordering the sea, but still.

  It’s clear that it takes some doing though. The road churns with activity—travelers on foot weave between the vehicles, kicking up dust as they trudge along with packs on their backs. A shepherd and his flock force a wagon to halt, sheep bleating as they spill across the path. Though I’m still an hour from the gates, the constant flow of traffic heading to and from the city already surrounds me.

  I can’t help but be excited as I make my way down to the main entrance of the inner city.

  As I make my way through the traffice that gets denser and denser as I approach the city, the mix of people, wagons, and animals nearly overwhelming. Eventually, I pass a long line of wagons waiting their turn to enter the city. Not everyone is so polite, and the crowd sort of breaks around the wagons, flooding into the direction of the gate.

  I’m slightly worried about what awaits me at the gates. My mind is filled with examples of corruption, bribes and thorough inspections before the guards let you through. I have to wonder if that’s why this line is so long.

  Bodies press against me from all sides as the crowd surges forward like a river toward the gates. The setting sun casts long shadows across our faces, and the pushing intensifies with each passing moment. A rough shove sends me stumbling between two goats, their coarse fur scratching against my arms and their pungent smell filling my nostrils. “Watch it, you idiots!” I snap, but my voice is lost in the bleating and the general commotion of the crowd. I suppose they wouldn’t know what I said anyway.

  When I get to the front, the situation is not at all as I expected. The people on foot pass through the gate with nothing more than a casual glance from the guards. They’re not even required to pay anything. Seeing how everyone just flows in, I’m baffled at this massive line of wagons standing here.

  The next wagon lurches forward with a groan of wood, and the guards snap to attention, their arms spreading wide to hold back the crowd. My jaw drops as the true scale of the thing hits me - it’s a behemoth that dwarfs every other cart I’ve seen today. No horses strain at the front; instead, a single channeler sits there, eyes focused in concentration as the massive vehicle responds to their will. The wooden monster stretches longer than two houses laid end to end, its width eating up most of the road. These dimensions trigger a memory of the lorries from my old world, though this thing is built entirely of timber and iron. I find myself shaking my head as I watch the lone mage guide it forward, wondering how in the hells they manage to control something so massive.

  The mage’s pristine blue tunic stands in stark contrast to the sawdust-covered clothes I saw on the lumber wagon channelers. He sits with his back straight, chin lifted, every act precise and measured - more like a scholar than a workman. Beside him, a merchant lounges in silk brocade that probably costs more than I made in a year, his ringed fingers drumming lazily on the wagon’s edge as he surveys the crowd. I can practically smell the coin purse that pays for the mage’s services.

  I crane my neck to study the wagon’s cargo. Wooden barrels tower precariously above weathered crates, with bulging sacks wedged into every gap between them. The scent of herbs mingles with the musty smell of grain. I’m very curious to see how the guards will deal with this one. So I’m again surprised when the merchant flicks the guards a single small silver. It catches the evening light before landing in a guard’s palm with a dull clink. The guard tips his head in a lazy nod, and the massive wagon creaks forward through the gate, its contents uninspected and unchallenged.

  The wagon grinds to a halt at the gate’s mouth, its sides nearly scraping both posts. The mage’s hands twitch as he maneuvers the wagon back and forth, sweat beading on his forehead. Wood groans against stone as he inches forward, then stops. Backs up. Tries again. The massive vehicle edges sideways, threatening to wedge itself in the three-meter tunnel through the walls. My fingernails dig into my palms as I watch him navigate the narrow passage with the precision of a surgeon. He’s good but the laws of space and size are working against him.

  Curses and groans ripple through the crowd as the wagon jerks backward yet again. A pig squeals by my feet, its owner yanking its rope with growing frustration. “Gluais!” someone shouts from behind me, their voice joining the crescendo of bleating sheep and angry mutters. I watch the mage’s face twitch, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as the wagon rolls backwards for another attempt. His earlier poise cracks like thin ice, replaced by the desperate concentration of a man realizing he might have bitten off more than he can chew.

  I stifle a snort as I watch the scene unfold, memories of endless project meetings flashing through my mind. I can just picture the gate engineer at his desk, confidently scratching “three meters” onto his plans while across town some wagon builder stretches his designs wider and wider. Neither of them ever bothering to check with the other. The same shit, different century - instead of code breaking because of mismatched specifications, we’ve got wood scraping against stone and a very sweaty mage. At least my software bugs never blocked traffic for half the city.

  In a flash of curiosity, I activate my juice sight, wondering if the mage is using that as we speak, to try to make minute adjustments a bit easier. God knows if anything will be visible, but it’s worth a try.

  Faint symbols pulse around the wagon like fireflies, blinking in and out faster than I can track. Each flare leaves a ghostly afterimage. They must be runes but they’re softer, blurred—as if I’m viewing them through frosted glass. I can catch their dance but can’t quite grasp their form. I involuntarily take a step forward to see better. The shapes sharpen slightly with each step closer, teasing at recognition. I wonder if I’d be able to make them out if I stood right in front of his nose.

  I wonder if this is something that improves with experience, where I’ll eventually be able to see them properly even from a distance. It occurs to me that what whatever he’s doing would be impossible if he didn’t have the same bullet time power. While the physical world moves slower, the second world, the overlayed one in which juice lives, moves normally, as if it were real-time.

  I can only imagine all these runes that appear make minute adjustments to the direction the wagon moves. It seems excessive though. Doesn’t he just want it to go it back or forward? Maybe a little bit sideways?

  I drop the juice sight. If I can see what he’s doing, he might well be able to notice me looking at him too. The only thing I see is the runes appearing, but who knows what kind of tells there are that you only notice if you have a bit more experience.

  There’s no indication of that right now though. I suddenly wonder if mages can somehow detect other mages. I didn’t note anything special about the man until he literally showed me he was a mage by moving a wagon without oxen. Hell, for all I know the real mage is the merchant, and the sweating guy is just a masterful actor.

  I count every painful minute as the wagon inches into position, its wheels finally finding purchase on the cobblestones. It crawls through the gate like a wounded beast, accompanied by a smattering of half-hearted claps. “Mu dheireadh thall, a bhalaich!” one guard spits, while his partner clenches his fists and unleashes a stream of colorful curses at the merchant. My momentary relief evaporates as another mountain of wood and canvas emerges from the line, towering just as high as the last. Before the guards can even straighten their backs, the crowd shoots forward like water from a broken dam, shoulders and elbows shoving the red-faced guards aside as bodies squeeze through the gap. Nobody’s waiting another quarter hour to make their way inside.

  I’m carried along by the crowd, and finally pass by the guards and into the city. The gatehouse has large, steel banded doors, and I can’t help but admire the double portcullis that is just behind, and further down inside the gate. Its iron bars nearly as thick as my forearm. How do you even make such a thing without rolling the iron?

  I have no time to contemplate it though, as the crowd pushes me forward relentlessly. Finally, I set foot inside the city for the first time. The cobblestones feel different under my bare feet—smoother, more worn than the packed dirt I’ve been walking on so far. Will this place be better for me than Ronain’s village? He seemed to think so, but I can’t help but feel anxious about what awaits me here.