No Holds Barred (Mushoku Tensei/Celestial Dojo) - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

K413 — The Citadel of Roa, Fittoa Region

My aching ribs wake me up once again… not that they ever stop hurting. It’s more that they ache more because I rolled over, where something shifts beneath all the cloth wrapped around my chest, and suddenly it feels like some cunt’s jammed a knife between my ribs thanks to the fucking cobblestone floor.

My eyes snap open to the grey sky.

…Right. Still here.

“Fucking hell...”

I lie there for a bit, mostly because moving seems like a shit idea. Breathing isn’t much better, but unfortunately I need to keep doing that if I want to live. Sitting up, I lift my shirt and look down at the bandages wrapped around my chest.

…Bandages might be generous. They’re strips of cloth—clean ones, at that. Some old woman found me yesterday after those cunts kicked the shit out of me.

…Of course, I couldn’t understand a fucking word she said, and she couldn’t understand me either. Wherever I ended up after running into the street to save those idiot teenagers and that hobo, it’s definitely not Japan. How the fuck does a truck send you back in time is the better question. The language barrier didn’t stop her from poking my ribs until I nearly punched her.

…I didn’t, obviously. She was about seventy and helping me. The help hurt like a motherfucker, though. I let my shirt fall. This hoodie used to be grey. It’s sort of... brown now on account of all the tumbles I’ve taken.

A lot of it because of fights. I wasn’t always homeless. My out-of-place clothes aside, people are eager for a helping hand in these medieval times, I guess. Even if I can’t speak, I’m pretty peeled. Not like there’s much use for that shit in the modern world, but for the first week or so, it got me somewhere to sleep and somewhere to lay my head.

Not knowing the language leaves you open to getting fleeced, which is why I’m homeless. Get in too many fights and people’ll be less willing to give you work. But if I don’t, shitheels will get bright ideas. I ain’t letting myself be a doormat, goddamn it…

I’ve been here seventeen days, I think. I stopped keeping track properly after my phone died. I still have it, though. My hand goes to my pocket anyway, fingers closing around the familiar rectangle. I pull it out and stare at my reflection in the black screen.

Eiji Takase:

…Jeez. I didn’t think I looked this bad.

One eye’s still swollen. There’s a cut running through my eyebrow, my bottom lip’s split, and I’ve got enough stubble growing in that my old man would start complaining if he saw me. Somehow my earring’s still there. I was sure someone would steal it off me after yesterday. Hell, I tried to sell it, but the dude at the stall gave me this long look. I think he thought I stole it.

I ruffle my bleached hair and shove the phone back into my pocket with another wince. There’s no point thinking about that right now.

…Food. I’m so goddamn hungry.

I push myself upright.

“Fuuuuuck… I wouldn’t have lost that fight if I’d eaten, goddamn it!”

I’m pretty sure some of my ribs are cracked. My right hand isn’t much better. The knuckles are swollen, but it’s okay… I think? I flex it just to be sure.

…Good enough.

My left hand’s fine, and so are my legs. I could fight if I had to… but I haven’t eaten properly in days. The smell doesn’t help. Anytime I get a whiff of something halfway edible, my stomach cramps so hard I actually stop moving.

The alley shifts for a second, and I put a hand against the wall, steadying on the cobblestone. As far as I know, this place I’ve found myself in is called Roa in the Asura country, I think?

I step out into the street. It’s always fucking busy. Carts rattling over stone, with people everywhere. They’re shouting shit I don’t understand at other people also shouting shit I don’t understand. I’m not someone who gets overstimulated—or at least, I thought so till I wound up here!

…How the fuck am I not dead? People die when they get hit by speeding trucks, right? But I woke up here completely fine. What about those kids and the fatass hobo?

“Ugh…” I lurch back, nearly running into some guy carrying a sword.

…Still not used to that. Well, no. That’s a lie. The swords are fucking cool. It’s everything else I’m not used to.

I keep walking. Nobody pays much attention to me anymore. The first few days, everyone stared. I’m wearing trainers, joggers, a T-shirt, and a hoodie in a place where half the men look like they walked out of a medieval fair and the other half look like they could be extras in Lord of the Rings.

I might not know where I am, how I got here, or the gibberish everyone here calls a language, but if they’re not a figment of my imagination, then neither is this…

I sussed out that this dude paying me to lug his shit from a cart he’d hired to his place was paying me less than everyone else. When I confronted him about it, the guys I’d been working alongside started smirking. ‘Course, I beat the shit out of them, which is when this real-as-shit holographic screen called the Celestial Dojo congratulates me for figuring out my first scam and winning my first fight.

The fights sort of just piled up after that. Some cunt tried to take my wallet. The joke was on him, though; there wasn’t anything useful in it. Not that it stopped me from breaking his nose. I accidentally touch the lump behind my ear from yesterday’s beatdown and wince.

“...Bastards,” I mutter as the screen disappears.

Figures that all the people I’ve fought for fleecing me have friends… but I’ve managed to avoid them all till yesterday. I totally would’ve had them if I was fresh. My stomach growls dubiously.

…Right, food.

I keep moving, going over the words I’ve learned. Not nearly enough, but there are a few important ones I’ve got down. For one, I know the word for food.

There’s also water.

Money.

Yes.

No.

Stop.

I think I can count to ten. Some kid spent like half an hour teaching me after buying me some bread last week. See, ordinarily, I’d sooner chew nails than beg, but I’ve never had to go hungry for more than three days.

…Shit gets weird after twenty. I know what I think is the word for work, but the last time I used it, this lady laughed at me.

I know bread—that’s the important one. …Speaking of, I follow the scent of freshly baked loaves. There’s a stall near the end of the street. Near that stall, steam rises from a metal pot while some fat dude pours whatever’s inside into bowls.

My mouth waters instantly. I fish through my pockets for the coins I’ve scraped off the floor while I wander.

Three coins.

Two little brown ones.

I stare at them and close my hand.

…It’s either food or that blanket I’ve been eyeing for a few days. The night gets fucking cold here, and it’s still spring, I think. Sometimes, I wake up every hour curled into myself and shaking. The food will last a few hours, but there’s no guarantee I can’t get some by begging.

The blanket’ll last longer.

“...Fuck.” I walk away from the stall while scratching my stubble.

My legs feel weak already, but maybe I can find work? By now, my reputation’s sort of got a life of its own. People were willing to let me help out before, when I was clean and decent-looking, but after all the fights, I look and smell like a mad dog to most people.

…But it’s still worth a shot.

The first place I pick is a warehouse of sorts, I think. There’s a gigantic guy by the door. I point at myself, then at the crates behind him.

“Work.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Work.” I mime lifting.

His eyes drop to my busted-up face as he says something I don’t understand. It’s pretty clear it wasn’t ‘yes.’ By midday, I’ve got no job, but I did find another bronze coin on the floor. Maybe someone’ll take pity on me and gimme some food in exchange for my coins? 

I get another coin later in the afternoon after a little girl and her mother take pity on me. The girl was staring at me for ages till I smiled. Her mum said something about a Millis person, pressed a coin into my hand, and walked away.

The sun crawls across the sky, beating down on me. So, I take off my hoodie and tie it around my waist. Someone gives me a piece of fruit I don’t recognise but it looks like a pear. It does wonders for my parched throat. I even eat the stem. By sunset, I’ve scraped together enough coins to see if all of ‘em plus a little begging can get me that blanket. I count them twice just to be sure.

It won’t be enough for food, but I’ll take going hungry tonight if it means being warmer. The market’s already starting to close by the time I hobble my way back. People are pulling cloth over stalls and carrying boxes away, and the crowds are entirely gone. Anyone who’s not at home is either in the numerous taverns, inns, or whorehouses all over the city.

I pick up the pace. Pain shoots through my side, and I immediately slow back down, teeth gritted.

The stall’s still there, at least. More importantly, so is the blanket. It’s an ugly brown thing, and a little ratty too, but it might as well be made of fucking gold. I’ve spent the last three nights staring at it every time I pass this place.

Once again, the smell of cooking meat hits me, and I stop dead.

…Oh, fuck me.

My stomach twists painfully. I look at the blanket, then the food.

Warmth.

Food.

“...Man. I’ve eaten one fucking pear today.”

That settles it. I can freeze my balls off for another night! I hobble over. The old guy glances up at me and immediately gets this look on his face. Yeah, yeah. I look and smell like shit.

“Food.” I hold up one finger. “One.”

“Three.” He holds out his hand. I stare at it for a second before digging into my pocket and dropping three bronze coins into his palm, only he looks at the amount and says something else.

I blink. “What?”

He repeats himself slower this time.

I point at the food again. “One?”

He shakes his head. “Three.”

My eyes narrow. …Didn’t I just give him three coins? I point at the coins in his hand but he just says the number again. I point at the food, then hold up the number of fingers and stab his palm with my index finger.

The old bastard’s face changes.

“Oh, you cunt,” I say through clenched teeth. “No, no, no.”

He starts talking over me loudly. I don’t understand a fucking word of it, but I’ve heard that tone enough over the last two weeks to know that I’ve been had. I reach for the coins in his hand, but he pulls away.

“...Give me my fucking money,” I say through gritted teeth. Of course, he can’t understand me, so I wrack my brains for the word for money. “Money.”

He waves me off with a scoff. I lean into the stall, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, and yank him halfway out.

“Give me my fucking money, you thieving old—!”

A bronze hand closes around my wrist. I jerk my forearm, but their arm doesn’t fucking move. …What the fuck? I turn my head.

…Holy shit, she’s huge. A bit taller than me, and fucking ripped. I know this isn’t Earth, but she’s got more muscle on her than half the guys I’ve trained with back home. There’s an eyepatch over one of her eyes and some strips across her chest that isn’t at all covered by her coat.

And a sword.

Cat Lady:

I feel my blood run cold. Nearly two weeks here, and I haven’t run into anyone with a sword and for good fucking reason. My eyes flick back up. …Are those cat ears? I stare at the things on top of her head.

She says something, but I’m too busy staring at her twitching ears.

“...What the fuck?”

She says something else, firmer this time, and gives my wrist a little squeeze. Pain shoots through my hand, and I let the old scammer go. He falls back into his stall and slams onto the ground, and she lets go of me. I immediately cradle my wrist against my chest.

What the fuck is she made of?

The old bastard starts shouting. He points at me, saying a whole load of shit I don’t understand while I stand there glaring at him.

I glare at him. “Yeah, tell her how you stole my fucking money too.”

The woman looks at the coins still sitting in his hand.

I point at them and then jab a thumb into my chest.

She nods.

…So far so good. I point at the food and hold up three fingers, explaining that he basically lied and tried to extort me for more money. I have absolutely no idea whether any of that got through.

She turns to the old man and says something.

He answers.

She says something else, and his reply gets louder. Slowly, the woman reaches somewhere behind the cloth around her waist and pulls out some coins, and the old man’s entire fucking attitude changes.

She puts down six bronze coins, and he hands her a bowl of food. I finish it as she walks off, relishing the old man’s glare. If looks could kill…  Once I’m done, I slam the bowl down on his stall and give him the finger.

“Fuck you.”

The giant cat lady comes back to me with that ratty old blanket I’ve been eyeing all evening.

I point at myself. “...For me?”

She nods.

…For nearly two fucking weeks, I’ve been getting by on scraps. A bit of bread here, a coin there. Nobody owes me shit, that I know. Still...

She pushes the blanket closer, and I take it.

“...Thanks. Seriously. Thank you.”

She’s not all that much taller than me, so looking her in the eye is easy. I think it helps her understand what I’m saying a little bit. I watch her walk down the empty thoroughfare, deep golden light streaming in between buildings. Her tail swishes behind her on a completely different timing to her gait. It’s a little mesmerising, to be honest, but I don’t know how much of that is my brain falling for the first person to go above and beyond for me.

“…What the fuck just happened?”

She might genuinely be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. Suddenly, she stops and turns, jerking her head once. I point dumbly to myself. The woman nods. I tuck the blanket under one arm and hurry after her as fast as my fucked-up ribs will let me. Now, common-fucking-sense says not to follow strangers, I know—but common-fucking-sense hasn’t got shit on a fantasy world. My growling stomach, my brain, and my balls are all screaming to follow the musclebound cat lady.

Survey says I’d be fucking stupid not to follow her.

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