Ken reset again.
The same blistering desert. The same cruel sun.
But this time… something was different.
On the horizon — just past the waves of rising heat — he saw it: buildings. Smoke curling up into the sky. A town.
His legs trembled beneath him as he forced himself forward, eyes squinting against the light. Step after step, blistered feet dragging across burning sand. The closer he got, the more real it became.
Not a mirage.
A real town.
The gates were old, built from sun-dried wood and wrapped in iron bands. A pair of guards stood lazily on either side, too tired or bored to even glance at him as he passed through.
Ken entered the town with the last of his strength.
He stumbled into a shaded street. The smell of spices and sweat filled the air. People were everywhere — merchants shouting, kids running barefoot, animals tied to posts. But what caught Ken's attention was the variety of people.
Some were human, yes, but others… weren't.
He saw a tall woman with gray fur and cat-like eyes carrying baskets. A boy with rabbit ears sweeping outside a stall. And leaning against a fruit stand, an elf with pale skin and glowing green eyes, speaking in a language Ken didn't understand.
Ken blinked.
This isn't Earth. This isn't home.
His stomach growled, loud enough that a nearby demi-human woman glanced at him.
He clutched his gut and stumbled toward a market stall. Baskets of bread sat out on a wooden table, steam still rising from the fresh-baked loaves.
The smell nearly knocked him over.
He looked around — no signs, no prices. Just bread. Sitting there.
He reached for his pocket, already knowing what he'd find: nothing.
No coins. No ID. No hope.
His eyes narrowed.
Just one. Just one piece. I'll run after.
His hand moved fast — too fast, maybe — and he grabbed a warm, round loaf of bread and tucked it under his shirt.
He turned to walk away.
But he didn't get two steps before someone shouted:
"Thief!"
Heads turned.
The elf at the corner. The demi-human guards at the end of the road. Even the shopkeeper lunged forward, pointing at Ken with rage in his voice.
"He stole my bread! That filthy outsider!"
Ken broke into a sprint, the bread falling out from under his shirt.
He didn't get far.
A kick slammed into his side, knocking him into a wall. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Another fist cracked across his jaw. A group had gathered, yelling, punching, kicking.
"Teach him a lesson!"
"He thinks we're weak!"
"Starving doesn't mean stealing!"
Ken curled up, trying to protect his head, but the blows kept coming. His ribs cracked. Blood spilled from his nose. He could barely breathe.
You have died.
He gasped awake.
Back in the desert again.
"Bread," he whispered.
His stomach growled again.
But all he could taste was blood.