Chapter Twenty-Three—Troubles of An Isekai

One Year Ago

Stepping back out of the weapons dealer’s shop, Shiro wondered how he had forgotten to buy a new scabbard for his katana. He didn’t have a new scabbard now. None in the store would fit his blade. He went back in and had a new custom one commissioned for him, which would take a full day.

The shop owner upon laying eyes on Shiro’s sword had practically gaped at him, offered him a lot of coin as well. Because Shiro couldn’t understand a word the man said, he had continuously added small ingots of silver onto the counter, eventually also adding some gold coins.

Shaking his head fervently, he bowed to the man, who looked at him with an eyebrow raised, and he left the shop. His katana had been a personal gift. He would never sell it. Ever.

For now, like before, he held the blade in his hand, wrapped in a thick wadding of cloth to keep it concealed, but also to keep the sword safely tucked away so he wouldn’t accidentally cut off his own fingers.

The cook stalls had opened again in the morning, and fresh fruits were laid out along with the other prepared foods. There were so many varieties consisting of meats, grains, plants like the ones he had eaten on the fire-roasted stick of meat the other night, as well as these strange fruits with hard shells he had spotted in the trees. He had paid for a kind of cake made from these ground up nuts.

The flavor was somewhat similar to the coconuts from his own lands, but these were far sweater. The morning meal seemed a good one and he ate it with gusto, almost turning around to get another, but decided against it.

I still haven’t bathed, he thought. Where do these people wash?

Shirp’s skin was sticky. He very much wished he could go to a sentō house and soak in a pool of hot water. Perhaps he needed to leave the main road and explore some back streets to find a wash house of some kind.

Unfortunately, the samurai felt mildly annoyed when he clearly wandered off into a residential area. Children played in the narrow alleys here, while their mothers washed laundry and hung them on twine to dry in the sun.

There were no demi-humans that he saw, making him wonder if there was a racial separation in Oravar.

Above, there was so much laundry in fact, the alleyways of multiple-level houses had a colorful, almost festive air that blocked out most of the hot sun.

Shiro smiled as a gentle breeze pushed past him. It felt wonderful.

The experience was not expected. I’m quite enjoying this walk.

There was a woman leaning over her stone steps, hanging a pair of trousers. He looked up at her, asked her where he might find a wash house. She spoke quickly and he had no idea what she said. But after miming the washing of his body—which was very humbling—she pointed in a general direction and he went on his way.

Eventually he did find the indicated wash house, and was—to say the least—unimpressed. The establishment consisted of raised water troughs with a thin line cut in the bottom. There was some moderate privacy, but his upper shoulders and his calves were visible outside of the wooden walls.

Shiro washed quickly, keeping his sword in the stall with him as he did so. The water was warmed, but not very hot. Perhaps this was a good thing, as the weather was dry and hot here.

The price was cheap. At least he thought so.

Perhaps he could get a bath if he paid more at another establishment, but at least he was now clean and knew where to go if he needed to wash himself again.

His next stop was the clothing establishment. He thought maybe they had overcharged him, or the high price could have been due to the fabrics he had chosen?

In any event, he thought, I have spent another third of my money.

It was embarrassing to have a woman take his measurements, putting her hands in places Shiro was not accustomed too. In his own lands, such a thing would be almost scandalous.

For his choices, he made his decisions mostly based on a man browsing the fabrics within the shop. He kept his sandals, and chose a pair of voluminous white trousers. The material almost shimmered, and felt smoother than anything he had ever experienced. Shiro also requested a jacked which he wore under a thin shirt with a low neckline.

He felt odd and out of place in these clothes, but others were wearing much the same thing, even the women, albeit, in more feminine cuts and styles, and of course colors.

With new clothes, a place to stay and a place to wash, Shiro now needed to find a way to make some coin to support himself.

But how could he do such a thing? He spoke not a word of the language in these lands. If he became poor enough, even being a farm hand like he had been just two days earlier would be acceptable.

He had made strides to speak to the recognizable demi-human races known to his homeland of Mikuma, but so far, none of them spoke Shiro’s language.

Are my troubles the typical troubles of an isekai?

Growing up, he had heard tails of isekai, peoples taken to other continents—or in some cases, even worlds—not their own, left to their own devices to survive.

It was heartening to Shiro that he recognized certain races, such as the horned oni, multi-tailed fushi and he thought he had even seen a cat eye woman.

At least I’m somewhere on my own world, he thought. The kami guide me—I am aren’t I?