My new career

“Wake up! We need to work!”

Io’s voice cuts through my sleep, sharp and insistent.

I jolt awake, disoriented. The wooden ceiling above me isn’t the one I’ve known for years. The bed isn’t mine. The faint scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs lingers in the air, not the usual stale corporate apartment air.

Right. This isn’t a dream.

It’s my second morning in this world. My second morning in this unfamiliar village, waking up in a stranger’s home. For a fleeting second, I hoped to open my eyes and see my old room, my old life. But no.

This is real. And apparently, I have a job now.

I groan, dragging myself upright. “Good morning, Io.”

“Morning, Nate,” she calls from the next room. “Get dressed. I found some spare clothes that should fit you. You can store your robes in your room.”

Huh. My room? So this arrangement isn’t temporary? Also—robes? I glance down at my clothes from yesterday. A simple shirt and jeans, apparently so foreign that she’s decided to rename them outright.

I sigh and check the pile of clothes she left me.

A linen shirt—rougher than I’m used to but wearable. Sturdy pants, a belt… and a cape?

A cape.

I have absolutely no experience with capes.

I toss it over my shoulders experimentally. It feels… dramatic. Maybe I should lean into this whole fantasy aesthetic.

After a quick attempt to make myself look somewhat presentable, I step out of the room, adjusting my new outfit.

Io gives me a once-over and smirks. “You look almost decent.”

“Almost?”

“Well, you’re still you.” She grabs a small bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

###

“We have a backlog of tasks from yesterday,” Io says as we step outside. “I had to babysit you instead of doing my job properly.”

Ouch. Direct as ever.

“Sorry for that,” I say. “How can I help?”

She hands me a basket.

…A basket?

I peek inside, half-expecting herbs or vegetables. Instead, there’s a book. More like a ledger, thick and well-worn, with pages filled with neatly inked markings.

“What are you looking at?” she asks, catching my confused expression. “Never seen a ledger before?”

Oh. Right. So I’ve been promoted to secretary.

“You can read, can’t you? At least some kind of script?”

“Well, yeah. In my language.” I flip through the pages. The symbols make absolutely no sense to me. “This… doesn’t look familiar at all.”

Io exhales. “Figured as much. Just carry it for now—I’ll do the reading.”

Great. So I’m a glorified book carrier.

I follow her as she strides toward the center of the village, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where she’s going. The morning air is crisp, and a few villagers are already up and about, tending to their work.

“So,” I ask, adjusting the basket under my arm, “what’s first?”

“We go to the storage house.”

“Huh. No breakfast?”

Oops. That one slipped out.

Io stops and gives me a deadpan look. “Later. For now, we take inventory.”

Right. Priorities.

Still, I can’t help but hope that this job comes with meal breaks.

###

The storage house is packed with crates and shelves, sacks of grain stacked in careful rows. The air smells faintly of dust and dry wheat, and I can hear the distant sounds of the village beyond the wooden walls.

I roll my shoulders, glancing at Io. “So, what’s the plan?”

She flips open her ledger. “We need to count the wheat. I need to check if my predictions were accurate.”

“Predictions?”

Io nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Every season, I track what we have, how much we use, and what we can trade. It’s the only way to keep things running smoothly. Now, I’ll count from this post to the right, you take the left.”

“My first real task. Got it.”

We get to work. The sacks are heavy, but thankfully, I don’t have to move them—just count. It doesn’t take long before I call out, “Thirty-seven on my side.”

Io finishes on her end, then turns to me, raising her hands. “Alright, I have twenty-three.”

And… wait. What?

I stare at her fingers. She’s holding them up like she’s trying to show me something—but instead of counting like a normal person, she’s tapping the bones of her fingers with her thumb.

“What are you doing?” I ask, genuinely baffled. “The… finger thingy.”

Io gives me an incredulous look. “What? I’m showing twenty-three.”

“How?” I watch her count again—her thumb tapping points along her fingers, not just the fingers themselves.

I lift my hands, extending my fingers one by one. “One, two, three…”

She snorts. “That’s stupid. You can only count to ten on one hand, twenty if you use both. I can count to twenty-four.” She holds up her hands again, pointing to the three distinct bones in each finger.

That actually makes sense. But it’s weird.

I shake my head, making a mental note to process this later.

Io is already scribbling something into her ledger. I try to sneak a look over her shoulder, but she catches me instantly.

“Aren’t you nosey,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Can I see the numbers?”

She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine.”

She tilts the ledger toward me.

The symbols aren’t like anything I’ve seen before. Curved lines, slashes, and dots. Nothing like Arabic numerals.

“What’s this?” I point to one.

“Fourteen.”

“And this?”

“Twelve.”

I keep pointing randomly, trying to make sense of the system.

“Twenty-two, fifteen, seventy-six, fifty-four, thirty-two…”

The numbers are fine, but the writing system itself is unfamiliar.

“Where did you learn to write like this?”

“The merchants,” Io replies, flipping the page. “Not that they taught me. I had to figure it out by watching them. Too many tried to cheat me. I got tired of losing track of our stock.”

I glance at the next page. My eyes catch a series of lines, dots, and figures—something resembling a graph.

“These,” I say, pointing. “You did this?”

“Yes.” She frowns slightly, watching me carefully.

“This is tracking changes over time, right? Predicting future supply?”

Io’s eyes narrow. “How did you know that? No one in the village has ever seen this ledger.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Tread carefully, Nate. “Just… familiar with the idea.”

She studies me for a beat longer before moving on. “Well, I need to make sure we’re not running low on anything. I keep track of seasonal shifts, consumption, trade volumes.”

Smart. Really smart.

Then I notice something else.

“Why are there thirteen rows at the bottom?”

She blinks. “You’ve never seen a calendar before?”

“I have, but—” I freeze. “…Wait. Are these months?”

She gives me a strange look. “Of course. There are thirteen months in a year.”

“What?” I feel like my brain just short-circuited. “No, there are twelve months.”

She looks deeply unimpressed. “Where?”

“Uh, back home?”

She laughs—a genuine, almost pitying laugh. “You think there are twelve months.”

“Yes, because there are.”

“Explain it, then.”

“Alright. January, February, March—”

“Those words mean nothing to me.”

“They—wait, how do you have thirteen months?”

She gestures toward the open door. “The moon. Ever seen it change?”

I blink. “Yes…?”

“Then you know there are thirteen months. Twenty-eight days each. That’s a full cycle.” She folds her arms. “That’s a calendar.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

I run the math in my head. Thirteen months, twenty-eight days each. That’s… three hundred and sixty-four days.

That actually makes a lot of sense. Throw in some leap days or something and you get a nice calendar. I still can’t believe this!

“But—”

“But what?” she challenges.

“Twelve months. Thirty days each—”

Io’s jaw drops. “That’s three hundred and sixty.”

“I know, but—some months have thirty-one, and February has twenty-eight—”

She howls with laughter.

“Who thought of that? That’s insane!”

“Look, it makes sense if you—okay, maybe not perfect sense, but…” I trail off.

Io wipes her eyes. “You dared to call yourself a thinker, and you can’t even use a calendar.” She shakes her head, smirking. “Unbelievable.”

I groan. “Why are you laughing? This isn’t funny.”

“It is, though.” She grabs the ledger and heads for the door.

“Wait! I have more questions!”

No response.

Damn it.

I hurry after her. “Io, wait for me!”

###

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so baffled by numbers before.

He’s still muttering under his breath, frowning like the very concept of thirteen months is a personal insult.

“What’s wrong now?” I ask, adjusting the ledger under my arm as we step onto the main path.

Nate shakes his head. “I’m just… trying to process how your entire calendar makes more sense than mine.”

I smirk. “I know. You really thought months could just have random numbers of days?”

“I mean—kind of? It’s just how it’s always been. But your system actually follows the moon…” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I hate that this makes more sense than what I grew up with.”

“You should hate that your people made it so complicated in the first place.”

“Fair.”

He’s adjusting, at least. I wasn’t sure what to make of him before—still not entirely sure—but he’s clearly no merchant. No noble, either. That much is obvious from how easily he lets me poke fun at him. A noble would’ve bristled by now, made some ridiculous excuse, or tried to prove their ‘superior’ intelligence.

Nate just sighs and accepts it.

It’s strange.

As we walk, I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

He learns fast. That much is clear. Too fast.

Even if he had a natural talent for languages, even if he had studied before, there’s no way he should be able to speak this well after a single day. The merchants I trade with take years to learn the basics of our language, and they’re dealing with it constantly.

And then there’s the way he reacted to our numbers—like they weren’t just unfamiliar, but wrong to him. Like they defied something he knew to be true.

That was genuine surprise. Not the kind you fake.

And now I know he’s hiding something.

Because I’m sure of one thing: no one else in this world thinks like that.

I let the silence linger as we walk, my thoughts turning over themselves. I already told the chief I’d take responsibility for him, and I don’t regret it. He’s valuable. He’s smart. I just need to figure out exactly what he is.

If he’s dangerous. If he’s useful.

And, most importantly—if I can trust him.

I glance at him again. He’s still muttering under his breath, counting on his fingers, clearly not over the number thing yet.

I fight the urge to laugh.

I might not have my answer yet, but at the very least—this is going to be fun.

###

The shop isn’t quite what I expected. There are fabrics draped over wooden stands, bundles of cloth hanging from beams, and a distinct scent of dyed linen in the air. The setup is practical, tidy. No extravagant displays, no overwhelming stock—just what’s needed, nothing more.

“Alright,” Io says, leading me inside. “We need to measure the linen cloth that will be sold.”

“How?”

She reaches for something on the table—a wooden board with black markings running along its surface.

“With this.”

A ruler? No, not quite. The markings aren’t evenly spaced like the metric system I’m used to. This is something else.

“You measure with this?” I ask, turning it over in my hands.

“Yes. This pile needs to be three lengths wide and four lengths long. That’s the standard the merchants expect.” She gestures to the cloth stacked in neat piles. “I’ll double-check to make sure we’re not giving them extra.”

Makes sense. It’s practical—establish a set unit, keep measurements consistent.

She reaches into my basket and pulls out something else—this time, a length of rope with small beads tied at intervals.

“Wait—what’s that?” I ask.

“A measuring rope.” She gives me an amused look. “You’re staring like you’ve never seen one before.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I guess I haven’t. So… it works the same way as the board?”

“Exactly. The board is good for flat surfaces, but the rope is easier to carry.” She tosses it back into the basket. “Now, take the board and check that pile over there. Only the ones that measure exactly three by four are good to sell.”

I nod. “Got it.”

Measuring with a wooden board feels like something out of a museum exhibit, but it’s surprisingly efficient. I check each piece carefully, lining them up against the board’s markings.

“This one’s too small.”

Io glances over. “What about the rest? How many are good?”

“Twenty-five.” I motion toward the acceptable pieces. “What about that one?”

“Leave it. We have enough.” She gestures to the two neat stacks. “Carry these to my house.”

Right. I have officially been downgraded to manual labor.

I hoist up the piles and follow her out, the fabric pressing against my chest. I thought I was supposed to be her assistant, a secretary—but it’s becoming clear that she doesn’t quite trust me with numbers yet. Not after my earlier blunder in the storage house.

I need to redeem myself somehow.

“Hey, Io?”

“Yes?” She doesn’t look back, focused on the path ahead.

“How do you make sure your measurements are accurate? With the rope and the board, I mean.”

“The chief has a metal rod, exactly one length long. We compare everything to it.”

I blink. “A metal rod? That sounds… advanced.”

She nods. “It was a lucky purchase. I got it from the merchants. It’s helped a lot with trade.”

“And before that?”

She scoffs. “The elders used to measure everything by feet.” She shakes her head. “Completely unreliable. One person’s foot isn’t the same as another’s. Took years to get people to stop using that ridiculous method.”

I laugh. “Sounds familiar. You’d be amazed how long my world took to agree on standard measurements.”

She gives me a sideways glance but doesn’t press further.

Instead, she just smirks. “You keep saying strange things, Nate.”

Yeah. And if I’m not careful, she’s going to figure out exactly why.

###

Nate is odd.

Not in the way merchants are, with their double-talk and false smiles. Not like the priests, with their empty words and watchful eyes. No, his oddness is something else entirely.

He hides it well—most of the time. But then he slips.

Like back at the storage house, when he stumbled over the calendar. Or just now, at the tailor’s, staring at a measuring rope like I’d handed him a piece of the moon. He’s trying to act normal, to blend in, but he doesn’t realize how obvious he is.

And the way he reacted to my explanation of measurements? He almost looked… embarrassed. As if he was ashamed of something.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s walking beside me, carrying the linen, silent for once. Lost in thought.

Good. Maybe he’s finally realizing that he has more to learn than he thought.

I let the silence stretch a little longer before speaking. “You keep making that face.”

He startles. “What face?”

“The one that looks like you just discovered the world isn’t what you thought it was.”

“…Maybe I have.”

Hmph. At least he’s honest.

We walk a little farther, the village paths familiar beneath my feet. He shifts the fabric in his arms, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should.

“You said you were a thinker,” I continue. “Back in the forest.”

“Yeah.”

I hum, considering. “Yet you don’t know how many months there are in a year. Or how to measure fabric. Or how to count properly on your own fingers.”

He winces. “Alright, alright. No need to rub it in.”

“I think there is.” I smirk. “You’re used to being the smart one, aren’t you?”

“…I used to be.” He exhales. “Now, I feel like an idiot every five minutes.”

Good.

“Keep that feeling,” I say. “It means you’re learning.”

He huffs out a laugh. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You learned to read merchant numbers without being taught. You track stock, make predictions, even use graphs—” he gestures to the ledger tucked under my arm. “You figured all of that out on your own.”

I raise a brow. “Is that surprising?”

He hesitates. “…No. I just think you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Hmph. I don’t need his approval. But it’s not a bad thing to hear.

I glance ahead—our next stop is just down the path. Time to get back to work.

“Less talking, more walking,” I say. “We still have a lot to do.”

He sighs, shifting the fabric again. “Yes, ma’am.”

###

“Come, let’s eat.”

“Finally!”

Io stops mid-step and gives me a look.

“What was that?”

“Uh—nothing. Thanks for the invitation.” Shit. It slipped out.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything, leading the way to the long communal table.

Breakfast. First meal of the day after a morning spent working. The long table is filled with villagers chatting, eating, moving about their routines. Some glance at me, curiosity in their eyes, but no one says anything. Not yet.

Io picks a quieter spot near the edge, away from the largest groups. Probably for my sake. People aren’t used to me yet. I appreciate that she’s not forcing me into the deep end of social interaction first thing in the morning.

The moment food is in front of me, my stomach reminds me how much thinking burns through energy. I dig in, but my mind is still racing.

Numbers. Patterns. I can’t stop thinking about them.

I glance at Io. “Do you like numbers?”

She looks at me over her cup. “They are useful.”

That’s not an answer, but I’ll take what I can get.

I lean forward, barely containing my excitement. “Okay, tell me this. If you take a tree stump—”

Io raises an eyebrow. “Is this a riddle? Do you really not have anything better to talk about?”

“Please, I really want to know.”

She sighs. “Fine. Continue.”

“So, a tree stump one length across. How much rope would you need to wrap around it once?” I hold my breath. Please, please, all holy deities, make this a good answer.

She gives me a flat look. “Three lengths.”

I nearly drop my spoon.

“Yes! You know pi!”

“What are you mumbling about?” She narrows her eyes. “Are you testing me?”

“No, no, this is incredible. Let’s go bigger—stump 20 lengths across. How much rope?”

Now she’s really suspicious. “Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all!”

She huffs, clearly deciding whether or not to humor me. “Sixty lengths.”

I smack my palm on the table. “Yes! You get it! You use pi naturally!”

She frowns. “Pi? What nonsense are you talking about?”

Before I can even explain, my brain jumps to something else. I wave toward a nearby firewood shack, nearly knocking over my cup in the process.

“You see that shack over there?” I ask, voice rushed. “It has a wall, a roof, and a floor, yeah?”

Io glances at it. “The firewood storage? That got you excited?”

“No—well, yes. Anyway! If the floor is three lengths wide, and the wall is four lengths tall—”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Then the roof is five lengths long.”

I stare at her. “Yes! That’s right! How did you know?”

“That particular shape of a triangle has these types of measurements,” she says simply, sipping her drink.

I gape. “But—do you know why?”

She shrugs. “It’s just something that’s known. My roof is made of two of them,” she adds casually, chewing her bread.

I feel like I’ve discovered a hidden library of ancient knowledge, except it’s just common sense to her.

How many other things does she know that she doesn’t even realize are incredible?

Io watches me suspiciously. “…You’re staring again.”

I snap out of my trance and shove some food in my mouth. “Sorry.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Finish eating. We have work to do.”

I nod, still reeling.

I have to keep asking questions.

###

Numbers.
I never thought much about them beyond their usefulness. You count what you need, measure what must be measured, trade what must be traded. Simple. Practical.

But then there's him.

Nate practically vibrated through breakfast, bouncing in his seat like a child discovering something new for the first time. If he could have flipped the table in excitement, he probably would have. Over numbers.

I glance at him as we walk. He’s still muttering under his breath, occasionally gesturing in the air like he’s drawing invisible shapes.

"You're still thinking about it," I say, not really needing to ask.

His head snaps up. "Of course I am! You knew the circumference of a circle without knowing what pi was! You knew the length of a triangle’s hypotenuse just by instinct! That’s huge!"

I frown. "That’s just basic knowledge." The words he says are foreign to me but I won’t let him damage my pride!

"Basic?" His voice rises, like I’ve just insulted his ancestors. "That’s foundational mathematics! It means you all figured out geometry without ever needing formal proofs or Greek philosophers telling you how it works! How did you do that? The Arabs?"

I shake my head. "I don’t know who these ‘Greek’ or ‘Arab’ people are, but none of this is special."

He groans in frustration. "That’s what’s insane! It is special! You just don’t realize it because you’ve never seen people try to overcomplicate everything!"

I snort. "And you have?"

"You have no idea," he mutters.

This man is impossible.

We keep walking. I keep an eye on him.

I was already sure he wasn’t from around here, but now I know it. He doesn’t just act lost—he is lost in ways he doesn’t even understand. Every time he talks, it’s as if he’s comparing this place to something else, something he hasn’t told me about.

At first, I thought it was just cultural differences—maybe some isolated scholar from another land. But no. He reacts too strongly to things that should be common knowledge. The way he was shocked about the months, the measurements, the counting system. It’s not just unfamiliarity—it’s as if none of this should exist in the way it does.

And then there's this excitement.

No one I’ve met cares this much about numbers. Not even the merchants who cheat their way into profits. They see numbers as a tool, a way to manipulate trade. He sees them like they’re magic. Like there’s something beautiful hidden in them.

I don’t know what to make of that.

But if I want answers, I need to keep him talking.

"So, thinker," I say, watching his expression carefully, "if you're so obsessed with numbers, does that mean you want to help me with the ledger?"

He pauses mid-step, processing my words, then straightens.

"Yes. Absolutely yes."

I smirk. "Good. Then you can start after lunch."

The look on his face is like a child being handed a treasure chest.

At least he’ll be easy to manipulate.

###

It feels like breakfast was just a moment ago, but now I’m collapsing onto my bed, the last glow of evening light slipping through the wooden shutters. I meant to keep a mental journal of everything, but who has time to think when Io turns you into an errand boy?

Correction—errand man. Or possibly a pack mule.

She gave me a new task: visit all the major workshops, check their stock, and make a list of what they need from the merchants. Simple on paper, except for one small problem—I had to introduce myself. To people. In a village where most probably still weren’t sure whether I was a threat or a particularly well-dressed stray.

So, was this a test? A lesson? Some weird social experiment where Io watches how long it takes for me to be thrown out of a building? Probably all of the above.

First Stop: The Smithy

I should’ve known the blacksmith would be the least thrilled to see me. The place smelled of iron, smoke, and sweat, and the man himself looked like someone who could bend a horseshoe with his bare hands and would do it just to prove a point.

“What do you need?” I tried to sound professional, confident. Like a proper assistant.

He looked me up and down. Grunted. “Tools.”

Alright. Easy enough. “What kind of—”

“Io knows.”

Well, that was my cue to leave. I think he tolerated me as much as one tolerates a particularly persistent fly. Moving on.

Second Stop: The Tailor’s Shop (again)

A much warmer reception—almost too warm.

The tailor was an older woman, her shop lined with rolls of dyed fabric and neatly stacked garments. The second I introduced myself, she lit up like she had just been given a lifetime supply of fine silk.

“Io’s assistant?” She practically beamed. “Finally! She needed one.”

I barely had time to react before she started circling me, eyes scanning every seam of my clothing.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no! It’s just… fascinating! My work on a foreigner! How does it feel? Does the fit bother you anywhere?”

It hit me then—I was probably the first outsider wearing clothes she had made. I wasn’t an errand boy to her. I was a walking advertisement.

She wanted wool for winter clothes. Fair request. Less invasive than the inspection.

Third Stop: The Bakery

Walking into the bakery was like stepping into a wall of warmth and the rich scent of fresh bread. I felt at home for a moment—then remembered I was here on a mission.

I met the bakers—a pair of siblings, flour dusting their arms and faces. Their request?

“Tell Io to be careful selling too much wheat. We need to be sure we have enough to last.”

Noted. And then I was handed a small roll.

“For the road.”

Okay, this was my favorite stop so far.

Fourth Stop: The Farmers

This was the coldest reception of the day.

The head of the farmers watched me like I was an unfamiliar breed of livestock. He gave his request in a curt, clipped tone.

“A goat.”

That’s it? A goat?

No follow-up explanation, no negotiation, just a demand for livestock like it was a grocery list item.

I scribbled it down. Noted.

Fifth Stop: The School

The biggest surprise of the day. That visit confirmed my assumptions from yesterday - they do have a school.

I found myself standing outside a building where children sat in a rough circle, practicing their writing on wooden boards. A teacher—probably in her mid-thirties, with ink-stained fingers—supervised.

A school. A place dedicated to learning. I assumed villages like this wouldn’t prioritize education. Guess that was another stereotype shattered.

Their request? Chalk. Simple, practical, and somehow the most modern-sounding thing I’d heard all day.

I wanted to ask more—how the school worked, who decided what was taught—but I had already been stared at enough for one visit. Maybe I could sneak in and listen to a lesson later.

###

The whole day was a sine wave of reactions—either people instantly liked me or treated me with indifference so cold it could freeze water.

And the language. That was the most humbling experience. Up until now, I had been coasting on the implant’s translations. Today, I got cocky and assumed I’d be fine—and then I had to resort to caveman gestures at least four times.

At least the kids found it funny. Being laughed at by a group of seven-year-olds really does wonders for the ego.

Oh, right. I got scolded.

During dinner, I noticed the meal had meat again. I didn’t think much of it—until I absentmindedly left some chunks on my plate, ready to toss them aside.

A sharp slap on the wrist. Not hard, but enough to make me flinch.

It took me a second to realize what had happened. Apparently, wasting food here is not just frowned upon—it’s practically a crime.

Modern habits die hard. I’d gotten used to living in a world where food was overabundant, where leftovers went in the trash without a second thought.

I wonder if there is something more to that?

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all over again. What fresh chaos will Io throw at me next?

I guess I’ll find out.

###

I had hoped for more feedback. Maybe something constructive, like "You did a decent job" or "You managed to get half of it right."
Instead, I got: "Your notes suck."

Fantastic.

“What is that?” Io asks, squinting at my notebook.

“Tools – Io knows. The smithy said so.”

She sighs and rubs her temples. Not a great start.

“And that scribble? That’s your language?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not like I magically learned how to write in yours overnight.”

She looks unimpressed. “So you can learn to speak quickly, but reading and writing is impossible?”

“I guess?”

“Convenient.”

She’s right. I was hoping to avoid this exact conversation. The implant helps me understand and even predict speech, but reading? Writing? I’m on my own there. And their script looks nothing like anything I know.

Io flips through the pages of my messy attempt at record-keeping.

“All day with the ledger, and nothing useful came out of it?” she mutters. “Good thing I gave you a spare one.”

Wait, spare?

“You have more than one?”

She gives me a look like I just asked if water is wet. “Of course. I have three.”

“Three ledgers? Isn’t that excessive?”

“One is mine. One is kept by the chief—I update it once a month. And one stays here, at home. You got that one.”

I stare at her. “Aren’t ledgers expensive? Why own three?”

She crosses her arms. “They’re an important tool. And yes, they cost quite a bit, but nothing compared to books. Those are the real luxury.”

Another thing that doesn’t match any historical period I know.

If I had gone back in time, I would expect parchment scrolls and monks copying manuscripts, not casual bookkeeping and multiple record copies. So much for my "single-handedly revolutionize civilization with my modern knowledge" plan.
After all, I’ve never heard of a group of forest heretics persecuted for thousands of years. That kind of thing tends to make it into history books.

“Why three, though?” I ask.

Io shrugs. “I once had only one, but it ended up in the mud. That taught me a lesson.”

I blink. Io makes backups of her files. That’s surprisingly modern of her. I shouldn’t laugh—I once deleted half of my degree thesis by accident.

“Alright,” she says, pushing my notebook back toward me. “Just read me what you wrote, and I’ll make my own notes.”

Great. Time for another painfully slow attempt at translation.

###

It’s not like I didn’t suspect something like this might happen. At least he showed himself to the village. Some of them might still not trust him, but the worst reaction so far has been indifference, not hostility. That’s better than I expected.

His notes were… sloppy. And written in his own script. Of course, he wouldn’t just magically start writing in ours overnight. But for someone who picks up spoken language so quickly, I had hoped for better. I suppose even he has limits.

Reading and writing take time. Even our children, who grow up hearing and seeing our words every day, take years to master it. I don’t know why I expected more from someone who’s just got here.

Maybe because everything else about him is unnatural.

His mind works differently. He didn’t just run errands yesterday—he was observing, piecing things together, making notes in that strange way of his. Even when the farmers barely spoke to him, he still came back with exactly what they needed. When the tailor bombarded him with attention, he didn’t flinch. When the blacksmith barely tolerated his presence, he still got the job done.

He’s more adaptable than I thought. Maybe even more than he thinks.

Still, he’s not ready.

I’ll have him run errands for a few more days. Get used to the village, let people get used to him. If nothing bad happens, I’ll take him with me for the next meeting with the merchants.

That might be his real test.

If he messes up, they’ll eat him alive.

But if he really is as sharp as I think he is…

Well, I could use someone like that.

###

“Are you done with the notes?” I ask, stretching my fingers after scribbling away for what feels like forever.

Io barely glances up from her work. “Are you going somewhere?”

“No, no,” I shake my head. “Just had a question.”

She doesn’t respond, just keeps writing. Silence stretches between us. Should I just ask? Probably.

I clear my throat. “Remember yesterday when I left some meat and almost threw it out?”

That gets her attention. She looks up, eyebrow raised. “Yes. Do you remember the slap you got?”

I instinctively rub my wrist. “Yeah. That.”

She smirks. “I was being kind.”

I scowl. “Good to know. But about that—wasting food, is that just about, you know, wasting resources? Or is there something… more to it?”

Her expression shifts—she’s thinking. I know that look now. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head.

After a pause, she asks, “Do you remember the butcher in the village? The one near the entrance?”

“Yeah, when we first walked in. I saw people gathered around the shop, but they were just… standing there. In silence.”

She nods. “That’s because we don’t take life lightly.”

“… What do you mean?”

“You remember when I told you we can feel when something is in distress?”

I frown, thinking back. “You do?”

Io sighs. “Did I forget to explain? Or did you forget to listen?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Go on.”

She sets her quill down, fingers threading together. “We make sure not to waste anything from the animals we hunt or slaughter. It’s a matter of respect.”

“Respect?”

“Yes.” She leans back slightly. “That’s why every hunter is trained for a quick kill. We know when the animals suffer. We can feel it. So we do everything we can to make sure they don’t.”

A chill runs down my spine. They can feel it? Like… literally?

Io continues, her tone even but firm. “That’s also why we gather when an animal is butchered. To acknowledge what was given. To recognize that something died for us to eat.”

“…Is this, like, a religious thing?” I ask cautiously. I really hope this isn’t some taboo topic.

She shrugs. “No… well, maybe? We never really called it that.”

“That’s surprisingly vague.”

She sighs. “Look, we never got much into structured religion. You can probably guess why.”

Yeah. A people cast out, demonized, dehumanized… something tells me the gods of this world weren’t exactly kind to them.

I hesitate before asking, “Is this just about animals?”

Io shakes her head. “Not really. Everything alive—animals, plants, even the land itself—feels something when we take from it.”

I process that. Animism, then. Everything has a soul, or something close to it. A belief system they can actually experience firsthand. It must be comforting, in a way. Knowing, rather than just believing.

If my parents heard me, they’d be furious. Good thing they aren’t here.

Io pushes herself up. “Enough talking. You have work to do, mister.”

I roll my eyes, standing. “Yes, ma’am.”

She grins. “That’s more like it.”

###

And guess what? More running around.

Not just errands this time—now I’m moving things. Bags, crates, bundles—I have no idea what’s in half of them, but my job is to move them from one house to the next. Am I a postman now? A glorified pack mule? At least all this hauling around the village means people are getting used to the sight of my face.

Which is... good? Probably.

It’s been days of this now. Maybe a week? Hard to tell without my phone keeping track for me. My wristwatch is still ticking, though—one of the only things that reminds me I wasn’t born here.

I sigh, adjusting the sack slung over my shoulder. How did I end up here? I wanted to study quantum mechanics, not village logistics.

If nothing else, walking around gives me access to gossip. Not the ‘who stole whose chicken’ kind. The tactical kind.

Apparently, the guards spotted a caravan heading south. Lots of carts, loaded to the brim with wheat. Not unusual on its own, except for the armed escort. A noble’s banner flying high.

That means someone with power is stockpiling grain.

Not sure why, but I’m filing that little tidbit away.

This errand boy routine has been going on for days now. I wonder if they have the concept of a weekend here. If so, I’d love to sign up for one. A day off. A break. A moment where my entire existence isn’t defined by running from one house to the next, carrying whatever needs carrying.

Still, I’m not just wasting my time.

At first, I just needed to figure out where everything was so I wouldn’t embarrass myself by getting lost in a village that isn’t even that big. But as the days passed, I started paying closer attention—mapping things out in my head.

The gathering hall, where everyone eats together, sits at the heart of the village, radiating out into winding paths that connect homes and workshops. The blacksmith works closer to the edge, probably so no one has to deal with the constant hammering all day. The schoolhouse—yes, they have a schoolhouse—is tucked near the quieter parts of the village, away from the busiest roads.

The storage buildings are the ones I know best by now. I spend enough time hauling things back and forth between them that I could probably navigate the place in my sleep. I keep adding details to my mental map—the way the main paths are reinforced with stone, the way the buildings shift from practical, unadorned workshops to more decorated homes as you move toward the center. I don’t know why, but it helps. Having a grasp on the village’s structure makes me feel a little less lost in all of this.

Maybe it’s just a coping mechanism. Maybe it’s me grasping at something to hold onto. Either way, I’ve started sketching it out when I get the chance.

Every morning, we go through my notes from the day before. I read them out loud while Io listens, cross-referencing them with her own. She always rewrites them—condensing them, cutting down what she calls ‘useless details.’

Apparently, I write too much. She thinks everything should be efficient and to the point.

I think she doesn’t write enough.

We go back and forth like this every morning. I defend my reasoning, she rolls her eyes and tells me I need to focus on what actually matters. Sometimes, she doesn’t even respond—just scratches something out in her own ledger and keeps moving.

Despite the complaints, she never tells me to stop taking notes. She still asks for them every morning.

And honestly? I don’t mind the routine.

It’s one of the few parts of my day that feels structured. A constant in all this madness.

And if I ever mess up, at least I know she’s keeping backups.