CHAPTER TWO: The Curious Case of Frogustus J. Scrapper.

Underbridge District? - Time Unknown - Probably Morning?

Waking up as a frog under a moss-covered bridge wasn't on my to-do list.

I sat - hopped - in the mud, staring into the stream as the water burbled and giggled like it knew something I didn’t. My reflection blinked back at me, all gold eyes and green skin. Tiny, flimsy, limbs. A face that looked permanently concerned.

"...This is fine," I croaked, deadpan.

Then I tried to stand and immediately fell sideways.

I lay there for a while, in the muck, trying not to cry or ribbit.

You’d think reincarnation would come with a tutorial. Or at least a pamphlet. Preferably laminated.

All I had was a pounding headache, a wet loincloth, and the overwhelming suspicion that my dignity had been sold for mere parts to fate.

I pulled myself upright and surveyed the area.

The bridge arched overhead like the fossilized ribcage of a long-dead giant. Moss draped from its edges like curtains in an abandoned theater. Shafts of sunlight cut through the hanging ivy, casting everything in an unearned, majestic gglow.It would’ve been picturesque if I wasn’t currently damp, cold, and shaped like a rejected mascot.

Then I saw it: 

Tucked into the crook of a root like some sad offering to a forgotten god - A bindle bag. Wrapped in oilcloth, tied with twine, and unmistakably the kind of thing you find right before a cursed adventure begins.

Naturally, I opened it.

Inside, I found:

• A cookbook-journal hybrid, its pages water-stained, half-burned, and violently annotated in what I could only assume was caffeine-fueled madness.

• A broken shortsword, rusted on one side and highly sharpened on the other, with a makeshift handle wrapped in something that might’ve been...sock leather?

• A pouch containing exactly four coins, one of which had a suspicious bite taken out of it.

• And finally, a hat - “Poorboy Special.” Crumpled. Mottled. Smelled like wet regret.

I stared at the items, slowly unpacking them one by one.

The Journal was the star of the show. It looked like it had been stitched together from multiple books, napkins, receipts, and what may have once been a chicken menu. Pages were scrawled with recipes, diagrams, and occasional threats written in all caps. 

One of them just read: “YOU’LL NEVER GET ME, DUCHESS!!!"

This was not the work of a sane man. But... it was thorough.

I opened to the first page.

[Excerpt from Frogustus’s Journal]

A Word from Frogustus M. Scrapper to the World!

Wanderer. Hobo. Alchemist. Culinary Authority. Possibly Cursed. Definitely Hungry.

“Now listen here, fledgling.

Magic ain’t just fireballs and sparkle-farts. Sometimes, it’s in a half-rotten onion you yanked from a compost bin behind a brothel at dawn. Or a lumpy Stonebeet still warm from a bandit's armpit.

Jozen is full of flavour. Dangerous, beautiful, deeply questionable flavour.

Every alley, plague cart, and unmarked grave is a potential goldmine - if you’ve got the guts to grab it, and the nose to know what’s ripe and what’s about to explode.

Whether you’re brewing a calming stew or crafting a cursed chutney, the tools and tastes of Jozen await.

Now go forth, fellow disciple, and sniff, scrape, pluck, and pray.

And remember: If you can grab it - You can cook it.

 - Frogustus M. Scrapper,

Professor Emeritus of Improvised Cuisine,

University of Underbridge (Est. Never) "

...

I closed the journal slowly.

“…Oh good,” I muttered. 

“I’ve inherited the ramblings of a culinary madman. - frog”

Next, the shortsword. It was light - probably meant for someone twice my size - but balanced, in a “please-don’t-expect-this-to-save-you” kind of way. 

The rust had personality. The chipped blade suggested “once defended a moldy loaf of bread.” The handle, wrapped in whatever used to be footwear, had absorbed at least a decade of sweat and bad decisions. Still... a weapon. Or at least, a metal stick. I’d take it.

Then, the coin pouch. When I shook it, it made the saddest little jingle you’ve ever heard. Four coins.

One bent, one greenish, and one with a visible bite mark. Either Frogustus was paranoid about counterfeit money, or he was just very hungry.

The fourth coin was actually normal. That felt suspicious on principle.

And finally: the hat. It flopped in my hands like it was embarrassed to be here. Patchy, discolored, and utterly lacking in structural integrity. It smelled like pickled feet and woodsmoke.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I put it on...

It fit.

Of course it did.

Tucked inside the journal, I found a brittle scrap of parchment torn at the edges, the ink faded in parts but still mostly legible. A recipe, half-finished:

[Recipe Draft – Unnamed]

3 Sprigs of Blackroot

2 Slivers of Dreamleek

A Half-Cup of Shadowbroth (boiled)

Optional: Crushed Sourfruit Peel (for tang)

WARNING: Extremely volatile. Ingredients must be measured precisely. Slight miscalculations may result in [text smudged] *fatal paralysis, agony, and/or uncontrollable flatulence. 

But I’ve finally done it. It’s perfect. My masterpiece measured to perfection - I think.

- F.M.S. "

I burped. The slight hint of decay wafted in a gas cloud in front me. Ah Frogustus...

"...and that explains the body," I muttered.

So, Frogustus had cooked up a magical death stew and went out tasting his own creation. Bold. Suicidal. On brand.

I stared at the journal again, turning it over in my hands.

Somewhere between the moldy pages, the paranoia, and the warnings about Duchesses and rogue herbs, I realized something - Frogustus may have been nuts, but he knew this world. He had lived in it, fought through it, and tried - gods help us all - to cook it.

And now, I had his life. Or...what was left of it. For whatever reason.

I read on for sometime. Gleaming what I could from the cookbook - slash - journal turned early memoir.

I sat under the bridge, letting the breeze pass through the ivy above, the world just beginning to hum with the sound of rustle leaves, and far far off... carts, hooves, shouts. Civilization. The kingdom of...Jozen.

I thought about the dream again.

“Save them all…”

Who? Why? With what? I didn’t even know if I had magic. Or if frogs could get jobs. Maybe not given my current "wealth"

I sat in the stillness, breathing slowly. Just me, my new body, and the remnants of a life gone spectacularly sideways.

Maybe... maybe this was a second chance.

Just maybe - 

GGRRRRRLKKKKKKKK

My stomach sounded like a dying bagpipe...So much for spiritual clarity.

I packed up the journal, put on a few rags of clothing, strapped the sword to my back with twine, pocketed the coins, and adjusted the hat. 

I stood - hopped - at the mouth of the underpass, looking out from beneath the arch of the mossy stone bridge.

Sunlight poured through the trees, catching glints of copper in the far distance. Hmmm. A city, teeming with people, problems, and hopefully something edible.

I took a deep breath.

“Alright Then,” I muttered.

"No more Jinta then. He died outside a convenience store next to a crushed spongecake.”

I tightened the bag over my shoulder.

“From now on…”

A beat. A breath.

“Frogustus J. Scrapper. The ‘J’ stands for ‘Just Trying Not to Die Again.’”

And with that, I waddled toward destiny.

Or at least, lunch.

CHAPTER TWO: END.                                        TO BE CONTINUED...