"That is massive," Edric muttered under his breath as he stared up at the towering structure of glass and steel.

  I still can't believe glass can be that clear. Or that tall. Is it magic? No... Nate said it wasn't.

  “This is the military museum you were so interested in—those 'lightning sticks' you kept going on about? You"ll find them here,” Nate said, stepping out of his vehicle. “I'll come pick you up later. Around 4 p.m.”

  "Four... p.m.," Edric repeated, uncertain.

  That's around when the sun starts to fall, right?

  “See you later, Eddie!” Nate called, hopping back into the car and speeding off into the stream of honking metal beasts.

  Edric stood alone on the pavement, watching the machine vanish around the corner. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  See you later, Nate.

  He turned back to the entrance. The building loomed like a fortress of knowledge, its clear walls reflecting the cold winter sky. Inside, he found no grand displays, no suits of armor, no weapons mounted for glory. Only silence, rows of shelves, and people quietly turning pages.

  He stepped forward.

  This is where they keep the records of their wars... their victories, their defeats. All of it written down like it was just another story.

  A woman at the front desk gave him a polite nod. Edric offered a stiff bow in return, unsure of the custom, then wandered inside, eyes darting across strange signs and plaques.

  'Wars of the 20th Century'

  His fingers hovered over the spines—books titled with numbers he barely recognized.

  What is a 'World War'? And how many of them did they have?

  He pulled one free. Its cover was a drawing so realistic that one might think it was magic—a photograph—grey men in grey uniforms, marching through smoke and rubble.

  Edric sat, opened the book, and began to read.

  "This is insane," he whispered.

  A number stared up at him from the page—sixteen million. That much, he could read.

  Dead. He was fairly sure that was the word. A word repeated again and again.

  His fingers tightened around the edges of the book, knuckles pale. Rows of grainy images stared back—long ditches with men crouched in them, strange machines spewing smoke, buildings shattered like eggshells. The faces were the worst—so many eyes hollow with dread.

  He didn't understand the captions. The words were too quick, too strange. But the feeling came through all the same.

  They did this... and then they did it again. Just twenty winters later?

  He leaned back, the book heavy in his lap. The air in the room pressed colder against his skin. The quiet wasn't calm anymore—it was expectant. Watching.

  Should I really be bringing this knowledge back?

  He closed his eyes and saw Arkenfeld. The mountain passes dusted in snow, the smithies glowing orange in the early dark, young men hammering steel with proud arms and nervous eyes.

  The Kasserians have these weapons too. Not all of them. Not yet. But close enough.

  He shut the book carefully, as if afraid something might spill out of it.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I don't even understand all of it. I can't even read half these pages. But I can feel it. This was not war. This was something else.

  But if I must build it on ruins... better mine than theirs.

  He looked at the title again. World War. He recognized that much now. Two words stamped into every shelf.

  But the weapons weren't conjured by mages or summoned by incantation. They had to be made. Forged, assembled, transported. That was clear from the diagrams—blurry and labeled in unfamiliar words, but unmistakable in shape.

  How did they arm so many? Do they have a thousand smiths? A thousand forges burning day and night?

  He touched the edge of another page—something about factories, he thought. But the meaning slid away from him before he could pin it.

  I must think of a way to delay them... with just our weapons. We don"t have their machines. But we do have some time.

  But first...

  He stood, eyes drifting toward the next shelf—World War II. The spine was worn. The book taller than the last.

  He reached out, but his hand stopped short.

  How many died this time?

  He turned another page and frowned. The words blurred—still mostly unreadable, though some caught his eye: artillery, offensive, total war. Familiar now in shape, if not always in meaning.

  It"s like reading a sacred tome, he thought, fingers brushing the brittle paper. A holy book of war… but I only know a few prayers.

  The photographs spoke more clearly—men crouched behind iron beasts, machines clawing through mud, cities vanishing beneath smoke. Names and numbers spilled beneath each image, too many to count.

  He sat back, eyes drifting over the shelves around him. Not a shrine. Not a grave. A temple built by those who studied death like a craft.

  His shirt did little to guard against the chill. The secondhand bag Nate had given him—a frayed thing that smelled faintly of smoke and a strange substance—rested by his feet, its 'zipper' half-stuck. He pulled out a battered notebook. Pages bent and creased from where he"d scribbled in the margins of diagrams and maps he barely understood.

  But something in it all made sense. Not the language—the pattern.

  They planned their battles before they were fought—strategizing their attacks as a whole, not just city by city, but region by region. Local commanders then adapted the plan for their own forces. A war, unstuck from traditional command structures. Lightning warfare.

  If I could do even a little of that…

  He set pencil to paper and sketched a valley. Then lines. Then columns of smoke curling upward.

  He hesitated, then flipped to another page, searching for a map he'd half-deciphered earlier. The details escaped him—but the momentum carried him forward.

  He didn't grasp every word.

  But he understood what they were trying to do.

  Maybe those Kasserians... no, I must prepare for the worst.

  "Eddie...!"

  I'd rather not have it that wa—

  "Eddie!" Nate called him. “Why are you still sitting there like it"s noon or something?” he said.

  "What? Is it closed already?" Edric asked, confused.

  "Well no but... it's four-thirty," Nate said. "I thought you got mugged or something."

  Four-thirty... was I that focused on reading these books?

  "Sorry," he apologized, then snapped the book shut, suddenly aware of how much time had passed. He stood up quickly, feeling a bit embarrassed for losing track of the hours

  "Oh, right—I forgot to tell you, we'll be going to be eating out, Felix got some free time tonight. We'll finally be figuring out what kind of language you speak now."

  "Is he the scholar in the field of tongues you spoke of?" Edric asked curiously.

  Nate blinked. "Okay... let"s call it linguist, yeah?" He sounded suddenly concerned about what Edric might"ve been saying to strangers. "He's not that scary, no need to put up on guards, Eddie."

  "I thought I told you many times already not to call me Eddie." Edric said, annoyed.

  "Why? You were fine with it before."

  “Well,” Edric muttered, “that"s because you never listen.”

  "Alright, alright." Nate grinned. "Just follow me, and sit tight okay, Edric?"

  He nodded, and walk behind Nate to the car.

  The restaurant was louder than his usual 'Mxdonald' place. It was filled with sound of clinking glasses, stifled laughter, music coming from unseen 'speaker'. He sat there, awkwardly, it seemed that outside his usual habitat and without his high class clothing, all he could do is sit. With hands folded on the table, his eyes then laid upon the man in front of him across the table.

  "So," said the man himself—older than Nate, with graying hair, sharp demeanor, and a way of speaking different than people here. "You're my mystery guest then, I presumed." He spoke confidently, with a sprinkle of arrogance.

  "Dr. Felix Rowan," Nate said, gesturing with a half-eaten breadstick. "Linguistics. University of Chicago. He speaks ten different languages and has opinions on all of 'em" His mouth, still chewing.

  "Eleven," Rowan corrected, smiling. "Though some are a bit rusty." He turned back to Edric, still holding the smile. "And you—from what recording I've heard from Nate, your accent is a headache, your grammar is ancient, and your vocabulary makes me feel like I'm reading Chaucer drunk. I love it."

  Edric blinked, not knowing what he just said.

  "Your name is Edric, yes?" He questioned.

  "Yes, my name is Edric."

  "Full name?" He pressed on.

  "Umm," Edric muttered, feeling pressured. "Edric Arkin,"

  Should I tell them now that I come from another world? Or should I just live on by doing odd job for Nate. Maybe if I tell them, they'll be more helpful. No... let's not rush thing yet."

  "Full name. Please" Rowan unconvinced, said.

  "That's my full name, what do you mean?"

  "Well, it's fine for now." Rowan leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "Alright, Edric Arkin. Let's play a little game."

  Edric tilted his head in confusion. "A game?"

  "Yes, a game that is called language." Rowan replied, eyes alight. "Rules, patterns of sound and letters. Now, say something in your native tongue. Anything at all."

  Edric hesitated, glancing back and forth at Nate, who gave him an encouraging nod while devouring the piece of bread that was once a bread stick.

  He took a breath, then spoke—a string of low, fluid syllables that rose and fell like a chant. It was old-sounding, deliberate, shaped by a cadence that didn’t match anything Rowan had heard in years or rather, his entire life.

  Rowan blinked. "Again,"

  Edric repeated, more clearly this time.

  Rowan then scribbled something in his personal handbook. "Fascinating." He said. "The phonology's unlike anything I've catalogued. Some of your vowels have a drift I've only ever heard in reconstructed proto-languages. That second phrase—was that a tense shift? Or are your verbs position-based?"

  Edric, not knowing what to respond, said "It means, 'The wind does not sleep in the valley,'"

  Rowan sat back, half impressed, half suspicious. "That's… poetic."

  "He sometimes recites something like a song on my balcony too" Nate spoke up.

  "Clearly." Rowan's pen darted across the page again. "Let's move on. Try counting to ten."

  Edric did. Rowan followed each number with growing intensity.

  "If your language isn't descended from any known branch—well, that's not just rare. That's going to be revolutionary."

  "Or he's just messing with us," Nate offered with a grin.

  Rowan ignored him. "Edric, where exactly do you come from?" He spoke with conviction, followed by his gaze full of wisdom.

  This time, the question didn't sound casual.

  Edric's fingers brushed the rim of his glass.

  Then, returning with his own eyes, looks into Rowan's. "Far from here."