Anyone Who Likes Shopping in the Middle Ages Has to Be a Little Crazy

Returning to Wenden Port was good for both man and horse.

After two full days of clear skies, the snow gradually began to melt. The white receded from the earth, exposing the dirty patches beneath. Before long, the resulting puddles would turn the roads into a hellscape of miniature mud pits.

If they had set out any later, mud splashed up by the horses' hooves would have driven them to despair. They could choose to wear cloaks over everything, but they would have to be prepared to gain an extra pound by the time they reached their destination.

Kraft thanked his past self for deciding to leave early two days ago. The two of them were now riding along Wenden Port's cobbled streets, their horses' hooves striking the stones with crisp clopping sounds.

Yes, Wenden Port had cobbled roads, at least along several main streets. As a port city, even if it was not a major port, it still had to consider transportation. Carts loaded with cargo or catches of fish came and went every day. The former left deep ruts in dirt roads, while the water dripping from the latter kept the ground in a year-round state of sludge.

Thus, out of sheer practicality, Wenden Port had acquired the noble luxury of cobbled streets. Being by the sea, it also had ample sand for bedding and filling the gaps, preventing muddy water from collecting beneath loose stones and turning them into "traps" that sprayed filthy water from the cracks whenever someone stepped on them.

The thoughtful designer had even included drainage ditches along the roadside and slightly raised the center of the road, creating a flat, obtuse triangular cross-section that guided standing water toward both sides. It might not compare to the roads of another world, but here, it was among the very best. Kraft would not hesitate to offer the designer his highest praise.

But even roads like these could not solve Kraft's current problem.

"I mean, is there any chance that nobody would be setting up stalls right now?"

The snow in the middle of the road had been cleared away and now sat quietly beside the drainage ditches, waiting to melt. This made things easier for carts, but it had clearly taken over the niche that belonged to street vendors. The temperature was not low, of course, but neither was it high enough for people to want to set up stalls outdoors.

There were no antique shops in Wenden Port. That sort of high-end market did not exist here. If someone wanted to buy something strange and old, their first choice would be roadside stalls. Many of those stalls were actually sailors' side businesses, selling off miscellaneous little items gathered from all over in exchange for a few copper coins better spent turning into beer at a tavern.

Fortunately, there was no need to worry about counterfeiting or artificial aging. Nobody had the energy or skill to pull tricks like that on street-vendor goods.

Without the stalls, the streets felt a little deserted. Buildings with residences upstairs and shops downstairs had not yet evolved in this era. Both sides of the road were mainly lined with private homes. These two- or three-story buildings used half-timbered construction, with brick, stone, and binding material filling the wooden frames. The fancier ones had their walls whitewashed in pale colors, contrasting with the exposed framework like a sketch that had just had its outlines drawn.

Compared with the single-story homes in the small villages they had passed through earlier, the houses here were taller and required stronger support. It was not easy to knock out an entire wall on the First Layer to display what was inside. Only horizontally projecting signs showed their functions. There were not many such signs, either. Within sight, there were only "Tavern," "Tailor," and "Bread," with another "Tavern" farther away.

"It's fine. I'll ask a few Captains I know. They'll definitely have some things that look mysterious," Ryan said without changing expression. "You can wander around by yourself for now. We'll meet at the Academy entrance this evening, then find somewhere to stay together."

"Ah, then why aren't you taking me with you?" Kraft could not understand it at all, but Ryan had already ridden off and vanished around a fork in the road, apparently not hearing him.

Under the midday sun, Kraft suddenly found himself with an entire afternoon to spend alone and had no idea where to go. He reined in his horse at the street corner, watching pedestrians, carts, and horses pass by with a thoroughly bewildered expression.

There were not many people on the street. Several sailors, singing an off-key sea shanty with their arms around one another's shoulders, turned into the building ahead with a tavern sign hanging outside. A cart carrying several barrels of fish passed by the entrance. One large fish stuck headfirst into a barrel was still flapping its tail, while two people in scholars' robes used their sleeves to shield themselves from the droplets flung from it.

Kraft observed it all. The sea shanty was slightly off-key. Droplets ran along the blue-green markings on the fish's tail before being shaken loose. There were two faded ink stains on the cuffs of the brown scholars' robes. Something felt off to him. Especially when he was alone, it had been like this since a certain day.

He had become... intensely interested, actively trying to catch more details. While galloping on horseback, he noticed the gorgeous snow on treetops. He insisted on catching up with his cousin just to chat. On the street, he noticed water droplets and ink stains.

Logically speaking, a person's attention was limited. When they deliberately focused on something, they were bound to overlook even more. Yet it was as though his capacity for taking things in had suddenly expanded. His abundant attention could be distributed across more things, gathering all kinds of information, useful or useless, and he found the act itself fascinating.

Like picking up every coin on the ground. Like collecting scattered data from an entire book and compiling it into a volume. Like sucking every last drop of marrow from a bone. It gave him a strange sense of satisfaction.

His wandering thoughts continued to spread. That part of the sea shanty ought to have been sung a little higher; perhaps it would have sounded more natural. He seemed to have seen that fish's tail the last time he came to the port; that kind of fish had a sharp mouth. The water droplets stretched and distorted in midair, slipping past the sleeve's obstruction as they flew toward their owner's face...

"Hey, damn it!" The angry curse interrupted Kraft's train of thought.

The two scholars in long robes had bumped into each other while dodging the droplets. One of them stumbled forward, caught himself with his hands, and ended up sprawled on the ground.

Kraft shook his head hard, throwing out the mess of thoughts, then rode around the scholar arguing with the cart driver.

He wondered if he was being overly sensitive. This uncontrollable habit of noticing all sorts of irrelevant things felt a lot like obsessive-compulsive disorder. The half of him from the other world had displayed fairly typical obsessive-compulsive tendencies, especially under stress. He would count the number of steps in a staircase, wash his hands repeatedly until they wrinkled, or blow three times over and over again.

Perhaps this half-transmigration had made him too tense without him realizing it. The familiar yet unfamiliar body, the merged patterns of thought, and the environment he had not yet grown used to could all have caused the otherworldly half of him too much anxiety. But he was not sure. After all, his barely passing psychiatry grade clearly had less to do with his own efforts and more to do with his teacher's efforts.

Riding down the street, Kraft decided to set those thoughts aside for now and do something else to clear his head.

For example, he could look for somewhere that sold paper, pens, and ink.

The Kraft of this world had only reluctantly learned how to write in elaborate, ornate script under Teacher Anderson's instruction, along with a little prodding from his grandfather. But the otherworldly part of him was an enthusiast of ornate handwriting. Though the characters were not the same, the similar writing methods made him want to try it out.

Compared with yet another unremarkable little trinket, Kraft felt that his grandfather and Teacher Anderson would rather see something else. Their grandson or student returning from an outing with excellent penmanship would be quite nice, quite a surprise. In the best-case scenario, it could even be seen as recognition of their teaching.

With that in mind, and without the slightest expectation of anything from his cousin Ryan, who had suddenly disappeared, Kraft began searching the streets for paper and pens.