The cold moonlight draped the grasslands in a thin layer of silver, like a veil. The towering Sorrow Mountains made the moon looming in the distance look as enormous as a disc, hanging in a lead-gray sky full of stars.
A snow-white goat grazed with its head bowed. Its long, rounded ears, slender as cattails, trembled faintly in the wind, and its long neck and mane were damp with dew.
Autumn was the plants' last celebration. Before the bone-chilling northern winds arrived, the goat had to grow a thicker coat to keep warm and store enough fat.
It was so focused on the struggle to survive that it failed to notice the ill-intentioned peeping thief nearby.
Kas lay prone on a rock that jutted out in the middle and dipped at either end, staring without moving at the "Beauty" hidden in the lush grass. He had to stay completely focused and avoid making a sound when he acted, lest he startle her.
"Ah, I have to commend little Hadi's taste. Bring home a Beauty like this, and even a stone could flow with clear spring water."
His gaze shifted slightly to the left. A skull covered in hair-thin cracks clacked its toothless jaws, its hollow eye sockets eagerly studying the goat grazing beneath the moon.
"Lad, understand? Only a Beauty like this is worthy of the Zagwell Clan's bloodline. I've got a brilliant idea..."
"That's a goat, you old fossil. I'm following Elder Hadi's orders and bringing her back..." Kas choked on his words, filled with shame at what he was about to say.
He remembered that it had been a sunny morning, perfect for a long journey to gather lichen and fodder for the goats, so he could fatten the livestock up and see them through a peaceful winter.
He had barely left the tribe when the War Chief, built like an Iron Tower, dragged him into a grove, forced him to strip, and inspected his development...
Then the War Chief had pinched his butt and given him an extremely important task: find the Old Shaman a wife on the Forgotten Grassland.
But even in a fantastical world of swords and magic, an old fossil with one foot in the grave taking a goat for a wife was a bit too outrageous.
"I ask this Beauty to unite with the wise one and give birth to the tribe's next generation of seers." Kas kept a stern face, trying not to burst out laughing and frighten the Beauty.
"Honestly, you're so stubborn. I remember when you used to be a fine lad who respected his ancestors. You'd scrub my handsome skull every day and carefully wipe the dust from its cracks."
The skull clacked his teeth in disappointment, bouncing around on the rough rock like a goblin with a stubbed toe.
Kas kept his face taut and didn't reply to his great-great-great... grandfather Morse.
He remembered the night five days ago, when he had just transmigrated. He'd been burning with fever, lying in a shabby wooden hut where skulls lined a stone shrine.
After drinking a bowl of mushroom soup mixed by the medicine man, his head had grown heavy and the world began to spin. Whispers rose all around him, as though he were in a ward beneath the catacombs.
The loudest of them all was Morse, the skull covered in cracks.
So when he woke up the next day, a new entry had appeared in his mind, along with a nagging skull by his pillow.
[Plan: ? Generations Under One Roof]
[Status: Great Success]
[Inspiration: In the world of the Rishiman People, no one dies. The dead wander through sacred places, becoming spirits who silently watch over their descendants.
But your great-great-great... grandfather seems to have taken a fancy to spending time with his descendants. He secretly returned to his decaying bones to journey alongside you.]
After several days of testing, he understood the core function of these entries.
This was an idealistic cheat that could turn an idea into a [Plan] that affected reality. The condition for putting it into action was [Inspiration]—in other words, "because I say so."
The fever brought on by transmigrating, combined with the hallucinogenic effects of the mushroom soup,
had made Kas, who had been afraid to walk alone at night since childhood, think the skull was talking. Without meaning to, he had come up with a complete plan, causing Morse, who had been dead for a long time, to "come back to life."
Sometimes his ideas worked, sometimes they didn't. Most of the time, as long as the [Inspiration] was convincing and the logic held together, the [Plan] succeeded.
Morse kept chattering about the virtues of the "Beauty." Kas sneaked a glance at the words appearing in his mind.
[Plan: Bring the Beauty Home]
[Status: In Progress]
[Inspiration: Lasso, trap, sling... If I can't invite the Beauty politely, I'll have to use physical force to bring her back to the tribe and marry her off to the Shaman.]
His rough hand slipped into the tool pouch on his back. His fingers moved nimbly as he silently took out a leather pouch tied between two hemp cords.
He picked up a fist-sized pebble and placed it in the middle of the pouch, then bent his legs and braced one knee against the rock, dropping into a kneeling stance.
He gripped the sling's hemp cords and began to swing it. The muscles in his sturdy arms rippled like giant pythons. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the spot between the Beauty's lovely horns.
"Stop, stop, stop! How can you be so rough during a sacred ritual?"
The skull bounced onto Kas's shoulder and warned his tradition-defying descendant with a near scream:
"Do you remember what the War Chief said before we set out? Think carefully, you stupid lad."
Kas didn't budge. He kept swinging the sling to build momentum, ready to let the "Beauty" have it.
As a transmigrator, he had nothing but contempt for tribal traditions. What kind of barbaric, backward nonsense was this? He impatiently replied:
"I remember. The War Chief said I'm the only male in the tribe who's turned eighteen without making a stone flow with clear spring water. Only a pure boy can find an equally pure 'Beauty' and invite her home in the most sincere way, to complete the sacred ritual."
To him, the most sincere way meant making sure the "Beauty" had no obvious injuries, then delivering her to the Old Shaman's hide tent with a big red flower on her head. As for what happened afterward...
I hope the Rishiman People aren't related to Wells by blood. I can barely accept a beast-eared maiden. To hell with this tradition.
"Then what's that thing you're swinging? Goat cheese?"
"Reshman Type I Ceremonial Cannon. I guarantee the Beauty will feel how sincere we are."
"You little brat..." Morse's jaws shook violently, his teeth clacking furiously.
"If you ruin this sacred ritual, you'll never find a wife in your life!"
Kas's sling-swinging faltered. His gaze wandered between the skull and the goat "Beauty," and he asked uncertainly:
"Really? The girls in the tribe have arms thicker than a bear's waist. I could do without a wife like that. Besides, it's Elder Hadi who's looking for a wife. What's that got to do with me?"
"..."
Morse fell unusually quiet. Aside from his jaw knocking against the rock with a crisp clack, he said nothing.
"Seriously?"
"Don't try to fool me."
"Say something, you nagging old fossil."
The more Kas talked, the slower he swung the sling.
By the time he'd put the sling away in his tool pouch, he was lying prone on the rock again, motionless, as if nothing had happened.
His expression grave, he watched the "Beauty" move three meters to the left, still shaken by what he'd nearly done.
What if—just what if—ruining this bizarre ritual meant he'd never find a wife...
He couldn't take that gamble, even if the odds were one in ten thousand. It wasn't worth it. Better to leave that happiness for the Old Shaman to enjoy alone.
He showed the mysterious tradition the most basic respect, just as he had in his past life. He believed in materialism, yet deep down he felt he should still revere ghosts and gods.
In the end, he was stuck in a strange cycle: not fully materialist, yet not fully spiritual either.
"What now? I'm no druid, let alone a ranger. I can't talk to animals. How am I supposed to invite her back?"
"She's the chosen 'Beauty.' As long as you approach her with reverence and sincerity, she'll surely be persuaded. You must understand, the birth of a seer is always a great omen. It marks our union with all the spirits of nature..."
Morse kept chattering, hoping his descendant, whose memory had been muddled by a high fever, would understand the sacred tradition again. But just as he was explaining it with great enthusiasm, Kas abruptly cut him off.
"But, old fossil, the War Chief never told me what to do if someone tried to steal the bride."
"Hm?"
The skull looked where Kas was pointing, beneath the full moon.
A towering humanoid monster was silently approaching the goat "Beauty." Its backward-bending legs made no sound as it crossed the grass, and its body, covered in silvery-white fur, blended into the moonlight.
Its scarlet eyes gleamed with a ravenous bloodlust. Its long tail swept over the grass as lightly as the wind, and sharp claws glimmered beneath its furry hands.
Morse sprang three meters into the air and let out an indescribable shriek:
"Why are there werewolves in this blasted place?!"
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