My Nagging Ancestor

The cold moonlight draped over the grassland like a thin veil of silver lichen, while the towering Sorrow Mountains made the moon appear as large as a disc, hanging in the lead-gray sky crowded with stars.

A snow-white goat was bowing its head to graze, its long, cattail-like ears twitching slightly in the wind, its slender neck and mane damp with dew.

Autumn was the final revelry for the plants; the goat had to thicken its downy coat and store enough fat before the bone-chilling northern winds arrived.

It was so focused on the pressures of survival that it failed to notice the malicious thief lurking nearby.

Kas was lying prone on a jagged rock, staring motionless at the "beauty" hiding in the lush grass. He had to maintain intense focus, ensuring not a single sound escaped him during his approach to avoid startling the "beauty."

"Oh, I must commend little Hadi's eye for talent. To bring such a beauty home—even a stone would flow with clear spring water."

His gaze shifted slightly to the left, where a skull covered in hair-thin cracks sat, its jawbone—missing several teeth—clattering incessantly, its empty eye sockets examining the grazing goat under the moonlight with excitement.

"Boy, do you understand? Only such a beauty is worthy of the Zagwell Clan's bloodline. I have a good idea..."

"That is a goat, you old thing. I am acting under the orders of War Chief Hadi to invite her back..." Kas choked on his words, feeling an immense sense of shame for what he was about to say.

He remembered it was a sunny morning, perfect for heading out to find lichen and fodder to feed the goats, fattening the livestock for a peaceful winter.

Hardly had he stepped out of the tribe when he was dragged into a small grove by the tower-like War Chief, who forced him to strip and checked his physical development...

Then, the War Chief pinched his backside and bestowed upon him a task of utmost importance: to find a wife for the Old Shaman in the Forgotten Grassland.

But even in a fantasy world of swords and magic, an old man with one foot in the grave taking a goat as a wife was just too explosive.

"Please invite this beauty to unite with the wise man and give birth to the tribe's next generation of prophets." Kas kept his face stern, avoiding a laugh that might startle the beauty.

"Sigh, such a stubborn mind. I remember you used to be a fine lad who respected his ancestors, scrubbing my beautiful skull every day and carefully wiping the dust from the cracks."

The skull clicked its teeth in disappointment, bouncing on the rough stone like a goblin that had just had its toes stepped on.

Kas kept his face tight, offering no response to his great-great-great-grandfather Morse.

He remembered five days ago, the night he had just transmigrated, lying in a dilapidated wooden shack with a high fever, surrounded by skulls on a stone shrine.

After drinking a bowl of mushroom soup prepared by the witch doctor, his head felt heavy and the world seemed to spin, as if whispers were echoing through the catacomb-like infirmary.

The loudest of them all was the cracked skull of Morse.

Thus, when he woke up the next day, a new entry had appeared in his mind, along with the nagging skull by his pillow.

[Plan: ? Generations Under One Roof]

[Status: Great Success]

[Inspiration: In the world of the Rishiman People, no one truly dies. The departed wander the sacred grounds, becoming spirits that silently watch over the lives of their descendants.

However, your great-great-great-grandfather seems to have developed a desire to enjoy life with his progeny, secretly returning to his decaying bones to journey alongside you.]

After several days of testing, he understood the core function of these entries.

This was an idealist cheat code that could turn concepts into [Plans] that influenced reality, provided the condition of [Inspiration]—or, as he put it, "I reckon"—was met.

The delirium caused by his high fever during transmigration, combined with the hallucinogenic effects of the mushroom soup, had led Kas—who had been afraid of the dark since childhood—to mistakenly believe the skull was talking. He had inadvertently conceived a complete plan, causing the long-dead Morse to "resurrect."

"I reckon" occasionally succeeded and occasionally failed; in most cases, as long as the [Inspiration] was well-reasoned and the logic formed a closed loop, the [Plan] usually achieved success.

Morse was still rambling on about the preciousness of the "beauty," while Kas secretly glanced at the text appearing in his mind.

[Plan: Bring the Beauty Home]

[Status: In Progress]

[Inspiration: Lasso, trap, sling... If I cannot invite her with courtesy, I have no choice but to use physical means to invite the beauty back to the tribe to marry the Shaman.]

His rough palm reached into the tool bag on his back, his fingers moving nimbly to silently extract a leather pouch tied with two hemp ropes.

He picked up a pebble the size of a fist, placed it in the center of the pouch, bent his legs forward, and shifted into a kneeling position with one knee pressed against the rock.

He gripped the hemp ropes of the sling and began to whirl it; the muscles of his sturdy arm rippled like a giant python, his eyes narrowing as his gaze focused on the center of the "beauty's" beautiful horns.

"Stop, stop, stop! How can you be so crude during such a sacred ceremony!"

The skull flew up and landed on Kas's shoulder, warning his tradition-defying descendant in a near-shout:

"Do you remember what the War Chief said before we set out? Recall it properly, you foolish boy."

Kas remained unmoved, continuing to whirl the sling to build momentum, preparing to let one fly at the "beauty."

For a transmigrator, he held nothing but disdain for tribal traditions—what a load of barbaric, backward nonsense—and said impatiently:

"I remember. The War Chief said I am the only male in the tribe over eighteen who hasn't made a stone flow with clear spring water. Only a pure boy can find an equally pure 'beauty' and invite her back to her homeland in the most sincere way to complete the sacred ceremony."

The "most sincere way," in his understanding, meant ensuring the "beauty" had no visible scars, putting a big red flower on her head, and delivering her to the Old Shaman's fur tent. As for what happened afterward...

I truly hope the Rishiman People have no blood relation to the Welsh; I can barely accept a beast-ear girl, let alone this tradition.

"Then what is that thing you are swinging in your hand? Goat cheese?"

"Reshman Type I Ceremonial Cannon. I guarantee the beauty will feel our sincere intentions."

"You little brat..." Morse's jawbone shook violently, his teeth making a sharp, clicking noise:

"If you ruin this sacred ceremony, you will never find a wife in this lifetime!"

Kas's motion of swinging the sling faltered slightly, his eyes darting between the skull and the goat "beauty," as he said with a lack of confidence:

"Really? I've seen the girls in the tribe, their arms are thicker than a bear's waist; I think I can do without that kind of wife. Besides, this is Elder Hadi looking for a wife, what does that have to do with me?"

"..."

Morse rarely kept his mouth shut, but after his jaw hit the rock with a crisp clack, he fell into a silent stupor.

"For real?"

"Don't try to pull a fast one on me."

"Say something, you nagging old thing."

The more he spoke, the slower Kas's movements became as he swung his sling.

Until the sling was tucked back into his tool kit, he lay prone on the rock, motionless, as if everything that had just happened had never occurred.

He stared with a grave expression at the "beauty" that had shifted three meters to the left, feeling a lingering fear over his recent actions.

If—just if—the price for disrupting this bizarre ritual was never finding a wife...

Even if the probability was one in ten thousand, he couldn't gamble; it was too great a loss. Better to let the Old Shaman enjoy this "blessing" all by himself.

He maintained the most basic respect for mysterious traditions, much like he had clung to materialism in his past life, yet deep down, he felt a vague sense that he should revere the spirits.

In the end, he fell into a strange cycle: his materialism was not thorough, and his thoroughness was not materialist.

"Now what? I'm no Druid, and certainly no Ranger; I don't have the ability to communicate with animals. How am I supposed to ask it to go back?"

"She is the chosen 'beauty.' As long as you approach with reverence and a sincere heart, she will surely be persuaded. You must understand that the birth of a prophet is inevitably a great omen, a union between us and the spirits of nature..."

Morse rambled on incessantly, hoping his descendant—who had lost his memory to a high fever—would come to understand the sacred traditions once more, but he was suddenly interrupted mid-rant.

"But old thing, the War Chief didn't say anything about what to do if we ran into a bride-snatcher."

"Hm?"

The skull looked in the direction Kas was pointing, under the shroud of the full moon.

A tall, humanoid monster was quietly creeping toward the goat "beauty." Its recurved legs made not a sound as it moved through the grass, its body covered in silver-white fur that blended perfectly with the moonlight.

Its scarlet eyes brimmed with bloodthirsty, hungry desire. Its long tail brushed through the pasture as lightly as the wind, and beneath the fur-covered palms, sharp claws flickered in and out of sight.

Morse leaped three meters into the air, letting out an indescribable shriek:

"How in the hell is there a Werewolf in this godforsaken place!"