Chapter One: Such Is Life

In this world, every object and every thing possesses a name. For instance, when you see someone sitting on a wooden contraption with four legs—an ingenious device that supports the body—you know its name is "chair." Similarly, the soft, plump mass resting atop the chair goes by the name "buttocks." Yes, these are names. No one truly knows where such things originated. One theory claims that the Creator, Darimos, spent seven days forging this world, then seven hundred years naming each thing he had made. Frankly, whenever I recall this notion, my mind conjures up absurd images: the omnipotent Father of gods crouched in a muddy pit, solemnly proclaiming to a fat, oblivious beast with a voice booming through the heavens, "This shall be called 'pig!'" The creature, indifferent to its grand honor, grunts loudly, expressing annoyance at being roused from its nap, rolls daintily in the mire, and slips back into slumber.

But truthfully, it matters little whether a pig knows it is called "pig." For humans, however, not knowing names is troublesome. You can't very well say, "I just came from that place, where they produce that thing, which is beautiful and looks like that other thing." If you speak thus, I wager no one will understand you.

Thus, as custom dictates, I shall use familiar names to tell this story. If you find that any name does not match its referent, I assure you, you are correct. For a name is merely a name; we call things by them only by chance.

As with all things, each person has a name—myself included. My name is "Gate Guard Jefferitz Kidd." I do not like it; it is cumbersome to say and lacks any sense of grandeur. Yet, somewhere along the line, I became irrevocably known by this name—just as a pig is called "pig." It is nothing but happenstance.

Let me speak of myself. Yes, my name is "Gate Guard Jefferitz Kidd"—as I have said—and I am a guard at the main gate of Campnavia City. Campnavia lies in the heart of the Kingdom of Delanmeya, itself situated in the southeast of the continent of Falvey. Beyond Falvey stretches the vast "Comet Sea," so named because, legend says, it was once dry land, shattered by a falling comet. On the Comet Sea are many unknown islands, and it is rumored that even farther, beyond the sea, lie mysterious continents, vast and unexplored—though those, of course, have nothing to do with me.

Many intelligent races inhabit Falvey: humans, elves, dwarves, minotaurs, goblins, deep gnomes, and so on. Each race has its customary homeland: Delanmeya is predominantly human, but one often encounters travelers of other races, especially elves and dwarves, since the dwarven stronghold of Goldstone Fortress and the elven enclave of Moonstream Forest both border Delanmeya. Occasionally, travelers from other races appear as well.

Besides race, there is another way to distinguish the inhabitants of the continent: the concepts of "Planewalkers" and "Natives." According to authoritative magical theory, the world we inhabit is but one among countless planes; within the larger cosmos, infinite worlds exist beyond our knowledge. Some intelligent beings are born with the ability to traverse these planes, wandering the boundless universe—these are the so-called "Planewalkers." Others are born to live only within one plane—these are "Natives." The abilities of Planewalkers are not determined by race; whether you are a gnome less than five feet tall or a towering minotaur, you may be a Planewalker, vanishing from this world at any moment to roam the planes.

It is not easy to discern whether a person before you is a Planewalker or a Native. They look alike, with no obvious physical difference. Yet there are distinctions. Natives like myself are honest folk, not fond of conversation or wandering, content to fulfill our duties or manage our business. Planewalkers, on the other hand, are curious souls, who revel in adventure and mischief, delighting in their exploits. They are born adventurers; exploration and travel are their life’s purpose. They are also natural optimists, calling themselves "players," as if their lives are but a fascinating game, and play is their sole meaning.

My main task, then, is to stand at the city gate and receive these Planewalkers who traverse time and space.

If you happen to be a Planewalker—and it is your first time visiting Campnavia—I will diligently inform you: "Do not venture too close to the forest outside the city, traveler; it is not as safe as it appears. About two months ago, a pack of wild dogs appeared there. They often attack passersby, causing much unrest in the city. Sheriff Gerald is troubled by this matter. If you feel strong enough, you may hunt three wild dogs and bring their pelts to the sheriff’s office; Mr. Gerald will reward you."

This ought to strike one as odd; I have never been to the forest outside the city, nor do I recall when I learned the name of the sheriff—my superior—Gerald. Yet, whenever I meet a newcomer, I faithfully repeat these words, unchanged. Stranger still, for a long time, I never found any of this peculiar.

As far as I know, nearly every Planewalker who comes to Campnavia receives this modest bounty, yet no one has ever told me to cancel the wild dog hunt. By this reckoning, the wild dog population must be staggering.

If you have slain three wild dogs and, by chance, are inclined to converse with me (for reasons unknown, this "chance" always seems to occur—I suppose it is because I am a friendly fellow), I will ask you to do me a favor:

"You seem to be a discreet sort; I have a personal matter to entrust to you." I will point to the guard standing across the road. His name is "Gate Guard Fred Goodrian." Since I first took up this post, he has been my partner, though we rarely speak. He is stiff and proud. Whoever attempts conversation with him will only hear:

"Don’t cause trouble in the city—unless you think your bones are tougher than my sword."

He says this because he wields a fine sword—a black, exceedingly sharp blade, apparently passed down from his ancestors. He is very proud of it and often flaunts it.

"This concerns my partner…" I will whisper to you at this point, "…you know, he always boasts about his sword, claiming it can cut anything. Yet I know of a wood called ‘ironwood’ that is harder than steel, so I made a small wager with him: to find a piece his sword cannot cut. I’ve heard Mr. Rama in Tulo Village possesses such a log. If you can borrow it for me, I’ll give you half the wager as your reward. But Mr. Rama dislikes others meddling with his things, so best not let him catch you ‘borrowing’ it."

I’m sure it won’t be long before you bring me what I need, and I’ll have my partner test his prized sword. Naturally, I’ll win the wager, and you’ll receive your reward. This scenario repeats endlessly, without suspense. I do not know why I find such joy in this recurring gamble, save for the delight I take in Fred’s astonished expression.

If you wish to find someone in Campnavia, you may ask me. I will mark their location on your map—say, the butcher Lonsco, or the apothecary Elder, or any such person. I must admit, I am a diligent guard; though I have never met these people nor know what they look like, I always know where they are, and never err. Some may find this incredible, but I am accustomed to it. In fact, there are many, many things I know inexplicably and quite by accident.

If you stay in the city long enough, having completed tasks such as delivering a love letter full of misspellings for Pierre, the tavern-keeper; searching for new stone at an abandoned wild temple for Dakla, the tombstone carver; collecting debts from Baron Potter’s hired hands; or seeking an appetite-restoring candied hawthorn for the innkeeper’s anorexic sister-in-law—after all these tedious errands, I will tell you:

"Campnavia is protected by the Order of the Starry Sky; security has always been good. But recently, a gang of bandits appeared on Saber-Tooth Mountain east of the city, robbing merchants. Over twenty caravans have been attacked. We need strong volunteers to eliminate them. Bring me the head of the bandit chief and you’ll gain the Order’s recognition, becoming a friend of the city."

Some impulsive youngsters rush off to challenge the bandits before I finish speaking. I must say, their minds are filled with courage and little else. If they would listen to me a little longer, I would advise them:

"You’d do well to find a few reliable companions; you’ll discover they are more trustworthy than any weapon you wield."

I often see those foolish, hot-headed adventurers, clad in tattered clothes and wielding swords and axes worn like rusty scraps, chased by no fewer than thirty bandits right up to the city gate, sometimes more than once. The most woeful among them was chased back in nothing but his underwear, sitting at the gate and lamenting, "These bandits are impossible to kill!" At that time, I stood by the gate, looking at him with utter contempt, silent.

Serves him right! Ill-mannered fools who refuse to let others finish deserve such a fate!

Fortunately, most people are not so dense. They manage to vanquish the troublesome bandits and bring back the chief’s head. As I suggested, most accomplish this arduous task in groups of three to five, which leads to a puzzling phenomenon: no matter how many are in the party, each receives a bandit chief’s head. I have many questions about this: What would a five-headed man look like? Would his heads quarrel among themselves? If they snored while sleeping, would it bother one another? But since I never find an answer, these questions trouble me but briefly.

Though I award the Order of the Starry Sky’s medal—symbolizing courage and resolve—to these adventurers as a reward for defeating the bandits, there is no evidence they have truly wiped out the gang. Whenever I assign this task, they return with identical heads. Sometimes I imagine that Saber-Tooth Mountain is a forest where, when autumn winds blow, the branches are hung with bandit chiefs’ heads. Joyful adventurers, dressed for a picnic, carry baskets and happily pick heads from the trees, anticipating their medals and planning to return tomorrow…

As with all my wild ideas, this wicked notion never lingers long in my mind.

No city permits brawling, and Campnavia is no exception. Street fighting is prohibited; this is the only law I know in Campnavia. Yet, even with this single law, the restless Planewalkers do not always abide by it. Each day, several scuffles occur on the road by the city gate, sometimes escalating to murder. Preventing such incidents is also our duty.

Just a few days ago, two newly arrived Planewalkers quarreled over a transaction. Amidst the dispute, the dwarven ranger, perhaps seeking to ease the tension, greeted the elven mage’s female relative in a rather familiar and friendly manner. This evidently violated some elven tradition, and the mage erupted in fury, hurling a fireball at the dwarf. I remembered my duty; seeing this, my partner Fred and I rushed forward to intervene. The elven mage even tried to attack us. Unfortunately for him, his spells were so clumsy—likely still at apprentice level—that he missed us entirely, and we closed in, delivering a sound beating and tossing him into the holding cell for half a day, where he dutifully paid his fine before being released.

This is everything about me—my life and work, all the people and events I encounter daily. My life is tranquil and mundane, and I am content with this peace and ordinariness, never considering any change. Indeed, true life seems meant to be thus: no grand vistas, no dazzling sights, no tempestuous adventures—only trivial matters filling your days. I believed I would continue this way until I reached some unseen end, just as I began from some forgotten beginning.

I did not expect a small accident to change everything.

It happened on an ordinary morning, identical to any before. The city gates were open, travelers passing by, and I stood upright at my post, staring straight ahead.

At that moment, two Planewalkers were conducting a transaction in front of me.

"…No, at least twenty copper coins, not a coin less. Otherwise, find someone else," said one, shaking his head like a windmill. Like his counterpart, he was an ordinary human—average build, unremarkable appearance—but his armor was better made, stitched tighter, the leather sturdier.

"Fine, twenty it is…" the buyer gritted his teeth and nodded, reaching for his purse while urging, "…hurry up, the server is about to shut down for maintenance."

"Coming right up!" The seller hastily pocketed the coins, then rummaged in his pouch for a bundle, reaching out to hand it over. But they were standing too close to me, and the muddled seller accidentally thrust the bundle into my hand.

By regulation, I am not allowed to accept anything from passersby while on duty. Had this happened before, I would have returned the item, politely saying:

"I cannot accept your gift; serving you is my duty."

But this time, just as I was about to return the item, the sky suddenly went dark.

No, not just the sky—the earth, the walls, the people, the trees—everything in the world lost color in an instant, plunging into chaos. A shade deeper than black filled my eyes, my senses; the world seemed to vanish into a void of despair—silent, colorless. I felt myself disappearing, soul and all, leaving only a lifeless emptiness.

I would say, in that moment, I glimpsed the coming of the world's end.

Just before the enveloping darkness descended, I heard the careless seller cry out in alarm:

"Oh no, I chose the wrong trade recipient…"