Dragon's blood

I had never been to Japan. And never really wanted to go. Probably why I immediately knew this wasn't a dream.

I generally rarely have realistic dreams where someone is actively trying to kill me.

So the narrow-eyed guy with a topknot (on his head) and a sword in his hands made me worried right away. Especially after he tried, without even saying hello, to cut me, my dear self, into two parts.

He barked something in a non-Russian language, stepped towards me, raised the sword above his head, and sharply brought it down aiming for the part in my hair.

I jumped to the side quite sharply but still felt a piece of sharpened, polished metal whistle past my ear, cutting hair, and then hit me on the shoulder.

Holy crap, a barbershop with a straight razor!

I looked down at my left shoulder. When a cut is made by a very sharp object, you might not feel any pain at all. Maybe my arm was already half-severed?

To my luck and surprise, my shoulder and arm were fine. From my neck to my elbow, my carcass was covered in shiny black plates that had honorably withstood the blow from the narrow-eyed terrorist. Who, clearly dissatisfied with the result, was getting ready to continue his lesson on chopping wood with medieval bladed weaponry, using me as the log.

Oh no, Papa Carlo, you picked the wrong guy! I stepped towards him and, without waiting for him to finish another heroic swing with a yell and a roar, landed a right hook squarely on this nutjob's swarthy jaw.

I felt a satisfying sensation of teeth, unprotected by a mouthguard, cracking. After that, this damn samurai rolled his eyes and fell to the floor. True, he didn't let go of his katana (or whatever that piece of iron is called). He clung to it like a professional drunk clings to a bottle. So there he lay on the mosaic floor in a picturesque pose on his side, raising his sword-holding hand like the Motherland Calls statue.

Speaking of the mosaic floor, and the mosaic walls too. What the hell, where am I?!

What am I doing in this hall, with decor reminiscent of either a Catholic church or a Turkish hammam? Why am I wearing medieval armor, and why did someone just try to cut me down?

Speaking of cutting... I saw a drop of blood fall on the floor. My own, damn, blood! But from where? The armor held, didn't it? I felt my shoulder, arm, then my head. I felt moisture. That bastard had sliced off a piece of skin from the edge of my ear.

I should note, I don't handle the sight of blood very well. Even though I went to medical school to become a surgeon, I never could look at bleeding calmly. Especially my own!

If this is some kind of joke by damn reenactors, then where's their trauma center? Where's the doctor or nurse? Or at the very least, a first-aid kit with iodine and a band-aid? I can't feel calm while my blood is leaking out. Even a drop.

Since early childhood, I've felt that you mustn't lose blood. I'd immediately clamp down and bandage any cut. And if I spilled blood, I'd always wipe it up and wash it away under running water. I was afraid someone might be able to take my blood. It's my own unique phobia.

Getting blood tests at the clinic was an incredible shock. And here my blood is just dripping down my injured ear, and I don't even have a band-aid. Bastards!

After spending a couple of minutes in this room, I realized I shouldn't stay. I don't know why, but I was sure it was dangerous, and I started planning an escape plan. To prevent the madman who attacked me from jumping me again, I thoroughly tied his hands behind his back with his own belt. I'd seen how to do it in an old scout manual, so the knot wouldn't come undone. While I was busy with that, I realized the armor that saved my life was by no means light. Thankfully, it didn't hinder my movements much. The metal plates lay over my limbs and joints, and a rigid cuirass protected my chest. I didn't have a sword, although there was a scabbard. It was nice that my attacker's weapon fit perfectly in it. It was very hard to pry it from his hand, but after applying the right force... The sword would serve a more mentally balanced master. No, it's not that I like rummaging through other people's pockets, but I couldn't help but take a pouch with coins from his belt. I don't know if they're game tokens or real gold and silver, but for me, it's compensation for moral and physical damages!

When I finished, my ears gave me a danger signal. Someone opened the room door. It was a girl with a tray holding a teapot and a few cups. A look, a spark, a storm! The tray falls to the floor, porcelain shatters, the girl screams, I see something like a window, open it, and immediately jump through. I was lucky; it was the first floor, and it was no more than two meters down to the sloping ground. Yeah... I was lucky... I feel that after losing a piece of my ear and almost saying goodbye to life, I'm due for some luck for a while!

My thoughts flew out of me along with the air as I rolled down the loose earth, catching on some thorns. I tucked in and managed to somersault a couple of times before coming to a stop.

I opened my eyes. My body was lying in some bushes further down the slope below the window. I saw several people run into the house I had just tumbled out of. They were shouting something, but I didn't understand a single word. But my body understood. I jumped to my feet and ran away from that lovely place. Those who had just entered the building immediately gave chase. They also drew weapons and ran after me with furious shouts.

Whether it was the adrenaline or something else, I flew over a stone wall as if it weren't even there, even though it was twice my height. The shouts were left behind, and ahead was a forest, into which I ran without thinking or looking back.

The forest was quite dense and not at all like the ones I was used to near Moscow. It seems I'm somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere beyond the trees, shouts in a foreign, guttural language could be heard, which for some reason felt familiar. And I'm also subconsciously sure that I need to be as far away from those shouts and that house as possible if I want to remain in one piece.

The next half hour merged into one long run over very rugged terrain. The sun wasn't visible through the trees, but it seemed to be setting. And it got dark quickly, like it does near the equator. I tried to run for a while longer, but after falling a couple of times and nearly twisting my ankle, I decided to hide in some bushes. There, in the darkness, dampness, and cold, tired and out of breath, I sat and remembered and thought about how I could have ended up in such a situation.

The year 2020… Self-isolation. I'm sitting in front of the TV watching another program about the pandemic… Then either I fell asleep, or I passed out… And then this…

My train of thought was stopped by the light of the night sky. Looking up, I saw the Moon in the brightened sky… and the island it had emerged from. A fucking floating island! I started pinching myself, but then remembered my ear. This was too painful and real to be a dream. I heard in some lecture about dreams that it's hard for the brain to even render hands in a dream… But this…

In complete bewilderment, I tried to understand what was happening, slapped my cheeks, but didn't wake up. Until morning, I wandered through the forest, trying to somehow justify what was happening, but the conclusion suggested itself: this is not Earth. Although my brain tried its best to deny it.

Just before morning, I stumbled upon some berry bushes. Hunger reminded me that I was still a man of flesh and blood, and I had to recall the wilderness survival guide. Picking a couple of berries and rubbing them between my fingers, I smeared the sticky mush on my wrist. After about five minutes, there was still no irritation, so I rubbed two more berries on my lips. Again, nothing. I'll try eating them, since there are so many growing here.

Breakfast was monotonous, light, and too sour. I was thirsty, but there was nothing resembling a water source around. I gathered some berries. They taste disgusting; I'll throw them out as soon as I find something better. I spat out the sour stuff and went wherever my eyes looked.

As I walked, I tried to soberly assess the situation. I clearly lacked clarity of thought during the night.

Basically, I'm still in shock, but I need to start analyzing this new reality. I'll start with myself. Or rather, with the body I'm in. It's not mine! In the sunlight, I examined my hands. I've always done sports, but without fanaticism. But the hands I saw could belong to a professional rock climber.

The muscles weren't very bulky, but they were dense, the wrists woven with tight sinews. Yet the hands weren't rough. The owner of these hands clearly didn't earn a living through manual labor. But on the clean, well-groomed palms, you could feel calluses earned by regular work. They probably look like the palms of someone obsessed with pull-ups and parallel bars.

I tried doing a familiar warm-up. I moved easily, despite a sleepless night spent in the cold forest. The body didn't feel alien. It seemed like it was still me, but lighter and more energetic.

I tried throwing a series of punches. Singles and doubles came easily, but when I tried my signature combination of eight, I got mixed up. It seems not all my reflexes were preserved. Thinking a little, I took out the trophy sword and tried to practice a kata I learned during a brief fascination with Eastern martial arts.

The movements with the weapon came out easily and naturally. Moreover, after finishing the kata, I didn't stop but continued moving, performing a much more intricate fencing warm-up for a katana.

After a series of strikes with changes in position and rolls, I shook the blade, freeing it from hypothetical enemy blood, performed a short bow (more of a nod), and said loudly "Oss!". I even understood what it meant: "Patience!". Although, god strike me dead, I don't know what language I was just shouting in.

Well then, I have a different body that feels like my own and obeys well, but has unfamiliar skills. Including linguistic ones. Good thing I have a stable psyche, or it would be easy to suspect that my attic has started leaking due to the prolonged pandemic.

Next, my clothes. Under the armor, I'm wearing a shirt made of dense fabric, similar to linen. The pants are leather, or more like suede, tapered at the bottom. On my feet are leather shoes resembling moccasins with a rather unusual sole. Pieces of thick leather overlap each other like scales. And the "scales" run from the middle of the foot towards the toe and the heel. A similar principle is used in Nanai winter boots (or chuni). They sew hide with stiff fur on the heels and toes to prevent slipping when ascending or descending.

I felt the sole. It seems a denser material is sewn between the layers of leather to protect the foot and add stiffness. You can run over rough terrain and climb rocks in these moccasins. But they look, despite the dirt collected overnight, more like dress shoes than hiking footwear.

You should always keep your footwear in order. And a change of reality is no reason to abandon good habits. Using a bunch of grass, I started cleaning my moccasins as best I could.

Unexpectedly, I was interrupted by the locals.

– Good job, kid, cleaned them well! Now take them off, I like your tsurumaki.

Turning around, I saw the speaker and two of his companions. How did they approach so quietly that I didn't notice?

The speaker was wearing leather sandals, quite worn but allowing very quiet steps in the forest. He was dressed in short leather pants and a jacket with patches sewn on in several layers on the shoulders, sleeves, and chest. His companions were dressed much more lightly. They had pants and something like long shirts made of coarse fabric. The quality of their clothes was somewhere between "rags" and "tatters." One held a knobby club, the other – a pitchfork. The speaker held an axe with a long handle.

– Where did such a young and nice gentleman come from here? Anyway, wherever you came from, you're a fine lad! My zori are about to fall apart, and you've brought me such a wonderful new pair. Well, and thanks for the excellent keiko. It's not for me to wear such armor, but I know who to sell it to for good money.

The words this local thug was saying clearly had nothing to do with Russian or English lexicon and phonetics. But I understood his guttural speech perfectly. What to do in such a situation, however, I had no idea.

— So don't be shy, — the burly guy with the axe continued with a friendly smile, — hand over the footwear and the armor. Just don't grab for the sword. Draw the blade – we'll cut you down, but this way you'll strip and go on your way light. So let's have no foolishness.

While the leader was talking, distracting me, the other two were flanking me, pinning the victim in a pincer movement.

The audacity of this group really threw me off. Such robbery in broad daylight, and with such fancy phrases too… Although my reaction to thugs is standard. I wanted to smash their faces in.

Hey, guys – I looked over those flanking me without moving – Maybe there are more of you. Maybe you will kill me here. But even so, I'm wearing armor and I have a katana. I can take down one or two of you. And then what? I have nothing to lose, I'll die here. And won't you feel ashamed in front of your dead or maimed comrade? – I quickly glanced at those two and realized I was speaking in a language not my own, but there was no time to think.
When they hesitated, I seized the moment and took a few confident steps towards the leader with the axe. He, quite pleased that the victim wasn't running, assumed a defensive stance and raised his axe.

That's what I was waiting for. As soon as he, with a yell (why does everyone yell when they want to strike?), swung back, I landed a right straight to his jaw. He was taller than me, so the punch went upward and with a characteristic sound snapped his teeth together. His head jerked back, the axe fell from his hands, and I immediately took off. There's no better self-defense than running away. Who knows, they might still pin the blame on me? And I'm not ready to kill and take that sin on my soul yet.

Those two ran after me with shouts but quickly fell behind. Running through the forest with a pitchfork or a large club is inconvenient, and those three didn't look like athletes. I'd heard stories about farmers forming criminal gangs during crop failure years. Maybe these are the same kind of opportunists.

Stop! What rumors about farmers? How do I even know these creeps looked like local farmers? Do I know something about this world? A very interesting question. I'll run further away and think about this.

When I was completely sure I had lost them, I switched to walking and changed direction. I can't stay put. Who knows, maybe there's a whole bunch of them roaming around. What if I run into real murderers? They won't even ask questions!

Soon I heard the clatter of hooves. Smearing my armor with mud and grass, I crouched down and crept towards the source of the noise.

It turned out to be a road, not a path. A wide road, on which a whole column of armed-to-the-teeth riders was moving in formation. They were armed in the local fashion. I didn't notice any firearms, just spears, swords, bows, etc.

Behind the riders, wagons with barrels and boxes trailed. Supplies… Hunger was beginning to set in, but it didn't occur to me to ask armed people to feed me. The experience of the last day didn't inspire trust. So I decided to go in the direction opposite to the column. It coincided with my original direction anyway, meaning I wouldn't head back to the place where the crazed samurai, or whatever they're called, attacked me. My orienteering lessons in high school taught me to always remember which way I'm going… I never understood why the teacher was so strict about it, but now I get it. Thank you, Stepan Valeryevich… for that D in Life Safety that I only passed on the fifth try.

Walking on the road was easier. Even though it was also dirt, the layer of forest litter compressed by horses and wooden wheels was much more pleasant than protruding roots and endless changes in terrain. And the bushes were no longer trying to poke my eyes out.

Some problems vanished, but new ones arose. Up to my ears in mud, in dense clothing, and under the scorching sun (the tree crowns along the road only partially shaded it), I was sweating more than during the most intense workouts. It was comparable to a sauna. The dark metal of the cuirass seemed to attract the sun's rays. Maybe I should have given it to the bandits? I'd be traveling light now…

The path led me to some hill. I left the road and climbed it to look around. Fortunately, there were significantly fewer trees on it, and the opposite slope was much steeper. This coincidence allowed me to see a river and a small settlement a couple of kilometers away.

Settling in the shade of a tree, I returned to analyzing the situation.

Now I'm absolutely sure I'm not in my familiar world. I speak a different language. In the place I've ended up, cold weapons are in use. I'm in a forest through which someone's cavalry is currently moving.

And yes, I was almost robbed by three ragged individuals whom I took for ruined farmers. But why did I think that? Not knowing this world and using logic, I could have thought they were, for example, deserters.

But I'm sure they're not deserters or shurda, but specifically farmers? Damn, what shurda? It seems that along with the body, I received not only a new language but also a certain set of concepts. I understand that shurda shouldn't be dressed like that and, most likely, I really encountered ruined free farmers.

I also realized I wasn't truly afraid of them. I felt that my sword skills would be enough to deal with them. I felt anger towards them, but I didn't want to draw the sword because they weren't worthy of dying by a noble weapon. That's an honor that must be earned. For such as them, there's the whip. But I didn't have a whip. What I did have were the fists of a Candidate for Master of Sports in boxing, who doesn't disdain punching a commoner in the smug face.

In my life, I've more than once taught arrogant punks who overestimated their strength. But I knew it's better not to go against a knife with bare fists. I remember Pashka. He ran into three drunk idiots who decided to shake him down for money in the park. When they stopped him and started hassling him with the theme: "lend some cash to the bros or the bros will get offended," Pashka immediately started handing out his favorite hooks. Within seconds, the hoodlums were knocked out, and Pashka spat and walked on, not noticing he'd been killed. While he was swinging his fists, one of the scumbags managed to give him a short, sharp stab from below with a Finnish knife blade.

The cut wasn't deep, but when Pashka, walking home after an easy victory, noticed he was bleeding out, it was too late. Internal bleeding killed him in a few minutes.

Therefore, when I moved towards the burly guy with the axe to knock him out, I was clearly not myself. An axe is serious cold steel. The fact that it's used for chopping wood doesn't mean you can treat it dismissively. Ivan the Terrible's Streltsy were armed with bardiches. And a bardiche is the same kind of poleaxe. And the Streltsy were the first regular troops in Russia. And don't think they were a formidable force because of their arquebuses. In the end, far more people died from bardiches than from lead bullets.

Thinking about it, I realized I walked towards the farmer knowing that he was slow and clumsy compared to me. He couldn't have hit me; he just wouldn't have been fast enough. I could have kicked him like a dog, but earthly habits took over, and I landed an uppercut to the jaw.

So it turns out I'm not entirely me. This body had another owner, whose habits are now influencing my behavior. But what about him now? Did he die or fall asleep? Maybe at any second an alternative ego could wake up in my head and start a showdown with me over the management of the newly acquired house of my immortal soul?

Or maybe this is some kind of simulation? Am I under anesthesia, connected to a virtual reality as part of a mad experiment by insane scientists in the service of the very best state?

No, unlikely. Everything I know about humans from my medical studies speaks against this version.

I also know for sure these aren't hallucinations. I already checked with a simple eyeball test. I pressed on my right and left eyeballs in turn. The image started to double, then restored. Hallucinations wouldn't double. A pity. It would be better to get treated for hallucinations than to end up in a medieval world where they try to kill you twice a day.