A Song of Flesh and Blood

Oswin closed The Book of General Geography of the World and set it aside, rubbing his temple. The pages had been filled with names of distant lands, towering mountain ranges, and endless seas, yet despite all that knowledge, the world still felt full of unknowns. He sighed, glancing at the stack of books beside him.

One, in particular, caught his eye.

The Bible of the Spirit King.

He pulled it free, feeling the unexpected weight of the leather-bound volume in his hands. The cover was worn, the spine creased from years of use. As he flipped through the pages, their edges softened by time, he could tell—this book had been read often. Perhaps by the original Fray himself.

"Judging from Fray's memories, he must have been a devout believer…" Oswin murmured.

It wasn't surprising. This was the faith of the world—the one truth nearly every man, woman, and child accepted without question. Whether noble or peasant, merchant or beggar, all worshiped the so-called Spirit King and the spirits said to serve him.

He turned to the first few pages, the ink still dark despite its age.

"The Spirit King watches over all. The winds carry His will, the waters speak His wisdom, the flames burn with His judgment, and the earth stands firm in His name. All spirits bow before Him, for He is their sovereign, and they His children."

Oswin exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair.

The Church of the Spirit King had existed for as long as anyone could remember. Its teachings were passed down through generations, woven into everyday life. People prayed before their meals, gave thanks for bountiful harvests, and sought the Spirit King's mercy in times of misfortune. There was no need for proof, no need for doubt—faith was as natural as breathing.

Oswin had never thought much about it before. Religion had always been something in the background, something others concerned themselves with. He had heard the prayers, seen the ceremonies, watched as people bowed their heads in devotion. But had he ever truly believed?

His fingers traced the edge of the pages, flipping further in.

"The Spirit King is mercy. He is wrath. He is the flame that warms and the fire that burns. He is the storm that cleanses and the flood that drowns. In His hands, all spirits find their purpose. And in His name, mankind shall walk the path set before them."

Oswin read further, making his way through a quarter of the book before setting it down. It was nearing midday, and The Bible of the Spirit King was thick. He would finish it later.

It wasn't as though he had learned anything new. Most of it was just praise, glorifying the Spirit King and the spirits. The scriptures claimed that spirits were the servants of the Spirit King—his messengers and enforcers. Every flame, every gust of wind, every wave in the ocean was said to be touched by their presence. They were to be respected, revered. People left offerings to them, whispered prayers in their honor, begged for their favor.

And yet, no one had ever claimed to see them.

Oswin frowned.

"Strange, isn't it?" he muttered to himself.

People worshiped spirits as divine beings, yet they knew nothing about them beyond what the Church taught. Did spirits truly listen? Did they truly serve the Spirit King? Or was it all just tradition passed down through the ages, unquestioned and unchallenged?

Oswin shut the book with a quiet thump, the sound echoing in the still air of the room.

Faith was a powerful thing. It shaped kingdoms, steered the lives of men.

And once, in his old world, Oswin himself had been a believer—a very pious one at that.

Reading about this world's religion stirred long-buried memories of his past. He had been the ideal believer, devoted and unwavering. As a teenager, he had always volunteered for charity work. At his local church, he had been the cantor of the choir, his voice leading the congregation in song. Music had been his passion, and his talent was undeniable—he played the violin skillfully, his melodies guiding the other choir members in harmony. He had held that role until he graduated from high school.

His gift had opened doors for him. He had been accepted into the best music college, where he studied violin, classical compositions, and religious hymns. His life had been on a clear path, steady and full of promise.

Until his final year of University.

That night was supposed to be just another ordinary night. He had been walking back to his dorm when he took a shortcut through an alley. There, he saw it—a girl struggling, her muffled cries barely audible behind the strip of duct tape over her mouth. A man, old and gray-haired, loomed over her, his hands gripping her roughly.

Oswin didn't hesitate. He ran toward them, shouting.

The old man turned, hurling vulgar insults at both the girl and Oswin. His words were disgusting, rage-inducing.

Oswin had always been calm—until he wasn't. He had struggled with his temper since childhood, a flaw he could never quite overcome. When pushed to his limit, he lost all reason, acting on raw emotion rather than thought. And in that moment, anger consumed him.

He didn't remember every detail. Only flashes—his fists swinging, the struggle, the old man falling. And then, the silence.

He had killed him.

The girl was saved.

But Oswin was arrested.

The court acknowledged that he had acted to help the girl, but the fact remained—he had taken a life. And for that, he was sentenced to three years in prison.

His future was gone. Expelled from college. His dreams of a music career shattered.

Prison was brutal. The walls suffocated him, the stronger inmates bullied him, and whatever faith he had once held slowly withered away. He had prayed at first, clinging to the belief that God had a plan. But day after day, nothing changed. His prayers were met with silence.

By the time he was released, he was a different man.

A man without faith, and much colder than his previous self.

Society had no place for an ex-convict. Finding a job was nearly impossible. Doors slammed in his face over and over again—until, eventually, he settled for work at a fast-food chain. It wasn't what he had once dreamed of, but it was all he had left.

That had been his life.

Oswin sighed, the past had crept up on him again, memories clawing their way to the surface. But what good was remembering? That life was gone—buried in a world he would never return to.

He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He had been sitting for far too long, his mind lost in books and thoughts. He needed fresh air. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to see this world not through the words of dusty old pages, but with his own eyes.

The market.

He had been there once before—Just in the morning. He wanted to take a proper look, now that his rage had settled down.

Leaving the quiet of his room behind, Oswin made his way to the main door

"Aria, I am leaving to buy groceries again."

Aria came out of the drawing room with a book in hand and nodded her head.

Oswin made his way outside. The sun hung high in the sky, its golden light washing over the town's stone streets. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meats drifted through the air, carried by the chatter of merchants and customers alike.

As he stepped into the marketplace, the crowd was much less than in the morning, It was midday after all, most people who were not shopkeepers were busy with their day job. 

To his right, a fruit vendor arranged a neat stack of deep-red apples, their skin gleaming in the sunlight. A few stalls down, a fishmonger displayed his fresh catch, the sharp scent of saltwater and scales filling the air.

"Fresh river trout! Straight from the Leviathan Ocean! Best price in town!" the fishmonger bellowed.

Oswin scoffed. Leviathan Ocean? That's aOcean, not a river. Do people here even know geography?

"Of course they don't only the somewhat rich can afford education in this world."

Oswin thought in his mind and scoffed.

He continued down the path, pausing as he passed a blacksmith's stall. Swords, knives, and farming tools hung neatly on wooden racks, their metal glinting in the daylight. The blacksmith, a burly man with a soot-streaked face, was busy hammering away at a glowing piece of steel.

So different… yet so familiar.

Oswin had never lived in a world like this, yet something about the market's liveliness reminded him of home. The open-air stalls, the street food, the voices overlapping in a symphony of daily life—it wasn't so different from the weekend markets back in his old world.