Prologue

"What is this?" 

Matthew muttered as he looked around his surroundings. Everything was pitch black, and there were no sounds or anything. 

Not long ago, he was on his flights bound to America for a business meeting until both engines of the plane exploded mid-air, causing his plane to plummet towards the ocean and the moment it struck the water surface, everything turned to what was around him right now.

Is this perhaps what they called the afterlife? He was not a religious person. He didn't believe that there was an omnipotent being that created the whole universe. For him, life is as simple as life or death. There is no such thing as a soul that will depart either in heaven or hell. Life simply ceases to exist.

Yet he found himself somehow awake and conscious, like he is still alive. Is this hell? No, not according to the description of the bible.

But then—he felt a stimulus! What was it? It was cold, like a droplet of water hitting his face from all over. It was weird, there was nothing around, how is it possible?

Suddenly–he felt what felt like a forceful tug from behind him, and then his eyes began to take in colors, it was blurry but moments later, he could see that there was dark cumulonimbus clouds drifting in the sky as it poured in torrential water down the earth.

"Huh?"

Matthew forced himself to sit up, blinking against the downpour as cold rain washed over him. The gritty feel of mud beneath his hands confirmed what his eyes couldn't quite make sense of—he was on the ground, drenched, in some narrow, shadowy alley.

He shivered, realizing the cold wasn't just from the rain. His body felt different—smaller, weaker, thinner. His hands, once calloused and large from years of work, now looked long and spindly, the skin pale and worn, like that of a malnourished teenager. His breath caught in his throat as he looked down at himself—he was wearing ragged, ill-fitting clothes that were soaked through, clinging to his skin.

"What… what is this?" he muttered, the sound of his own voice startling him. It was higher, younger. He could hardly believe it. His heart pounded harder as the truth began to dawn on him: This wasn't his body.

Matthew scrambled to his feet, his legs trembling under him. The alley was dark, lined with crumbling stone buildings. Rainwater ran down the walls, pooling at his feet in a thick, muddy mess. A faint glow from what looked like lanterns flickered in the distance, giving him a sense of direction.

He staggered forward, clutching his arms to his chest for warmth. How was this possible? Reincarnation? No, that's ridiculous. There had to be an explanation, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he took in his surroundings, the impossible began to seem more and more real.

He stumbled out of the alley and into a narrow street, lined with shabby wooden structures. The few people he saw were huddled under crude awnings, trying to shield themselves from the rain. They were dressed in simple, roughspun clothes. No cars, no streetlights, no signs of the technology he had once relied on. It was as if he had stepped back in time—way back.

"What is this place?" he whispered to himself.

As he began to contemplate, there was a shout from the right.

"Coming through!" 

He turned his head to the right and saw a horse-drawn carriage speeding up on the muddy road and the moment it passed by him, a mud splattered splashed onto Matthew's legs, further soaking him in the thick, cold muck. He instinctively raised his arms to shield his face, but it was too late. 

The shock of the moment left him standing frozen for a second, trying to process the primitive scene before him. Horses? Wooden carriages? He wiped the mud from his eyes and took in his surroundings more closely. The narrow street, the stone buildings, and the muddy road all pointed to something far more ancient than anything he had ever experienced.

"Definitely not modern times..." he muttered, shaking the excess mud from his ragged clothes.

Matthew took a deep breath, pushing through the confusion. There had to be an explanation, and if there was one thing he knew well, it was the value of adapting quickly. His survival depended on gathering information. He needed to figure out where he was, who he had become, and most importantly, how he could leverage his knowledge from his previous life to make sense of this world.

Spotting a tavern at the end of the street, with its dim glow and the faint sound of voices carrying through the rain, he decided to head toward it. Perhaps there, he could glean some information about this strange place. As he walked, he caught glimpses of the people around him. They looked haggard, their clothes worn and patched, faces gaunt as though life here was hard and unforgiving.

The tavern was as crude as everything else—a wooden structure with a swinging sign that was too faded to read. Pushing open the door, Matthew stepped inside, instantly hit by the warmth of the fire crackling in the corner. The smell of stale ale and cooking meat filled the air.

His entrance drew a few curious glances, but most returned to their drinks, uninterested in the soaked, scruffy boy who had just wandered in.

The barkeep, a burly man with a scraggly beard, eyed him suspiciously. "What'll it be, boy? You got coin?"

Matthew patted his pockets, half expecting to find nothing, but to his surprise, his hand closed around a few rough, cold coins. He pulled them out, studying the unfamiliar currency briefly before sliding one across the counter.

 "What can I get with this?" 

The barkeep scoffed. "The best I can give you is soup."

"Soup's fine," he said, sliding the coin across the counter. The barkeep snatched it up and disappeared into the back.

Moments later, the barkeep returned, slamming a wooden bowl filled with a murky liquid down in front of him. "Here ya go, lad," he grunted, eyeing Matthew closely. The smell hit him immediately—a rancid odor that made his stomach churn. The soup looked like a thin broth with lumps of unidentifiable meat and some kind of wilted vegetable floating on the surface. It was spoiled, he could tell instantly.

 The barkeep's eyes were glued to him, watching for any sign of dissatisfaction. If he reacted negatively, it could spell trouble. He wasn't in a position to make enemies right now, especially not in this new world where he was still figuring out the rules.

Forcing a smile, Matthew picked up the wooden spoon and dipped it into the foul-smelling concoction. His hand trembled as he brought the spoon to his mouth. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he had to fight the instinct to gag. It was worse than it looked—sour, bitter, and with a strong, metallic aftertaste. But he swallowed it down, his throat burning as it went.

"Mmm," he said, forcing another smile as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good stuff. Hits the spot." He nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral as the taste lingered unpleasantly.

The barkeep grunted, his suspicion slowly fading. "Aye, figured you'd like it. Best soup around these parts." 

"Can I ask you a question?" Matthew said.

"What is it lad?"

"What year is it now and what country are we in?" Matthew asked.

The barkeep scratched his chin, narrowing his eyes as if Matthew had asked a particularly strange question. "Year? It's 1880, lad," he replied. "And you're in Sylvania—ain't you know that? Part of the Grand Republic of Amerathia."

1880? Sylvania? Grand Republic of Amerathia? These weren't names he recognized. Based on this alone, he could tell that it was in a different world.

"I see…" Matthew said, nodding slowly, trying to mask his confusion. "Thanks for that. Then another question. Is there any job that I can take based on my body?" 

The barkeep scanned him from up to bottom and grunted, "Aye, there's work, if you're not picky. You're a bit scrawny, but there's always places lookin' for hands in the mills or the coal mines if you can handle a shovel. We're not far from the mines in the hills outside the city. Hard work, dirty work—but it pays."

The barkeep continued, scratching his beard, "Or if you're better with your head than your hands, the railways are always lookin' for clerks or messengers to help with the paperwork. Sylvania's been layin' down new tracks for the last five years, so there's work if you can read and write."

Matthew perked up at the mention of the railways. That sounded like something he could manage—less backbreaking than the mines and potentially a way to connect with people who had influence. If there were railway companies expanding, that meant money, and money meant opportunity.

"Railways, huh?" Matthew said, trying to sound casual. "What else?"

"Well," the barkeep replied, leaning back against the counter, "if you're feelin' lucky, there's always the taverns and inns. They'll take on young lads to clean, cook, or run errands. It's not glamorous, but you won't be riskin' your life in the mines, at least."

Matthew thought carefully. Manual labor might get him by, but it wouldn't get him far. He needed to position himself where he could gather information and see how this world operated. The railways sounded like the best option—there, he might find access to trade, goods, and important figures. If this alternate world was anything like his old one, the people who controlled transportation controlled everything.

"Railways sound good," Matthew said, nodding. "Where would I go to find work like that?"

The barkeep pointed toward the front door. "Head east outta here, follow the road 'til you reach the train station. It's a few miles from the center of the city. Just ask for the railmaster when you get there. If they're lookin' for help, he'll know."

Matthew nodded, mentally noting the directions. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He had a destination now, a potential job, and maybe—just maybe—an opportunity to begin building something again. This world might be primitive, but he had the advantage of knowledge and foresight. He just had to play his cards right.

"Thanks," Matthew said, pushing the bowl of awful soup aside and standing up. "I'll check it out."

The barkeep gave a half-hearted nod and went back to cleaning the mugs, uninterested in Matthew's plans.