Chapter 12: How Many Like Strolling Through the Middle Ages?

Returning to Wenden Port was good for both people and horses.

After two full sunny days, the snow began to melt slowly; white receded from the land, revealing dirty patches beneath. The resulting puddles would soon turn the roads into a hell of small mud pits.

If they had left any later, they would have been trapped in hopeless mud, splattered with mud from horse hooves and questioning their lives. You could wear a cloak over your clothes, but you'd have to brace yourself for arriving with half a pound extra weight.

Kraft thanked himself for deciding to depart early two days ago. Now, the two were riding horses along Wenden Port's cobblestone streets, hooves striking stone with a crisp "tap-tap."

Yes, Wenden Port had cobblestone roads—at least on several main thoroughfares. As a port city, even if not a major one, traffic concerns had to be addressed. Wagons carrying cargo or fish passed daily; the former left deep ruts in dirt roads, the latter dripped water that kept the soil perpetually sludgy.

Thus, out of pure practical necessity, Wenden Port acquired noble cobblestone pavements. By the sea, ample sand was available for bedding and filling gaps, preventing muddy water from pooling beneath loose stones and turning them into "traps" that sprayed sewage when stepped on.

Thoughtful designers even built drainage ditches along the roadside and slightly raised the road's center into a flat, obtuse triangular cross-section, directing runoff to either side. It might not compare to roads from another world, but here it was among the finest available—and Kraft would not hesitate to praise the designers.

But even such roads could not solve the problem Kraft now faced.

"I mean, is it possible no one's out setting up stalls today?"

Snow in the road's center had been cleared away, quietly melting beside the drainage ditches. This made cart passage easier, but also displaced the stall vendors' usual space. The temperature wasn't low, but neither was it high—certainly not high enough to justify setting up a stall.

Wenden Port had no antique shops; this kind of upscale market simply didn't exist here. If you wanted something strange and old, your first choice was roadside stalls. Many of these stalls were side jobs of sailors, selling scattered small items acquired from various places in exchange for a few copper coins to turn into beer at taverns.

Fortunately, there was no issue with counterfeiting or artificial aging—no one had the time or skill to perform such operations on stall goods.

Without stalls, the streets felt empty. At this time, streets hadn't evolved into the form of residences above and shops below; the sides were mostly pure dwellings. These two- or three-story buildings used half-timbered construction, filling spaces between wooden frames with brick and mortar. The finer ones applied light plaster to walls, contrasting with the exposed wooden frames like sketches just outlined in pencil.

Compared to the single-story homes of the previous village, these houses were taller and required better load-bearing structures, making it difficult to hollow out a wall on the ground floor for display. Instead, they relied on horizontally extended signs to indicate their function. Such signs were few: within sight were only "Tavern," "Tailor," and "Bakery"; farther away, another "Tavern."

"Don't worry—I'll ask a few ship captains I know. They always have a few mysterious-looking items." Lain said without changing expression. "You go explore on your own. We'll meet at the college gate at dusk, then find a place to stay together."

"Ah, then why not take me with you?" Kraft didn't understand at all, but Lain had already ridden off into the fork, as if he hadn't heard.

Under the midday sun, suddenly granted an entire afternoon of solo time, Kraft halted his horse at the street corner, watching pedestrians and carriages pass, utterly bewildered.

There weren't many people on the street. A few sailors sang shanties, arm-in-arm, turning into the building with the tavern sign. A wagon loaded with barrels of fish passed by; one fish, stuck tail-up in a barrel, still flapped its tail. Two men in scholar's robes used their sleeves to block water splashed from the fish's tail.

Kraft observed it all. The shanty tune was slightly off-key; water droplets traced blue-green lines along the fish's tail, then flew free; on the brown scholar's robe, two smudged ink stamps stained the cuff. He always felt something was wrong—especially when alone—since some day.

He had become… intensely curious, actively seeking out more details. When riding at full gallop, he noticed the ornate snow on treetops; he insisted on catching up to his cousin to chat; on the street, he watched water droplets and ink spots.

Logically, human attention is limited; focusing on one thing means ignoring many others. Yet his capacity for attention seemed suddenly expanded—he could distribute ample focus to more things, gathering more information, useful or useless, and he found this behavior deeply fascinating.

Like picking up every coin on the ground, like collecting scattered data from an entire book into one volume, like sucking every drop of marrow from a bone. He derived a strange satisfaction from this behavior.

His wandering thoughts spread further. The shanty's pitch should be higher—it would sound more natural; the fish's tail looked familiar—he'd seen this species before in the port, with a sharp snout; water droplets stretched and deformed midair, arcing past the sleeve's barrier toward its owner's face…

"Damn it!" A curse cut short Kraft's spiraling thoughts.

The two scholars in robes had collided while dodging water droplets; one stumbled forward, fell, and landed flat on his palms.

Kraft shook his head hard, clearing the chaotic thoughts, then rode his horse around the scholar arguing with the cart driver.

He wondered if he'd become too sensitive. This uncontrollable fixation on irrelevant details resembled obsessive-compulsive disorder. His other half from the other world had suffered from classic OCD, especially under stress: counting stair steps, washing hands until they wrinkled, repeating three blows of breath.

This half-transmigration might have unconsciously made him too tense. The familiar yet alien body, the merged thought patterns, the unfamiliar environment—all could have generated excessive anxiety for his other half. But he wasn't sure. After all, his barely passing psychiatry score clearly wasn't his own effort—it resembled his teacher's.

Riding along the street, Kraft decided to set these thoughts aside and do something else to clear his mind.

For example, he could look for a shop selling paper, pens, and ink.

Here, Kraft had been reluctantly taught by Master Anderson, with a bit of prompting from his grandfather, how to write elegant, intricate cursive script. His other half, however, was an enthusiast of cursive. Though not the same script, the shared writing principles made him eager to test his hand.

Compared to another unremarkable trinket, Kraft thought his grandfather and Master Anderson would prefer something else. A grandson/student returning from an outing with improved handwriting? That would be good—surprising. In the best case, it might even be seen as validation of their teaching.

With this thought in mind, and with no expectation at all for his suddenly vanished cousin Lain, Kraft began searching the street for paper and pens.