1 Republic of Aska 1

Phyllis opened her tired eyes and found herself floating in midair.

Above her stretched a cloudless sky; below lay a town unfamiliar to her. The world was eerily silent and utterly devoid of color, as though someone had placed a gray filter over her vision—everything appeared shrouded in misty shades of grey.

This must be a dream, she thought dully.

After all, her last memory was of staying awake for three days straight, racing against a deadline. The moment she submitted her draft, she had collapsed onto her bed—so, naturally, she should be asleep now, deep in a dream.

On closer analysis, the scene before her offered even clearer proof. The town beneath her seemed built among mountains; the roads wound steeply up and down, narrow and sharp, and the city’s buildings and streets were almost entirely constructed from stone—utterly unlike any modern city.

As she willed her body to drift downward, she observed the people walking along the stone roads. Their clothing resembled something out of documentaries or historical paintings—nothing like contemporary attire, but rather reminiscent of the subject matter she had just been working on.

The Middle Ages—a period rarely mentioned in daily life, but recently brought back into public consciousness through adaptations in literature and film.

Phyllis had been illustrating for a game set in a medieval world inspired by the Old Continent. Her studio was so small and understaffed that, as the lead artist, she was nearly single-handedly responsible for all the artwork.

After so much research and drawing, she couldn’t possibly forget it all so quickly.

At this thought, Phyllis couldn’t help but laugh aloud. To dream about her work—even in sleep, she was so dedicated that she admired herself.

Now that she realized she was dreaming, her mood lightened considerably. Since graduation, she’d been so busy with work that she hadn’t traveled in years. To have such a vivid dream—and retain self-awareness within it—was a rare and delightful experience.

With a traveler’s mindset, she began to wander through the town.

A medieval city might lack many things, but surely it would have a church—holding onto this assumption, Phyllis started searching for the city’s central district.

It wasn’t difficult. Ancient streets were never as crowded as modern ones, and with a quick look from above, she could easily spot the center.

In this dream, she seemed capable of anything.

As soon as she thought it, her body grew light again, rising like a feather.

But before she could float above the rooftops, a group of children nearby caught her attention.

They appeared quite young—the youngest perhaps five or six, the oldest barely into their teens. They stood divided into two sides, facing off.

To call it two groups was an exaggeration; more accurately, a single girl was being isolated by the rest.

With just a glance, Phyllis was drawn to the girl’s figure.

It was hardly surprising—in a world painted only in black, white, and grey, any sudden splash of color would be captivating—and the girl was the only vibrant spot in sight.

Curiosity pulled Phyllis towards that patch of color, watching the girl’s every movement.

Though she couldn’t hear a sound, the girl’s gestures and determined expressions made it clear she was trying to say something, her small hands miming along with her lips, only to earn mocking or hostile glances from the others.

Just as Phyllis moved closer, intending to guess their conversation from lip-reading, the isolated girl suddenly bent down, snatched up a stone, and hurled it at the boy leading the group.

The boy failed to dodge and, struck by the stone, flew into a rage. He immediately raised his fist and lunged at her.

With their “leader” attacked, his followers moved in, pushing the girl backwards. Behind her was a bare, unguarded slope. Before Phyllis could cry out, the girl’s eyes widened as she tumbled down.

Phyllis, without thinking, launched herself after her.

She reached out desperately, and whether by illusion or not, felt the girl reach back towards her as she fell.

Their hands brushed in midair for a fleeting moment, then parted abruptly.

Phyllis grasped nothing, watching helplessly as the girl with brown eyes rolled down the hillside.

She hovered, stunned, for a long time, her gaze shifting from her own hand to the motionless figure below, and at the sight of blood, a wave of uncontrollable sorrow flooded her heart.

As she drifted closer to the small body, Phyllis felt her vision lock with the girl’s deep, widening eyes.

The next second, it was as if someone had violently scooped out her mind and shoved it into a blender—a tidal wave of dizziness and pain crashed through her, and she lost consciousness entirely.

***

Pain…

That was Phyllis’s first sensation.

Then came a piercing, high-frequency buzzing, stabbing into her mind, forcing her awake.

Before her brain cleared, touch and hearing broke through some invisible membrane, arriving first in this new world.

“...no...”

“...it was her...the stone...”

“...stop...”

Phyllis struggled to open her eyes, but—as in so many dreams before—her eyelids felt glued shut, no matter how she tried. Instead, the sharp buzzing gave way to a jumble of voices.

Someone seemed to be standing beside her, someone speaking—arguments, perhaps...

Her mind still foggy, Phyllis sensed she was hearing an unfamiliar language.

But as the buzzing faded, the strange sounds gradually shifted into words she could understand.

“...It wasn’t my fault...it was her, she started it!” protested a childish voice. “She said all sorts of weird things, tried to pull at our clothes, then hit me with a stone...everyone saw—”

“Quiet!” came a deep voice overhead, and immediately the chatter ceased.

At the same moment, the weight on Phyllis’s eyelids vanished, and an urgent feeling surged up from within, prompting her to open her eyes wide.

Everything was blurry at first—so much so that Phyllis feared for her eyesight.

She blinked, again and again, until finally, amid startled murmurs, her surroundings came into focus.

She was lying on an uncomfortable, hard bed, surrounded by several people—adults and children both. The dim light kept their faces indistinct; she could only faintly hear someone exclaiming, “She’s awake!”

“Holy Mother above...Holy Mother above!” exclaimed a particularly deep voice. The crowd around the bed instantly dispersed as a burly figure strode forcefully into her view.

She managed to see his thick beard, but before she could take in his face, he scooped her up in a fierce embrace. The pressure squeezed the last traces of confusion from her lungs, forcing her eyes wide open.

Now, not only could she hear—her vision was filled with color, a dramatic change from before...and most importantly, she could feel the person holding her.

She sensed his warmth, his rapid breathing, trembling arms, even the pounding of his heart...

What was this? Was she still dreaming?

Could a dream feel so real?

“Oh, let go, Master Massimo! You’ll hurt her like this!” called a man nearby.

As thoughts raced through Phyllis’s mind, two men stepped forward and pulled the bearded man away.

One supported her shoulders, preventing her from collapsing back onto the bed.

“Poor child...how do you feel now? Can you sit up?” came a gentle, though slightly theatrical, voice.

Phyllis stared blankly, meeting the smiling face of a man dressed in long black robes that swept over his shoes, with a round, disk-like face and a plump, button nose.

If not for his attire, he would have looked just like the jolly chef from an old advertisement.

But what truly startled Phyllis was his hairstyle.

Judging by his age, he shouldn’t have lost so much hair—but the crown of his head gleamed bald, surrounded by a fringe...

It was like a coconut shaved halfway...

As Phyllis was distracted by the shining scalp, the others in the room watched her.

Luckily, none could read minds, so her rude thoughts went undetected.

Everyone assumed this poor girl was still in shock. The “chef” ignored her odd expression and comforted her gently before beckoning to another tall, thin man in matching black robes: “Brother Mark, come check her wounds.”

...A monk?

At his words, Phyllis’s eyes shifted to the other man.

Unlike his companion, “Brother Mark” kept his face stern, brows furrowed deeply, his gaze unfriendly as he examined her wounds, with a hint of disdain.

Phyllis felt that disdain acutely, but seeing his own “coconut” haircut, she glanced down at her shrunken hands, waves of panic crashing through her mind, leaving her unable to think of anything else.

A city of stone, strange clothing, monks in black robes with shaved heads...everything pointed towards an incredible hypothesis.

She had traveled through time, landing in the Middle Ages—and, worse, into the body of a young girl. Realizing this, her heart began to race uncontrollably.

What did the Middle Ages mean? Barbarism, feudalism, famine, plague, poor hygiene, the Inquisition, witch trials, burning at the stake...At the thought of the last, her internal alarm blared at full volume.

Where was she? Was this a real historical era, a world resembling reality, or even a universe from a novel or game?

Thanks to the abundance of modern entertainment, her mind was flooded with possibilities, her forehead burning with anxiety.

What should she do now? She could understand their language, but wasn’t sure she could speak it...

Worse, the bearded man who hugged her was clearly “her” family.

If she said something wrong and revealed she was not the original owner of this body, she might be sent off as a demon or worse...

The more she thought, the more precarious her situation seemed. Within a minute, cold sweat beaded on her brow, and dizziness threatened to overtake her again.

Brother Mark, examining her head wound, soon noticed her distress.

Seeing the girl’s frail body sway, he quickly steadied her other shoulder.

“Phili? Philiciana!” he called urgently, and when she didn’t respond, he turned to his companion. “Brother Peter, lay her down, careful not to press the wound!”

The plump monk hurried to comply, and together they tucked her back under the covers.

...

Perhaps fainting was the best option—so thought Phyllis as she was helped to lie down.

Her body clearly needed rest, and she could use the time to learn about this world.

No need to rush, take it slow—everything would be fine.

She reassured herself as her heart gradually returned to a normal rhythm, but a casual glance left her utterly stunned.

Above her, behind Brother Mark who was helping her recline, an unnatural bulge formed.

The next instant, a zombie, its face covered in rotting flesh, burst forth, howling and lunging at her.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—!”

All of her mental fortitude collapsed at this sight.

Phyllis shrieked at a pitch she’d never reached before, adrenaline surging, her limp hand curling into a fist. She squeezed her eyes shut and swung with all her might—

“Owwwwwwwwwwww—!”

“—Ah!”

Alongside the monster’s screech came Brother Mark’s pained cry.

The poor monk, caught off guard, was struck in the left eye and staggered back two steps, nearly toppling over the table behind him.

Once the zombie’s howls faded, it vanished completely, and Phyllis’s sanity returned.

Everyone stared at her in shock. That ominous feeling reached its peak.

Brother Mark, still bent in pain, clutched his left eye and groaned, while the others rushed to check on him.

Their reactions were perfectly normal—so normal that Phyllis quickly realized no one else had seen the “ghost.”

This was it. She was doomed.

Her clenched fist burned, and she couldn’t utter a single explanation.

If she were truly a child, she might have burst into tears or blurted out what she’d just seen...but as an adult, she immediately knew she couldn’t say a word.

Brother Mark was a cleric; if she accused him of being possessed by a demon, he’d be branded as such. And in a highly religious medieval society, slandering a priest could bring consequences too terrible to imagine.

She rejected every excuse in her mind—only one path remained.

Faint, quickly!

Now was the time to pass out again, and when she awoke, pretend to remember nothing...

“She’s sick, I told you!” shouted a boy at the door, pointing at her with excitement. “I said she was crazy and you wouldn’t believe me—now you see? She’s a complete lunatic!”