Idea

The evening sun lingered at the edge of the sky, casting the world in deep shades of amber and gold. The wind carried the faint scent of wildflowers and earth, rustling through the tall grass that surrounded the small cottage like gentle waves lapping at a shore.

North reclined on a large, weathered rock just outside his home, the rough surface cool against his back. For once, his signature straw hat was absent, allowing his dark hair to catch the last light of the day.

His simple linen shirt, worn loose, bore faint creases from a day of work, while his patched trousers and scuffed boots told their own story of quiet persistence. The scratches on his palms still stung faintly—a reminder of his hours tending the herb garden.

The world was serene, yet North's heart was far from it. He stared at the heavens, where streaks of orange melted into a deepening blue, his brows knitted in thought. "Lately, all I've been doing is thinking," he murmured, his voice barely loud.

He raised his hands, studying them as though searching for an answer written in the lines of his calloused palms. "This body is weak," he said, his tone bitter. "No magic circuits, no talent, nothing to offer. What am I even doing here?" His breath left him in a weary sigh, dissipating like smoke in the evening air.

The wind seemed to carry him back to another time, another place—a memory from Earth.

A younger version of himself stood, slingshot in hand, a grin of triumph on his face as his stone hit its mark with perfect precision. The image flickered like a flame, and North's eyes brightened.

"A slingshot," he whispered, as if the word itself held power. "I was good at that." He pushed himself upright, brushing off the dust clinging to his shirt. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"They say a man must first master what he knows before seeking something new," he muttered, a phrase that sounded like it belonged in the air of Ascalon. "Then why not start with this?"

'So what if I lack the corresponding talent in magic, so what if I have not the means to be a knight yet. I will start from somewhere as I long as I don't give up. Maybe become a local force in the town even…' he thought.

His mind churned with possibilities. He would craft a slingshot. For ammunition, he could forge small metal pellets—an idea that felt both old and new.

It wasn't magic, but it was a skill, and for now, that was enough. His smile grew as he allowed himself to imagine the surprise looks the enemy would give out.

'Now that I think about it, there's no concept of a slingshot in this world. If I create it then that would make me the forebearer of a whole new weapon. Look at that, I might not be so talentless afterall…' he consoled himself.

The horizon swallowed the sun, and night began its quiet dominion. Stars pierced the sky like shards of glass, their light cold but steady.

North rose, brushing off his trousers and stretching his arms. "Time to go inside," he murmured, glancing at the soft glow spilling from his cottage windows.

But instead of heading directly in, he turned toward the graves that rested near the front yard—two modest wooden markers standing sentinel in the grass. The cool earth beneath his boots seemed to deepen the stillness around him as he stood before them.

"Dad, Mum," he said softly, the words catching in his throat. "I may not have known you guys personally but for the sake of consoling old grudges, I will make you proud of your son. So rest easy and watch over me." The admission hung heavy in the quiet night, the leaves rustled as if to reply.

Yet, as the silence stretched, something inside him hardened. He clenched his fists and raised his gaze to the night sky, where the stars seemed to burn a little brighter. "No, feeling bad for myself," he said, his voice steady now. "I'll take what I know and train harder than I ever have before.

His thoughts returned to the slingshot, the skill he had honed as a half pint little brat back on earth. "This is what I have," he said, with determination. "This is where I'll start. I'll expand it, refine it, make it mine."

With his resolve strengthening further he headed back inside. He needed to draw up plans on his slingshot. So as soon as he went inside, he sat on his desk and grabbed a goatskin parchment.

Paper was too expensive for him to own so he had to use the standard writing material most commoners employ.

His sleeves were rolled up, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully drew the lines of his plan. The tip of his charcoal stick moved, sketching the familiar shape of a slingshot.

The sturdy frame, curved like the arms of a strong oak, took form first, followed by the forked prongs. He added small details, like grooves to hold the rubber straps steady and a leather pouch to cradle the ammunition.

The room was silent except for the faint scratch of the charcoal and the occasional creak of the wooden stool beneath him.

Pausing, North leaned back to study his work, tapping the charcoal against the edge of the table.

"It's simple, but simplicity has its strength," he muttered, nodding to himself.

His eyes traced over the additional notes he had jotted down—measurements for the length of the frame, ideas for reinforcing it with strips of iron, and a sketch of the small metal pellets he planned to use.

"This will be enough for now," he murmured, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. "First, build it. Then, master it."

It's always important to note down the course of action on any work you do. It keeps things organized and it paves a way for easy work once one gets started. North followed such an outlook, I guess he was stickler for being organized, a trait he himself is just finding out now.

He could rest easy now, that he knew what he to do. He switched off the oil lamp, checked for bedbugs on his bed, could it even be called a bed? More like a makeshift sorry excuse for a bed made out of straw. What he wouldn't give to have his old bed back on earth.

But we are not choosers of our fate, he understood that. So, he tucked himself and went to wonderland. This time hopefully wishing he would dream about flying, defying gravity and being free from the constraints of the world. One flies and one becomes happy.

****

The suns cast a gentle glow on the vast expanse of Ascalon. Rays of sunlight assault North in his little cottage he calls home, prompting him to wake up.

"Bloodyhell. I really need to fix that window." He complained as he groggily forced himself out of bed. That window has been a bane of his existence ever since he crossed over.

An individual no matter who it is, would not feel proud of being woken up in the middle of their sleep especially if they weren't satisfied with said sleep, it always leaves one in a foul mood.

"And I didn't fly in my dreams, heck I can't even remember what I dreamed about!" North sighed with apprehension, his face etched with lines of frustration, it was clearly obvious that he wasn't a morning person.

He got started on his morning, the one he has been doing since he arrived to this land. He took care of the medicinal herb garden and other chores of boring interests. What he was most expectant about was, creating his slingshot.

North was a person with vivid imagination. At times he would imagine himself firing magic ammos from his slingshot, but then the thought of him not having magic nudges him back to reality.

At his earlier days of his arrival when he was all scared and paranoid, he even had the idea of creating a gun, however that idea faded when he realized very quickly that he lacked crucial knowledge of mechanics to accomplish that.

No one would blame him though, faced with the threat of the unknown, a normal twenty first century man too will think about guns as his next best thing for protection, no?

Once he was done with his duties as a filial son to his dead parents, he strutted a long out of his humble home, closing the small wooden gate as he leaves his backyard. North's home was located towards the towns exit, it stood alone amid the brickstone houses of the townsfolks.

So, his home was actually the closest to the exit. If he wanted a slingshot, he needed wood and sure most of you might think, why not visit the town's carpenter? Actually, the thought had crossed his mind before but he quicky dismissed it.

The carpenter's wood was excellent—polished and sturdy—but that was exactly the problem. It was too refined, too clean, lacking the spirit he sought.

"A weapon needs more than just strength," North muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting to the nearby forest. "It needs a soul."

The carpenter's wood, treated and shaped to perfection, felt lifeless to him. It might have been good for furniture or tools, but for something like a slingshot—a weapon that needed to feel like an extension of his arm—it was wrong.

He needed wood that had weathered storms, soaked in sunlight, and bent with the wind. Something that had endured, just as he would have to.

"Besides," he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "asking the carpenter would mean answering questions." Questions he wasn't ready to face—about why he thought he needed a weapon in the first place, what he planned to do with it, or why a grown boy would toy with something so simple.

He'd rather avoid the extra attention if he's able to.