Monday, March 25, 2024

Short Isekai March 25 2024 part 1

 I've been consuming a lot of manga recapped and wanted to try it out. I wonder if the story is good enough for someone to draw. This kind of thing would knock out 2-3 hours a day, something I can do everyday but it doesn't make money. Seeing how many light novels get published I wonder what are my odds?   my knowledge of martial arts, milsim, outdoorsmanship, logistics, low-tech technology, and science would be those light novels where the protagonist solves puzzles and problems - not just uses force and violence. The subtle and clever use of special abilities that are not overpowered. as well as applying game theory as how challenging and sophisticated other adversaries are when they think and solve puzzles too. 

Audio (using elevenlabs AI tools)






Wren breathed heavily, his feet and shins screaming with deep bruises and cuts from the relentless shrubs and thorns. He had been running for what felt like a quarter of an hour away from the slavers. His heart raced, and he moved forward, trudging along the broken ground, crouching low with his back hunched. He kept his head and eyes below the shrub line, unable to see if they had turned back, silently hoping they couldn’t hear him. Each footfall seemed noisy, yet he knew that certain sounds didn’t carry far. Unlike the snapping of dry twigs, the ground beneath him wetly crunched with roots, rocks, and damp, rotting foliage. He carried a stone-knapped axe, a thrusting spear, and an atlatl, all of which had survived the rain and the rough handling of his escape. His attire was a worn, patched flax linen tunic found in a burned-down village. Linen cloth, scavenged and repurposed as a hood, sleeves, and leggings, shielded him when he dove into the brush for cover. His belongings included a repaired drawstring bag, a wallet hidden under his shirt and around his neck, and two mismatched pouches at his waist. He also had wooden and copper flasks, each containing a liter of water, but no metal tools or weapons could be scavenged from the village. Half an hour later, Wren dared to look back, his mind a whirl of dread and paranoia. Thrust into this hostile world over a month ago, he clung to the hope that his skills from war games might save him. His attention sharpened when he spotted a slaver standing foolishly erect by a tree, mistaking it for concealment. The slaver's gaze swept over Wren's area, his body relaxed, showing no sign of recognition. Memories flooded back of Wren's arrival in this world, with others, only to fall into the hands of slavers. The slavers, captivated by the women's beauty, ignored him amidst the chaos, darkness, and rain. Brave men were swiftly subdued; Wren could only watch as the captors bickered over their human spoils. The memory of that night—fraught with fear, weakness, and confusion—haunted him. It was particularly disorienting because he remembered being engulfed by the bright light with his friends, only to find himself stranded among strangers in this new world. It felt miraculous that Wren had survived; he realized he shouldn't have been able to run with such endurance or at the frantic pace he had managed. His discovery came when he encountered puddles and running streams: his body was entirely different. He appeared elfin, feeling the strange pointed tips of his ears with his fingers. His vision was markedly improved, allowing him to see far better than ever before. The shock was intense as he observed and recognized details sharply—the faces of the slavers, the features of the deceased. He couldn’t recall his past clearly but surmised this must be akin to his youth's vitality when he could run and fight with boundless energy. The clarity within him stirred, guiding his movements as in his days of live-action role-playing and war gaming with friends. He possessed the speed and decisiveness of youth, unmarred by the toll of age. Fatigue vanished as he navigated the underestimated sheer cliff face, reading the slavers' movements and sensing their growing frustration. Fearing a fatal fall, he spared only a cursory glance at the precipitous incline before pressing close against it, closing his eyes, and listening intently, hoping to discern the slaver’s retreat. After an hour of silence, he deduced their reluctance to pursue him down the hazardous slope. Wren then ascended, his past bow and climbing training awakening his upper body strength, allowing him to reach up to each handhold with determined pulls. In moments, he scaled the cliff and observed the slaver squad, now weary and retreating. He noted their sinewy frames, the bruises and cuts marking their limbs. The wind carried their scent to him, mingled with the impending rain, placing him advantageously downwind. His enhanced vision allowed him to scrutinize their faces and postures, identifying limps and signs of fatigue. Among the four, he spotted the straggler, assessing their vulnerabilities. As the sound of approaching rain filled the air, Wren sensed the impending downpour. He swiftly navigated around, the dark, rain-heavy clouds enveloping the scene. Driven by the urgency, he dashed towards the slavers, aiming for a large tree nearby, strategically positioning himself. The rain turned the forest into a cacophony of sound, making the ground treacherous and muddy. Despite their caution, the slavers' aches led to slips and falls. Seizing the moment, Wren descended upon the most fatigued slaver who had fallen to his knees, driving his spear down into the man's collarbone from above. The victim was rendered speechless, unable to draw breath as the stone spear lodged firmly. As Wren contemplated retrieving his axe, he noticed the dying slaver's short falchion and buckler. He quickly appropriated these weapons and advanced on the next foe, who had turned in shock towards his fallen comrade. Wren hurled the buckler at the slaver's face, causing a cry that alerted the others. In a swift, brutal motion, he slashed the slaver's knee and shin, following through with a body tackle that sent the man tumbling to the ground. The two remaining slavers turned, one brandishing a sturdy iron spear, the other hesitating with a bow. As the spearman lunged, Wren's youthful body reacted instinctively, his enhanced vision capturing the prelude to the slaver's thrust. Wren felt a flashback to sparring with eager, albeit untrained, youths, as he intercepted the spear with his falchion, aiming to sever its wooden shaft. The impact sent a numbing shock through Wren’s arm, yet the blade bit deeply, disarming the slaver. In one fluid motion, Wren closed in, his arm hooking the slaver's shoulder, his foot slipping between the man's legs. Drawing from his extensive judo and jiujitsu training, Wren executed a precise hip throw, propelling the slaver directly into the path of the bowman. The unexpected collision forced the bowman to falter, just long enough for Wren to maneuver around the spearman and destabilize the bowman, who, struggling on the slippery terrain, misfired his arrow. Wren, seizing the moment, reached for the nearest weapon— an arrow from the bowman’s spilled quiver. With a swift motion, he drove it into the bowman's chest, finding a gap above the pectoral and forcing it between the ribs. He twisted the arrow, pushing deeper, aiming to compromise the archer’s thoracic integrity and induce a fatal collapse of the lungs. Wren's assault left the bowman gasping for air. Rolling off him, Wren's hands scrambled, seizing a stone as he propelled himself into a sprint towards the Spearman. A wave of desperate violence surged through him. He clipped the spearman, who was struggling to rise, sending them both crashing onto the rocky ground. Pain shot through Wren's hand as it met sharp rocks, but he didn’t pause, rolling atop the spearman to pummel his face with the stone, targeting the forehead and jaw with ruthless efficiency. Mid-assault, Wren's enhanced peripheral vision caught a shadowy movement—the crippled slaver wielding an axe. The slight prelude to the slaver’s swing gave Wren just enough time to hurl the stone, striking the attacker's face with a bone-crunching impact that sent teeth scattering. Detached, Wren observed the chaos he wrought, his heightened senses dissecting every detail, every shadow. This sensory overload triggered a flood of memories and thoughts, yet Wren remained focused. Rising to confront the axe-wielder, he slashed upwards at the axe-slaver's face, then turned his blade, moving in a downward arc towards the spearman in a smooth, clean motion. His forceful strike lodged the weapon deep due to imprecise edge alignment, failing to deliver a clean cut. Wren seized the spear, still embedded with his falchion, and thrust it into the bowman attempting to escape, his equipment abandoned in panic. As the rain intensified, soaking everything, Wren felt his heart pounding, adrenaline fueling his actions. He scavenged the battlefield, collecting weapons, the fractured spear, and swapping for better shoes and pouches. His acute senses navigated the muddy chaos, swiftly locating valuable items. With the storm masking his movements, Wren assessed the wind and rain patterns, intuitively choosing paths where erosion would better conceal his tracks. He vanished into the storm-swollen landscape, leaving the scene of fierce confrontation behind. Hours passed as he continued to run. His fingers and limbs wrinkled, Wren found a dry spot to rest under a rocky outcropping shaded by large trees. Erosion had carved out a nook where only rocks and soil remained. He washed his wounds with the stream of rainwater created by the tree, striving to remove the grit embedded in his feet, elbows, and hands. The terrain grew more treacherous, and he hoped the slavers were ill-equipped to track him to this refuge. Unwittingly, he dozed off, awakening to the warmth of a new day, surprised to find no signs of infection despite the numerous wounds and the strain on his immune system. Experiencing fatigue without illness was a novelty for him. The clarity of his senses only fully dawned on him as the desperation and frustration of constant flight ignited a desire to confront his pursuers. Bloodlust sharpened his perception, making every detail starkly visible. He could see viable routes up a tree and scan for followers. Before he knew it, he was perched in the tree, surveying the terrain he had traversed, perhaps more than 10 kilometers away, discerning subtle movements and the occasional glint of metal. The urge to engage, to test his limits in combat as he had never before, unlocked latent abilities he struggled to comprehend. A mantra in an unfamiliar language filled his mind, and he whispered it, attempting to extend his vision further. The chant ceased abruptly when he recognized the pangs of hunger and exhaustion. His gaze landed on wild fowl and rabbits, hinting at a shift in priorities. Wren realized that survival in this strange world entailed more than just evasion—it demanded adaptation and confrontation.

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