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Everyone from Otaku Translation
Volume 1: Awakening
Chapter 1: This Is Life
In this world, every object, every thing, has a name. For instance, if you see a wooden contraption with four legs that someone is sitting on—a miraculous tool capable of supporting the human body—you'd know its name is "chair." And by extension, you'd also recognize that the soft, fleshy mass resting atop the chair goes by another familiar term: "butt."
Yes, names are curious things. No one knows where they truly came from. Some say that Darmos, the creator god, spent seven days crafting this world and then devoted seven hundred more to naming everything in it. To be honest, whenever I think about this story, absurd images flash through my mind—like our all-knowing father of gods crouched knee-deep in mud, bellowing at a fat pig with a voice that shakes heaven and earth: “This one shall be called ‘Pig!’” Meanwhile, the oblivious creature grunts indignantly at being disturbed from its nap, rolls lazily in the muck, and resumes snoring as though nothing happened.
But does a pig care whether it’s called a pig? Probably not. For humans, though, ignorance of names can lead to trouble. Imagine trying to explain something like this: “I just came from that place, where they make lots of those things—you know, the pretty ones that look sort of like… well, you get the idea.” If you tried that approach, I’d bet no one would have any clue what you were talking about.
So, out of habit, I’ll tell this tale using names we already know. Should you find some mismatch between a name and the thing it represents, trust your instincts—you’re probably right. Names are arbitrary; we call things what we do simply because chance decreed it so.
Like all things, people too bear names. Take me, for example. My name is Jeffrey Kidd, Gate Guard of Kampnavia. Do I love it? Not particularly. It’s awkward to pronounce and sounds far from heroic. But somewhere along the way, it stuck to me like glue, much as “pig” clings to those oinking beasts. An accident of fate, nothing more.
Let me introduce myself properly. Yes, I am Jeffrey Kidd, Gate Guard of Kampnavia—one of many stationed at the main entrance to the city. Kampnavia lies near the center of the kingdom of Delrania, which itself sits in the southeastern corner of the continent of Falvy. Beyond Falvy stretches the vast expanse known as the Comet Sea, rumored to have once been land until a falling comet transformed it into an ocean. Scattered across this sea are countless uncharted islands, and beyond them lie even greater mysteries—continents unknown, realms untouched by human feet. Of course, such distant wonders hold little relevance for me.
Falvy is home to numerous intelligent races: humans, elves, dwarves, tauren, goblins, gnomes, and others. Each race tends to inhabit specific regions. Delrania, for instance, is predominantly human, though travelers of other species often pass through—particularly elves and dwarves, whose territories border ours. The dwarven stronghold of Stonekeep and the elven enclave of Moonstream Forest both lie close to Delrania, making their presence here unsurprising. Other visitors occasionally appear, but less frequently.
Beyond racial distinctions, there exists another way to categorize the inhabitants of Falvy: the concepts of “Planewalkers” and “Natives.”
According to authoritative magical theory, our world is but one among billions of planes scattered throughout existence. In the infinite reaches of space, countless unknown worlds await discovery. Among sentient beings, some are born with the innate ability to traverse these planes, wandering freely between dimensions. These individuals are called Planewalkers. Others, however, are bound to a single plane for life—they are Natives. A creature’s capacity to walk between planes isn’t determined by race. Whether you’re a diminutive gnome barely five feet tall or a towering tauren, anyone might become a Planewalker, vanishing suddenly from this realm to journey elsewhere.
Distinguishing a Planewalker from a Native isn’t easy. Outwardly, they look identical, showing no obvious differences. Yet subtle distinctions exist. Natives like myself tend to be straightforward, quiet folk who stick to their duties without fuss. Planewalkers, on the other hand, are insatiably curious wanderers, prone to stirring up trouble wherever they go. They thrive on adventure and exploration, viewing life itself as a grand game. Their motto seems to be: “Play hard, live harder.”
My primary job involves standing at the city gates, greeting these interdimensional travelers as they arrive.
If you happen to be a natural-born Planewalker visiting Kampnavia for the first time, I’ll dutifully warn you: “Stay clear of the jungle outside the walls, traveler. It’s not as safe as it looks. About two months ago, a pack of wild dogs appeared there. They’ve been attacking travelers, causing panic in the city. Sheriff Gerald is losing sleep over this. If you’re feeling brave, consider hunting three of them and bringing their pelts to his office. He’ll reward you handsomely.”
Oddly enough, though I’ve never ventured into the jungle myself, I somehow know the sheriff’s name—and always deliver this exact speech to newcomers. Stranger still, I’ve grown accustomed to repeating it without question.
To my knowledge, nearly every Planewalker who visits Kampnavia claims this modest bounty. Yet no one has ever told me to revoke the order. Based on the sheer volume of rewards handed out, the pack of wild dogs must number in the thousands.
Once you’ve slain your quota of dogs and perhaps strike up a conversation with me (which happens surprisingly often—I must come off as unusually friendly), I’ll ask for your help with a personal matter:
“You seem like a trustworthy fellow,” I’ll say, nodding toward the guard stationed across the road. His name is Fred Goodrich, my partner since I began this post. We rarely speak—he’s a rigid, prideful man who responds to inquiries with a curt warning:
“Don’t cause trouble in the city unless you think your bones are tougher than my sword.”
He boasts a fine blade, a sleek black sword passed down through generations. Sharp as it is, he loves flaunting it, claiming it can cut through anything.
“That sword of his…” I’ll whisper conspiratorially, “…he’s always bragging about how indestructible it is. Well, I happen to know of a wood called ironwood, harder than steel. So we made a bet: find something his sword can’t cut. I heard Mr. Rama in Tholo Village has a piece of it. If you could ‘borrow’ it for me, I’ll split the wager with you. Just don’t let him catch you—it wouldn’t end well.”
Rest assured, you’ll return with the goods soon enough. Then I’ll present my partner with his challenge. Naturally, I’ll win the bet, and you’ll earn your share. This routine repeats endlessly, predictably. Why do I persist in this charade? Perhaps I enjoy watching Fred’s stunned expression when his prized sword fails.
If you need directions within Kampnavia, feel free to ask. I’ll mark locations on your map—say, Lansk the butcher or Eld the apothecary. Though I’ve never met these individuals, I always seem to know where they are. Over time, I’ve grown numb to such peculiarities. Indeed, there’s no shortage of odd knowledge floating around in my head.
After completing various odd jobs—delivering Pierre’s typo-ridden love letter, fetching new stone for Dakra the tombstone carver, collecting debts for Baron Potter, or hunting sour candies for the innkeeper’s finicky sister-in-law—I’ll offer you yet another task:
“Kampnavia enjoys protection under the Star Knights, ensuring peace and order. Recently, however, bandits have taken up residence on Swordtooth Mountain to the east, preying on passing merchants. At least twenty caravans have fallen victim. We need volunteers to deal with them. Bring me the head of their leader, and you’ll earn recognition from the Star Knights and friendship from the city.”
Impetuous souls sometimes rush off before I finish speaking, eager to confront the bandits alone. Courage? Maybe. Stupidity? Definitely. Had they listened further, I’d have advised them:
“Find reliable companions. Trust me, they’re worth more than any weapon.”
Too often, I witness ragged adventurers wielding battered swords and axes flee back to the gates, pursued by hordes of bandits. Some repeat offenders return half-naked, lamenting how difficult the bandits were to kill. Standing stoically at the gate, I watch these fools with disdain, offering neither sympathy nor assistance.
Serves them right! Foolishness deserves consequences.
Thankfully, most travelers aren’t quite so reckless. They succeed in eliminating the bandits and bring back the leader’s head. Curiously, regardless of group size—from solo heroes to teams of five—each member somehow ends up with their own copy of the bandit leader’s head. How does this work? Does the leader possess multiple heads? Do they argue amongst themselves? Snore disruptively during sleep? I ponder such questions briefly before shrugging them off.
Despite the dubious nature of these victories, I award each successful adventurer a medal symbolizing courage and resolve from the Star Knights. Truthfully, there’s no evidence the bandits are truly gone. Every time I assign this mission, identical heads reappear. Sometimes I imagine a grove on Swordtooth Mountain, its branches heavy with bandit skulls. Adventurers stroll beneath, baskets in hand, plucking heads like fruit while chatting excitedly about their impending medals.
Such flights of fancy linger only briefly before fading away.
No city tolerates public brawls, and Kampnavia is no exception. Street fights are forbidden—our sole official law. Yet even this simple rule proves challenging for some overly energetic Planewalkers. Daily skirmishes break out near the gates, occasionally escalating into murder. Preventing such incidents falls squarely within our responsibilities.
Just the other day, two newly arrived Planewalkers clashed over a trade dispute. In an attempt to lighten the mood, a dwarven ranger directed a string of overly warm, even affectionate greetings toward the elven mage’s female relatives. Unsurprisingly, this offended the elf, who retaliated with a fireball. Acting swiftly, Fred and I intervened. When the elf tried resisting, his amateurish magic proved laughably ineffective. A few punches later, he found himself locked in detention for half a day, forced to pay a hefty fine upon release.
And thus concludes the entirety of my existence: my work, my interactions, my daily routines. My life flows peacefully, monotonously. I embrace this tranquility, expecting no change. Isn’t this how real life should feel? No breathtaking vistas, no dazzling spectacles, no thrilling adventures. Instead, trivial matters fill my days, stretching endlessly toward an unseen horizon. I assumed this pattern would continue indefinitely, unchanged since time immemorial.
Then came the unexpected twist that altered everything.
It was an ordinary morning, indistinguishable from countless others. The gates stood open, bustling with activity. I stood rigidly at attention, eyes fixed ahead.
Two Planewalkers approached, engaged in a transaction.
“...Nope, twenty copper coins minimum. Take it or leave it,” declared one, shaking his head furiously. Like his counterpart, he was human, average in build and appearance, though his armor appeared sturdier and better crafted.
“Fine, twenty it is…” The buyer gritted his teeth, reaching for his coin pouch. “…Hurry up, though. The server’s about to shut down for maintenance.”
“Almost done!” The seller hastily pocketed the coins, fumbling to retrieve an item from his belt. Stretching out his arm, he accidentally handed the rolled-up object—not to the buyer, but to me.
By regulation, accepting anything during duty hours is strictly prohibited. Normally, I’d politely return the item, saying, “I cannot accept gifts. Serving you is my duty.”
But this time, as I prepared to hand it back, the sky went dark.
Not just the sky—the ground, the walls, the pedestrians, the trees—all vanished in an instant, swallowed by an abyss darker than night. That oppressive darkness consumed my vision, my senses, everything. The world seemed to evaporate into a void of despair, silent and colorless. Even my own existence faded, leaving behind only emptiness.
For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed the end of days.
Just before the engulfing darkness descended, I heard the careless seller cry out:
“Oh no—I chose the wrong trading partner…”
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