LOTM: The Witch And The Calamity

Joyce Best had a dream.

It was a battlefield, an endless stretch of dust and chaos. His every sense was alive, every pore tingling as he maneuvered his forces, the clash of steel in the air. Victory was within his grasp, the enemy crumbling under his assault, when a sudden surge of overwhelming power broke his lines. His forces shattered, scattered, and his world crumbled in an instant.

But no, it wasn't over.

Regrouping, Joyce led his remaining soldiers with renewed strategy—advance slowly, draw the enemy's fire, and then strike from the shadows. His plan worked. After a savage, brutal fight, the enemy was torn apart, defeated, and left vulnerable. The battlefield was his, but it came at a cost.

The warmth of sunlight kissed his face.

Joyce stirred, trapped in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, not quite sure where the dream ended and reality began. He reached out instinctively, groping for his phone. He hadn't set an alarm, had he? Surely he hadn't overslept for their meeting today...

Where is it?

Confusion clouded his mind as he shifted on the bed, forcing his heavy eyelids to open.

His hand froze mid-air.

This wasn't his room. He didn't even recognize the bed. The decor, ornate and unfamiliar, was a far cry from his minimalist apartment. Medieval designs decorated the walls, and sunlight filtered through the window, casting everything in a harsh light. It felt like the dream had bled into reality.

Hadn't I just woken up?

A sudden awareness swept over him. He tried to move, his stiff body creaking like an old machine, every joint resisting the simple motion.

And then he saw her.

A woman. Sleeping peacefully next to him, her face so close it almost seemed like an illusion. The same soft features, delicate and hauntingly beautiful, as if she belonged in the world of a forgotten legend.

Was I dreaming still? No… This can't be real.

His heart raced as panic gripped him, trying to hold onto reason. He squeezed his eyes shut, whispered to himself— It's just a dream. It's just a dream. Wake up.

But when his eyes fluttered open again, the scene before him hadn't changed.

"Who is this woman?" His thoughts became a frantic whirlwind, each new realization more absurd than the last. "What happened last night?"

The woman's lips parted slightly in sleep, her breathing slow and steady. Joyce stared at her, feeling a rush of conflicting emotions flood his chest. There was a strange allure to her presence, something that tugged at him—compelling yet terrifying.

No. Focus. Think.

He lifted the quilt, hoping to find some answers, only to find more confusion. No mobile phone. No modern conveniences. He didn't recognize the clothes either, the medieval fabric too unfamiliar. Panic began to claw at him. He didn't know this woman. He didn't even know where he was. Did he drink last night? He couldn't remember.

What the hell happened?

The woman's soft breath caressed his neck, and before he could pull away, her delicate, soft hand slid across his chest, making his body tense involuntarily. Her voice came low and playful, a teasing whisper against his ear.

"You were... impressive last night."

A strange, disorienting mix of emotions swept over him. He didn't understand the language she spoke, but the meaning was clear enough.

Ruenian?

His mind tried to piece things together, but all he could hear was the frantic thudding of his heart. His brain ached, desperate to understand the situation. What was happening? Did he sleep with her or did she—?

He couldn't keep up.

"Stop," he muttered, standing up quickly, his legs unsteady. "I need to use the bathroom."

His words came out in fluent Ruenian, a harsh reminder of the foreignness of this place.

He hurried across the room, grabbing random clothes and slipping them on as he scrambled toward the door. Behind him, the woman's voice followed him with a playful lilt.

"The bathroom is the second room near the stairs."

Her words echoed through his mind as he closed the door softly behind him, the weight of uncertainty crashing down on him. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, his breathing ragged. The memories... the disjointed pieces of his past life... they were overwhelming.

He looked into the small mirror on the wall, hoping for some semblance of clarity.

The man staring back at him was young, handsome, with sharp features and light blue eyes that held a depth of history, of pain. His black hair was disheveled, and his lips twitched into a slight, rueful smile.

The name on his mind wasn't his own—he knew this. He was Joyce Best, a young, newly-appointed baron in the Kingdom of Ruen. But that wasn't all he knew. His past life, his previous self—Li Weiping—felt distant, alien, a fleeting shadow.

Joyce was well-versed in these worlds, knew how they worked, how they twisted everything into something darker. The world of the Beyonders, of The Fool, of powers that defied understanding, and of gods that could twist and break the minds of men.

A world where nothing was ever as it seemed.

"Why am I still here?" Joyce murmured to his reflection. The memories of his past life, of death, of strange forces and madness—Doomsday. Outer Gods—they plagued him. Was he doomed? Had he already been marked?

Why am I alive?

The door creaked softly behind him, and the voice of the woman—Emily—called out, snapping him from his thoughts.

"Joyce, are you okay?"

His body jolted, his heart skipped, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. He didn't look back, his mind a tangle of confusion and uncertainty.

"It'll be fine right away," he muttered, trying to gather himself. He forced his hand to open the bathroom door and step into the hallway, a swirl of questions dancing at the edge of his consciousness.

And then it hit him. The memories were not his own. The history... it was still unfolding.

He had not just stumbled into this world by accident.

The walls of this strange place seemed to close in as Emily's voice floated toward him from below.

"Come with me," she beckoned, her words carrying an unexpected weight of finality.

The ground beneath Joyce's feet felt like it was shifting, his mind torn between reason and something darker, something he couldn't understand.

Was he truly in control?

Or had he already lost?

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