Chapter 44 – The Terror Tourist

I needed to get out of this box before someone else prostrated themselves to death.

The VIP judge’s area had turned into some kind of religious trauma center. Half the tournament organizers were still face-down on the carpet, muttering prayers to deities I’d never heard of. The other half were huddled in the corner, probably drafting their last wills and testaments. The whole vibe was deeply uncomfortable, and I was the reason for it, which made everything worse.

I stood up, my wooden joints creaking in protest.

“I must inspect the perimeter.”

My voice came out flat and emotionless through the puppet’s mouth. I tried to sound casual, like a judge doing normal judge things, but the organizers reacted like I’d just announced the end of times. The head organizer lifted his face from the floor just enough to nod frantically before slamming it back down. I took that as permission to leave.

I walked toward the stairs, each step a fresh exercise in humiliation.

My left foot moved forward with a heavy clack. My right foot dragged behind it like I was some kind of budget horror movie monster. Clack, drag, clack, drag. The rhythm was so pathetic it was almost funny. I used to be able to leap down mountains in a single bound, and now I was struggling with basic stairs like a toddler learning to walk.

The hallway stretched out before me, empty and quiet.

I decided to hum a tune to make this less depressing. Back on the mountain, I used to hum while I forged swords, just little melodies to pass the time. It helped me focus, kept my mind from wandering into existential dread. I started humming an old song from my first life, something upbeat and cheerful.

The sound that came out was wrong.

I had no vocal cords, no throat, no lungs to push air through. The vibration of my attempt to hum resonated through the hollow wood of my body, amplified by the empty chamber of my torso. What should have been a happy tune came out as a low, thrumming infrasound that I couldn’t even hear properly. It felt like standing too close to a massive speaker, the kind that makes your chest cavity vibrate.

A servant rounded the corner ahead of me, carrying a tray of drinks.

He took three steps, froze mid-stride, and clutched his chest. His face went pale, his eyes wide with primal terror. The tray slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor in an explosion of broken glass and spilled wine. He crumpled against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting in the mess, gasping for air.

I stopped humming immediately.

Poor guy must have been overwhelmed by the heat. The tournament arena was pretty stuffy, and he was wearing a thick uniform that looked like it was made for winter weather. I should probably tell the organizers to get him some water. I continued walking, careful to step around the broken glass.

Another person appeared at the far end of the hallway.

This one was a junior official, clutching a stack of paperwork that probably had something to do with tournament brackets. He looked up, saw me, and his face went through about five stages of emotional collapse in two seconds. The papers exploded from his hands like confetti. He made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a prayer, then his eyes rolled back and he dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

I stopped walking entirely.

Okay, this was getting weird. Two people fainting in the span of thirty seconds was a pattern, not a coincidence. Was there a gas leak or something? Carbon monoxide? I looked around for vents or pipes, anything that might explain why everyone was dropping. The hallway looked normal, just stone walls and fancy tapestries. Nothing obviously dangerous.

I decided to take a different route.

The main corridors were clearly cursed or haunted or something, so I turned down a side passage that looked like it led toward the back of the arena. These service hallways were narrower, less decorated, the kind of space where actual workers moved instead of nobles. I figured I could find a way to the market district from here, maybe grab a souvenir that I could actually carry without causing an international incident.

The passage opened into a quiet alley between two buildings.

Sunlight filtered through the gap above, warm and bright. The sounds of the tournament were muffled here, replaced by the distant chatter of market crowds. This was perfect. I could slip away, find a shop, buy something normal like a decorative fan or a commemorative sword, and head back to the mountain before anyone noticed I was gone.

I took two steps into the alley and nearly walked straight into a group of people.

There were four of them, clustered together like they’d been having a private conversation. A woman in a maid uniform stood at the front, her posture rigid and alert. She had dark hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that tracked my movement with professional precision. Next to her was a guy with silver hair, probably in his twenties, with a bored expression that looked permanently etched onto his face.

Behind them were two younger people, maybe teenagers.

A boy with blonde hair and fancy clothes that screamed noble family money. He was standing way too stiff, like someone had shoved a steel rod down his spine. Next to him was a girl with bright, curious eyes and an energy that felt completely different from the others. She looked like the kind of person who asked too many questions and got into trouble for it.

I didn’t recognize any of them.

They were staring at me now, their conversation completely dead. The silver-haired guy’s bored expression had sharpened into something more focused, more dangerous. The maid’s hand had drifted toward something at her belt, probably a weapon. The blonde kid looked like he was about to pass out, and the girl was gripping his arm like she was physically holding him upright.

I needed directions, and they were locals.

I approached them, trying to project an aura of friendly helplessness. Just a lost tourist asking for help. Nothing scary. Nothing weird. I opened my mouth to speak, very aware that my wooden jaw might decide to malfunction again at any moment.

“Excuse me, young ones.”

My voice came out flat and hollow, echoing slightly in the narrow alley. The blonde kid flinched hard enough that I heard his armor clink. I pressed on, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.

“I am looking for something small. Something cheap.”

The silver-haired guy’s eyes narrowed, his body shifting into a subtle stance that I recognized from years of training disciples. He was ready to fight. Why was he ready to fight? I was just asking about shops.

“Something I can take back with me to the other side.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

The maid went completely still, the kind of stillness that came right before explosive violence. The silver-haired guy’s hand moved to his side, resting on what I now realized was definitely a weapon. The blonde kid made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his face cycling through shades of white I didn’t know were possible on a living person.

The girl was the only one who seemed semi-functional, and even she was sweating.

Nobody said anything. They just stared at me with expressions that ranged from terror to grim resignation. This was so awkward. I was clearly missing some social cue here, some context that would explain why asking for souvenir directions had turned into a standoff.

The silence stretched.

The silver-haired guy looked like he was having an internal debate about whether to attack first or die with dignity. The maid had positioned herself slightly in front of the younger two, a protective gesture that would have been admirable if it wasn’t directed at me. I was literally just a guy in a puppet body asking for shopping advice.

This was a waste of time.

I decided to leave them to their weird staring contest and find someone else who could actually help. I raised my hand to give a polite goodbye wave, the kind of casual gesture that said “sorry to bother you, have a nice day.”

My wrist joint locked up.

The movement stopped halfway through, my hand frozen at an awkward angle. I tried to force it through the rest of the wave, applying pressure to the joint. Something inside the puppet mechanism gave way all at once, releasing with a sharp crack. My hand spun in a complete circle on my wrist, rotating three hundred sixty degrees with a grinding noise that sounded like a mill wheel breaking.

The girl started crying.

Actual tears, streaming down her face as she made little gasping sounds. The blonde kid grabbed onto the silver-haired guy’s arm, his knees buckling. The silver-haired guy stepped forward, placing himself fully between me and the younger two. His expression had shifted from wary to resigned, like a soldier accepting his final battle.

The maid’s weapon was drawn now, a thin blade that caught the light.

I stared at them, completely baffled by this escalation. My hand had finally stopped spinning, settling back into its normal position with a soft click. I flexed my fingers experimentally, making sure everything still worked. The joints moved smoothly enough, no permanent damage.

I was so done with this city.

These people were unhelpful, jumpy, and apparently prone to crying at basic hand gestures. I turned around, my puppet body executing a slow, jerky rotation that took way longer than it should have. The alley exit was right there, freedom just a few dragging steps away.

I started walking, my frustration building with each clack and drag of my feet.

“City people.”

I muttered it inside my hollow head where nobody could hear. Back on the mountain, people were weird but at least they were predictably weird. Here, everyone acted like I was some kind of apocalypse waiting to happen. I just wanted a souvenir. Maybe a nice banner from the tournament, something I could hang in my room to prove I’d actually left the mountain for once.

The group behind me was still frozen in their defensive formation.

I could feel their eyes on my back, tracking every movement. The silver-haired guy was probably analyzing my walking pattern, looking for weaknesses or attack vectors. The maid was likely calculating escape routes for the kids. And the kids themselves were probably processing whatever trauma I’d just accidentally inflicted.

I reached the end of the alley and turned the corner, disappearing from their line of sight.

The market district spread out before me, full of colorful stalls and shouting vendors. Normal people doing normal things, completely unaware that their festival judge was wandering around in a malfunctioning puppet body, still looking for that one simple souvenir.

Maybe I’d just steal a banner later.

It would be easier than trying to communicate with anyone else, and at this point, grand larceny seemed like the less traumatic option for everyone involved. I shuffled into the crowd, just another creepy puppet trying to have a nice day in the city.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

I missed my mountain so much.