Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

...

A damp dusk settled over the island's rugged coastline, where sparse forests of twisty mangroves and gnarled oaks merged with jagged cliff faces overlooking a moonlit ocean. The cliffs stood tall, enduring wave after wave of onslaught from the sea, the deep red-painted cliffs proof of firmness and stability.

The waters were rumored to be cursed by demons and hostile creatures, the same trying to invade their land—be it through foul sorceries or swarmed with unspeakable monstrosities—bringing plight upon their land and making the water undrinkable.

Every figurehead, elder, or shaman told how only strict adherence to tradition—and the blessings of revered ancestors—kept the horrors from breaching the sacred shores—poisoning their families and neighbors.

Like many others from outlying villages, Farraj the hunter had grown up hearing these warnings around the communal fire. He had never questioned them; to doubt a shaman's words was to risk the ancestors' ire.

But now, while listening to the wind-lashed cliff, Farraj could see the faint, ominous red glow pulsing atop the island's central volcano. It flickered against swirling clouds as though fed by angered spirits. The elders had always claimed that if the volcano lit the sky with that crimson hue, it was a sign the old covenants had been broken—a sign that strangers had set foot on their land with ill intent—the very thing forbidden so long ago.

In the past days alone, dozens of friends had perished in skirmishes with the invaders, each death marked as a disgrace, a dishonor that roused the spirits' wrath even more. Local shamans and figureheads declared it an affront to the ancestors and demanded retribution—blood for blood, a sacrifice that might appease the awakened fury beneath the mountain—so they did.

When the first ships docked, and envoys were sent—one more ghastly than the last—no one ever returned, but their severed heads were offered to shamans to appease the spirits, dimming the volcano's glow slightly.

For Farraj, who lived on the outskirts of one of the smaller villages, the swirl of stories became inescapable. He listened, wide-eyed, as returning hunters and travelers described how these foul outsiders planned to defile sacred lands and perform depraved rituals on the dead. It sounded outrageous—yet he trusted the elders and clan leaders, who brought peace to this small island.

The Pure-Steam Clan, once a loosely organized assembly of tribal groups spread across the islands, had now called for total mobilization. Every individual with a [Divinity Domain]—be they farmer, craftsman, or blacksmith—was summoned to defend their land. Even a simple hunter like Farraj had been drafted. His father's spear, which he had used only for hunting swift cliff hares and game in the nearby mangroves, was now expected to taste enemy blood.

High above the forest floor, Farraj and his scouting partner Shalin concealed themselves within the hollow trunk of an ancient thunder oak. Legend claimed the tree had once been struck by celestial lightning, the bark forever scorched by the ancestors' wrath. Twisted vines and half-burnt wood disguised the pair from prowling beasts and patrolling enemy scouts below.

Farraj felt the weight of duty press heavily upon him. He glanced at the talisman around his neck—an heirloom from his grandfather, said to hold an ancestral blessing. It was supposed to protect him in times of darkness. But how could it shield him from a war that seemed to spring from the very nightmares their legends warned about?

Whispers of a growing conflict reached him everywhere: around the communal well, at the fishing docks, and in the winding forest paths where clansmen hurried with weapons in hand. The talk was always the same: Destroy the invaders before they destroy them. Shamans proclaimed that any sign of mercy would anger the ancestors, threatening all life on the island.

Farraj, like most, had little choice but to obey. Questions flickered in his mind: Could all the rumors be entirely true? Were these outsiders truly monsters intent on ravaging the land? Yet, with every passing day, the pink cliffs and the roiling ocean beyond them felt more and more like the walls of a besieged fortress.

And so, clad in boiled leather armor and clutching his father's spear, Farraj turned his gaze inward. Memories of new friends who lay motionless in the plaza, their families crying, the children taking up arms for revenge—the war became a reality for him at that moment.

With the echo of crashing waves at his back, Farraj knew that nothing would ever be the same. The sacred guardians of the island had been stirred, and if the invaders truly sought to defile what was divine, then every village spear and arrow would be turned against them, desperately hoping it was enough to save them all.

...

Hours went by inside the thunder oak's hollow, and the two young djinns—Farraj and Shalin—whispered, waiting for the right moment to strike, flee, or collect any crucial pieces of information.

But, even as they waited silently for hours—stillness broken only by the eerie calls of wyvernbats and tree lurkers, together with the intermittent clangs of metal and the distant grumble of working soldiers who either built sight protections or dug up ditches—a formation of a disharmonious lullaby beneath the starless sky—nothing novel emerged.

Across the valley, the intruders' encampment shimmered with strange, shifting lights in multiple hues, each glow pulsing like an organism with its own heartbeat. Whenever a native approached, the lights would shift to a color—brilliant scarlets or harsh yellows—as if alive and alert to the presence of the island's defenders. Shortly after, death would await their brave comrades.

"Do you understand any of this?" Farraj asked, his voice hushed. His fingers toyed anxiously with a small mechanical mana artifact strapped to his belt. The village figurehead had given it to him for extra strength in times of dire need.

Shalin, a lean hunter with sun-freckled cheeks, shook her head. "I'm just a hunter," she said. "Politics isn't my hunting ground," she smirked at her own joke.

"I just don't get why they're fighting alongside beast kin and water djinn," Farraj insisted, eyes darting to the flickering lights of the enemy camp. "Aren't we all from the same—"

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Shalin cut him off with a derisive snort. "They were bought," she said bitterly. "Bribed by those dirty animals, as they tried so desperately with our honorable leaders."

"But even our Leader—"

"He's no longer our leader," she snarled, her voice taut with betrayal. "He'll suffer our ancestors' curse, mark my words."

Farraj said nothing. He was a simple hunter, unversed in global politics or complex alliances. All he knew was that it didn't make any sense. Sure, water djinns and beast kin working together, like rats or ants trying to form groups since they would be utterly crushed alone—but their people? It was a thought that wouldn't leave him alone.

Suddenly, the night broke with the whiz of a silver dart. A small, glinting projectile struck true, sending both djinns crumpling from their hiding place to the mossy ground below. Darkness swallowed them.

...

When Farraj finally stirred, he found himself on a cold stone floor. The smell of moldy earth replaced the once-sweet aroma of the thunder oak. Heavy cuffs weighed on his wrists and neck, engraved with faintly glowing enchantments that suppressed his [Energy], [Attributes], and [Skills]—he felt like he was nine all over again, weak and useless.

Before he could orient himself in what seemed to be a prison, somewhere in the dimness, voices spoke a language he didn't understand.

An enormous feline kin in simple and camouflaged half-plate armor growled, her expression filled with hate and anger as she argued passionately—her fangs showing and hands clenching.

But a deeper, still, youthful voice shut her up—belonging to a hulking canine kin with long ears, bound like a ponytail behind his head with an old leather cord. His posture spoke of experience, like the military leaders he saw visiting his village, and the scars spoke of excruciating battles. The massive axe on his back, rough and used, showed a roughness that he could immediately identify with mercenaries who visited them.

After he spoke, his voice calm but firm, the feline kin calmed down, clearly asking what to do, which the young leader answered as swiftly, making her grunt and throw a gaze of pure disgust at him.

She sighed, and they both stepped away from the cell, with her muttering curses in a mocking tone, only to be reprimanded by the young man.

Farraj's gaze swept the cell, which housed about twenty other fire-djinns, including Shalin. All bore the same cuffs and collar; for obvious reasons, a hole was dug in the corner. From the overhead gloom, water dripped at intervals, forming puddles that reflected the flickering light of magical devices in odd, dancing patterns.

A few wet and moldy haystacks were sporadically sprinkled around them, giving at least the older ones a more comfortable place to sleep. 'They took it away,' Farraj looked at himself when he noticed everyone wearing the same rags—his talisman and device stolen.

'I saw those,' a memory from Farraj's childhood suddenly surfaced like a curse—he had seen those collars and cuffs on beast kin and nature dwellers when slavers stopped in their village overnight. 'Will I also—'

"Do you think they'll eat us?" Farraj's thoughts were interrupted by a trembling old woman clutching her granddaughter.

"Are they going to sacrifice us?" another prisoner moaned, his body bandaged up as if he suffered heavy injuries.

Shalin, regaining consciousness, pressed herself against the cold stones and tried to exude calm. "At least we're alive," she said, voice softer than usual.

"For how long?" came a morose reply. "Do they hold us so they can use us for their cursed magic?"

Their whispers laced the stale air with dread. Every footstep outside the cell echoed ominously, fueling their collective anxiety; as everyone told the same, he heard—they were the serving divine beings of evil. The panic slowly increased inside the prison, as it felt like the walls slowly came in closer.

Their uneasy murmurs ceased when the dungeon door creaked open. An avian-kin woman stepped inside—her black wings folded against her back, each feather glinting with an oily sheen. A swirl of various raced soldiers followed, including bored-looking beast kin, elves with dark blue skin, and a few red-skinned humans whose eyes seemed to glow faintly in the low light.

The avian-kin woman stared coldly into the cell, her piercing blue eyes sweeping across the captive fire-djinns like they were lesser creatures. "Food's ready," the avian-kin snapped in the islanders' language. "Be glad we don't just slit your throats and dump your corpses outside for the wilderness to feast on."

A heavy silence weighed on the prisoners. Some glared back in defiance; others shrank behind those braver. With a huff, she opened a slot in the iron door, magically levitating wooden bowls into the cell. Each bowl held a steaming mush of unknown ingredients and a single wooden spoon jutted from the slop.

"Hope you know how to use tableware," she said sarcastically. "Thank your ancestors—or whatever you pray to—that Mr. Alexander hasn't decided to use you in his experiments."

With a final disdainful flick of her wings, she and her entourage departed. "We need to feed these lessers, too? They should be happy to be alive."

When the bowl landed before them, suspicion hung in the air. Farraj stared at the bowl in his hands—blueish paste with flecks of orange and green, steam rising in faint wisps. He recognized neither the ingredients nor the smell, but the hollow ache of hunger prodded at him. Shalin, equally wary, sniffed the bowl before sampling a tiny spoonful.

"At least it's warm," Farraj muttered, taking a hesitant spoonful. It wasn't exactly delicious, but it had flavor—something he hadn't enjoyed in weeks. It was also weirdly filling as if he had eaten at a feast. For now, he was happy enough to stay at least alive, but the future still swirled in the back of his mind, worries he tried to push away.

Shalin dropped to the floor beside him, her shackles clanking. "We're doomed," she murmured while cautiously eating.

"Why?" Farraj asked, gesturing with his wooden spoon. "They're feeding us, and nobody's been hurt yet."

"They want us alive for something," she replied grimly. "Could be worse than simple execution."

A low laugh came from the corner of the cell. A mercenary—at least that's how he carried himself—sat comfortably, his half-finished bowl in hand. "You two are lucky," he said in a casual tone. "Better to be captured by someone who calls himself a Saint than end up on the other two fronts."

"What's happening there?" Shalin asked, her tone filled with genuine interest. "I heard we are winning."

The mercenary's eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and caution. "The Essence Alliance and our... the traitors aren't as forgiving," he said. "They'd skin you if you get caught—no mercy there. Heard one village was torched with flame spells just because the local leader refused to give up his farmland."

Shalin's expression darkened, and Farraj felt his stomach twist. A hush fell over the cell, everyone pondering the mercenary's words. Outside, one could still hear the steady drip of water, the clang of armor on stone, and distant shouts from what sounded like an argument among guards. The tension in the dungeon seemed to coil tighter with every echo.

Farraj had heard those rumors traversing but quickly silenced—about someone calling himself Saint raiding one village after another—a rather incredulous thought. But, looking at how they were treated, a sliver of doubt showed itself.

Finally, Farraj cleared his throat, looking at the mercenary. "Do… do you think they'll let us go?" A flicker of hope in his voice.

The mercenary shrugged, crossing his arms against his chest as best as the chains allowed.

"Saint Alexander? Hard to say. Some call him an abomination. Some call him a Divine Saint. I've heard both. But one thing's for sure—he is some scary fellow."

Before their discussion could continue, the door to the dungeon opened again, and an unassuming young canine-kin man, in company with a fox-kin woman, walked inside.

"Hello there, " he said almost perfectly in their language, his expression filled with openness. "Did you eat well? Sadly, we can't give you our rations, the soldiers get, but I guess as long as you are fed, it should be acceptable, right?"

Still, something about his eyes told Farraj it was a venomous snake about to attack, looking for victims, and as if his gut warned him, he snapped his fingers, making multiple dark-skinned elves appear around the prison. "We need to have a friendly chat~."