Chapter 158: “Rose’s Doll House”

This translation is hosted on bcatranslation.

To be completely honest, the amount of items accumulated in the alleyway was not overwhelming. That was understandable since Duncan was the sole person responsible for handling the logistics. Even though he had wisely purchased a bicycle in anticipation of needing to move goods, there was a finite amount he could transport in one trip. The scene made it easier to understand the behavior of Ai, the dove that had been hanging around.

The bird wasn’t being subtle: it wanted more fries to eat.

In some ways, Ai was refreshingly direct.

“Do you recognize this?” Duncan said, seizing the moment to educate the bird. He grabbed Ai and brought her close to a large basket brimming with potatoes. “This is what we call a potato, also referred to as a spud.”

Ai looked at the basket, her eyes resembling tiny green beans. It took a few moments to process this new information. Finally, its neck stretched forward as it declared with zest, “Smells so good! Smells so good!”

“Ah, you’re catching on,” Duncan chuckled, evidently pleased. “All these potatoes are for you. You could make enough fries from this basket to stuff yourself silly multiple times over.” With that, Duncan lightly tossed the bird into the air, instructing, “Take all of this back to the ship. Just put it on the deck; ‘I’ will collect it from there.”

As Ai took to the air, she suddenly became enveloped in a greenish flame and transformed into a spectral version of itself. She circled twice around the heap of goods. As she did so, the items wrapped in the mystical flame began to fade, becoming translucent. Then, unexpectedly, she paused and looked at Duncan. “Do you need to specify the next memory address?”

It took Duncan a second to understand that Ai was essentially asking for further instructions.

Duncan was a bit frustrated internally. Ai’s way of speaking was like a bizarre mixture of phrases, as though every human invention and internet slang was jumbled together in its bird-brain. While Duncan had begun to understand the bird’s general meaning after spending some time with it, their conversations were far from deep or thorough. Why couldn’t this bird try to learn human language in a more coherent manner?

However, setting his internal complaints aside, Duncan nodded. “First off, take all these items back to the ship. I’ve got to go buy some more stuff.”

This statement genuinely shocked Ai. She shot up into the air, generating a large ball of fire that instantly consumed the pile of items on the ground. As the bird rapidly vanished from Duncan’s line of sight, it let out an ear-piercing chirp, “So terrifying! So terrifying!”

Shrugging, Duncan turned his attention back to his recently purchased bicycle.

It was a rather plain bike—black frame, gleaming silver wheels and handlebars, a shiny new bell, and a sturdy basket along with a practical rear seat. The bike wasn’t flashy or particularly eye-catching, but neither was it unattractive. Its most commendable feature was likely its solid construction.

Duncan had originally planned on buying a stylish women’s bike for Nina, but after scouring shops throughout the lower parts of the city, he had given up on that idea. The simple reason was that he couldn’t find any such bikes.

In the lower district of Pland, a city-state that existed during what was locally known as the “Deep Sea Age,” a bicycle was a purely functional object. It was a workhorse intended for commuting and carrying goods rather than for recreation or as a style statement. Unlike in the world Duncan was accustomed to, where bicycles came in all shapes and sizes, specialized for different terrains and riders, the bikes here were utilitarian and one-size-fits-all. The only customization options available were simple adjustments to the handlebars and seats to accommodate riders of different heights. It was a clear reflection of a society where most people lacked the resources or the inclination to pursue a more nuanced or “refined” way of life.

Duncan found it both fascinating and disorienting how this world mirrored yet diverged from his own. While many things seemed familiar, they were suffused with this alternate reality’s unique quirks and limitations. These subtle differences served as continual reminders that he was indeed in a foreign land, a place distinct from his own world.

Hopping onto his newly purchased, lightweight but sturdy bicycle, Duncan left the alleyway and cycled toward a more bustling commercial area not too far away. He thought to himself that Nina would probably appreciate this bike.

Leaving behind the crossroads that marked the boundary between the lower and upper districts, Duncan pedaled northwest toward elevated terrain. This was what the residents of Pland generally considered the threshold for a “truly decent life.” In contrast, the Crossroads were looked down upon as mere façades where the middle class tried to emulate a better lifestyle.

Contrary to Duncan’s initial expectations, there was no physical barrier or wall segregating the upper and lower districts. Transitioning from one to the other was as simple as crossing open intersections. While there were security posts at these entry points, they did not hinder the movement of citizens during daylight hours. However, Duncan had heard that stringent restrictions were imposed after dark, and crossing from one district to another during those hours required special passes and additional documentation.

As Duncan entered the upper district for the first time since his arrival in Pland, he had to acknowledge the glaring disparities. The upper district seemed to be from a completely different world: the streets were noticeably cleaner and wider, buildings soared higher and looked more architecturally sophisticated, and urban amenities appeared more modern and well-maintained. Gas lamps were more abundant here, as were structures known as “night shelters.”

Finally, Duncan decided to stop his bike in front of one of these small pavilions near an intersection. These night shelters were specifically designed for citizens who couldn’t make it back to their homes before nightfall for one reason or another. A sign at the entrance provided succinct guidelines:

“Night shelter provided. Equipped with gas lamps, calming sacred oil, and the ‘Storm Codex.’ After entering, please lock the door behind you and wait for assistance. Night Patrol has a safety key.”

In the lower district where Duncan had previously spent his time, he had also encountered night shelters, but they were scarce and sporadically positioned—maybe one or two on an entire block of buildings. Furthermore, they had shown signs of neglect and age, with peeling paint and rusty locks, making Duncan question their state of upkeep and current usability.

Redirecting his attention, Duncan remounted his functional but plain bicycle and resumed his leisurely ride down the road. As he pedaled, his eyes roved over the various storefronts that flanked both sides of the street. What he observed were window displays that radiated opulence and interior setups that radiated class—a stark contrast to the humble and utilitarian shops of the lower district. However, he wasn’t particularly moved by these aesthetic differences; his primary focus was on completing a comprehensive shopping list for the ship, a task that had been put off for far too long. But then, something caught his eye.

Bringing his bike to a halt, Duncan looked up at a particular store that stood in front of him, and a faint smile spread across his face.

Certain things were unattainable in the lower district, available only to the “respectable people” of the upper district who had the financial means to invest in items that transcended basic survival needs. And it was one such store that now captivated Duncan’s attention.

He securely locked his bicycle to a nearby post before pushing open the door of the quaint shop. As he stepped in, a doorbell chimed crisply, signaling his entrance. An elderly woman with a plump figure, who had been engrossed in a newspaper behind the counter, looked up. With a warm, inviting smile, she rose to greet him, “Welcome to Rose’s Doll House. Oh, a gentleman! Are you here in search of a special gift for a loved one or perhaps a younger family member?”

“Just browsing for now,” Duncan responded, his eyes lifting to scan the interior of this intriguing shop named “Rose’s Doll House.”

What he encountered was a visual feast of dolls—each one painstakingly designed to be exquisite, elegant, mysterious, cute, or playful. From what he had glimpsed through the store window as he’d passed by, Duncan had been unable to gauge just how expansive this shop truly was. Almost every conceivable space was utilized to display a myriad of doll-related items. Beneath the staircase, for instance, a variety of storage boxes, doll stands, and an assortment of accessories were neatly arranged, along with unassembled “base models” of dolls.

The shop had a decidedly classical flair that was seamlessly melded with an ambiance of quiet, enigmatic allure. And presiding over this domain was just one individual—an affable elderly woman. At that moment, Duncan was her lone patron.

As Duncan found himself engrossed in the assortment of mesmerizing dolls, the shop’s proprietor couldn’t help but cast an inquisitive eye over her solitary customer. While it was not uncommon for men to frequent doll shops in the upper district, often purchasing high-quality dolls for their loved ones or even as part of their personal collections, it was Duncan’s unassuming attire that intrigued her. It was the kind of clothing that stood out precisely because it was so ordinary, a stark anomaly in this upscale neighborhood.

Duncan was clad in his usual worn coat, a garment that hardly aligned with the upscale fashion sensibilities of the upper district’s wealthy inhabitants. Moreover, doll collecting wasn’t exactly a hobby for those with shallow pockets; the dolls and their intricate accessories could cost a small fortune.

The elderly store owner gave him a brief, inquisitive look before tactfully averting her eyes. An experienced businessperson knew better than to make snap judgments based on a customer’s appearance. After all, every individual had the right to appreciate art or merchandise without being subject to preconceived notions.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Duncan let out a quiet sigh as he looked away from the dazzling array of dolls.

He had to acknowledge that the artistry and craftsmanship involved in doll-making here far exceeded his expectations. The myriad accessories, many of which had names he couldn’t even begin to fathom, went beyond his basic understanding of what dolls could be.

In Duncan’s previous experience, dolls had been merely ornamental objects without functional value—crew members, so to speak, who were frail, lacked practical skills, had posture issues, and weren’t particularly sharp-witted.

Turning his gaze toward the plump elderly woman, Duncan contemplated asking for her expert advice, especially regarding the specifics of joint maintenance and hair implantation techniques for these exquisite dolls.

However, before he could even form the words, he found himself struck speechless.

The elderly woman seemed to sense his hesitation. She touched her ears and offered a smile, saying, “Elves are indeed a rare sight in the city-state of Pland.”

Duncan was at a loss for words.

It wasn’t just the rarity of elves in Pland that left him stunned—this was, after all, the first elf he’d encountered since arriving in this world. What truly baffled him was the existence of elderly elves who had, quite surprisingly, put on weight.

In many mythologies and stories from Duncan’s world, elves were often portrayed as eternally youthful and slim, almost ethereal beings. The sight of an older, plump elf defied all his prior assumptions and added yet another layer of complexity to his understanding of this already perplexing world.

Here he was, standing in a doll shop that was an epitome of high culture in an upper district that defied his initial assumptions, speaking with an elderly, plump elf—another curveball in a world that never ceased to surprise him.

For those that just want to support me, you can follow the link to paypal donating. Sadly you won’t be able to get the benefit of reading ahead 

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