The barracks had gone silent except for the faint rattle of the night wind against the shutters. Al sat on the cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards. He’d spent the evening surrounded by officers, nobility, and questions he couldn’t begin to answer. Now, in the stillness, it all felt unreal.
What he needed was something solid. Something familiar.
Back home, they’d had duty logs. Every shift, every patrol, someone wrote down what happened — who came, who went, what changed. Not because it mattered now, but because someday someone might need to know. It was structure. It was order.
He focused on the memory of it: the olive-drab cover, the smell of oil and paper, the weight of responsibility behind every entry. He thought of it hard enough that the air shimmered — and there it was.
A small, green-bound logbook sat on his knee. Clean. Perfect. Unissued.
He smiled faintly. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Two pens followed — one black, one red — clattering softly onto the blanket. The System’s shimmer faded, leaving only the faint smell of ink.
To whomever finds this journal or myself in the future— Know that a man may lie to himself, but ink always remains. I find myself far from home, on an earth that is not mine. Surrounded by women—beautiful, strange, and armed to the teeth.
I woke in a place they call Aelthar’s Maw—some kind of dungeon, if you believe the word. Crawling with creatures straight out of a fever dream: kobolds, goblins, something worse that I don’t have a name for. I was half-dead, bound in chains that felt alive, and a group of women—soldiers, nobles, I still can’t tell which—fought their way through to find me.
They call themselves Ladies Arwen, Pryce, and Vaughn—each from houses that sound more like empires than families. I think they hate each other more than they hate monsters. Two guards came with them, veterans by the look, steady hands. Without them, I’d be bones in that cave.
The “System” they speak of—their kind of magic—doesn’t seem to know what to make of me. I can summon things I know from home, but I don’t understand how. A pistol, MRE's and even a damn grenade… they appear when I think of them, like the world itself is filling in the blanks. It’s eating through my energy—mana, they call it—but I’m learning. Slowly.
The locals don’t seem to have men around, not like back home. The ratio they mentioned—one man to fifteen, maybe twenty women. You can feel it in how they look at me. Some curious, some cautious. A few like they’re studying a weapon that might go off in their hands.
We made it out of the Maw alive and reached a fortress—a place called Vale’s Keep, named after the woman who commands it. She’s as sharp as any officer I’ve met and about as easy to impress as a Gunnery Sergeant on inspection day. She asked if I was “whole.” I understood later that she meant if I could still make children. That’s the kind of world this is.
I ate dinner with her, her husband, and her sister-wives. That is to say the women married to the man were all her sisters and his wives. Kind people, mostly. Educated. They talk about magic the way we talk about engines or ammo counts—something that keeps civilization running but no one really understands. When I told them about my world, about machines and science, they looked at me like I’d said I could make the sun stand still. Maybe I could, given time.
The System says I’ve killed enough monsters to earn experience, but I’m still a long way from my first “level.” Whatever that means. I keep wondering what it’ll say when I do. Whether it’ll call me soldier or something else.
For now, I’m alive. I’ve got food, a roof, and a pen that still writes in English, at least I think it does. That’s enough. Tomorrow we’ll see what the Triumvirate—their ruling council—wants to do with me. If they’re anything like command back home, it’ll involve paperwork, suspicion, and a whole lot of bullshit.
Still… I can’t shake the feeling that I didn’t end up here by accident. Someone—or something—dragged me across worlds for a reason.
End of Entry One.
Sunlight pushed its way through the shutter slats, painting lines across the foot of the cot. Al blinked awake to the faint hum in his head — the one he’d learned meant the System had something to say.
“Guess I don’t get coffee before bad news here either,” he muttered.
The words floated in front of his eyes in clean, white lettering that pulsed softly:
[System Notification]Bound Artifact Registered.Item: Personal Journal (U.S. Origin)Status: Linked to User – Aleric TanimNote: Only the registered user may alter or add entries.Warning: External communication unavailable while artifact is beyond the user’s dimensional boundary.
He rubbed at his eyes, still half-asleep. “So, it’s mine. Great. And if it ends up back on Earth… nobody can write me back.”
The screen blinked once in acknowledgment — then vanished.
“Figures,” he said to no one in particular. “Even in another universe, the Corps finds a way to keep me writing reports nobody’ll ever read.”
He sat up, swinging his legs off the cot. The air was cooler than last night; the stone walls held the chill. For a long moment he just stared at the faint shimmer where the journal should be, then reached for it.
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It appeared in his hands like it had been waiting for him all along. He opened it — the pages clean and crisp, the ink from last night unmoved. No new marks. No sign anyone had touched it.
Entry Two:System tagged the logbook as “bound.” Means no one else can write in it. No edits, no messages. Just me. So if this thing ever finds its way home… nobody’s sending word back.I don’t know if that’s comforting or depressing. Maybe both.
It’s proof I still exist, at least. The System thinks I’m worth cataloguing. Hell, that’s something.
He shut the book and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. Outside, he could hear the sound of boots on stone — morning drills, shouted cadence, the thud of practice blades. All female voices. Always female voices.
A knock came at the door. Evan’s voice filtered through. “Marine? Commandant Vale requests your presence in the training yard. She says it’s time you learned how we fight.”
Al sighed, slipping the journal into the air where it vanished again with a soft hum. “Yeah,” he said, standing. “Guess it’s time they learned how I fight too.”
***
Al went to the small wooden locker the attendants had brought and peeled off the travel tunic, folding it with the same care he'd learned in field racks. The servants fussed politely—soft hands, careful fingers—laying out a set of plain utility fatigues Vale had approved: muted gray-green trousers, a rolled shirt, worn leather boots. Nothing fancy. Nothing that announced him as a novelty.
He concentrated on the image of a kit he actually trusted: the cut of a Marine’s field shirt, the way the seams bunched under a plate carrier he didn’t have, the feel of a belt cinched just so. The System accepted the blueprint like an old sergeant granting leave. Fabric and thread shimmered into being in discrete pieces—boots first, each one appearing cold and heavy on his feet; trousers next, folding over hips with a snug, familiar fit; the shirt last, sleeves rolled, collar flat.
A soft prompt winked at the corner of his sight—nothing formal, just the System’s polite hum reminding him of the cost. He ignored it. Habit and habit’s comforts were worth a little mana debt.
He closed the journal cleanly on his palm, thumb rubbing the spine, then sent it away. The logbook vanished on the same faint pulse he’d been learning to trust—the little private exile that kept his words safe. For a moment the room felt emptier. Then he slid his hand inside the waistband and, with the simple muscle memory of a thousand drills, called up something smaller.
A KA-BAR blade folded into existence in his hand: heavy, unadorned, its edge gleaming as if it had seen the light that morning a hundred times. The leather sheath hung from nothing for a heartbeat, then snapped into place at his hip when he drew it through the belt loop he’d just summoned. He ran his thumb along the spine out of habit; it was dry and clean—no grit, no blood, no crusted oil. Not that it needed cleaning, he told himself. It had been made by the same conjuring that made the gun and grenade—perfect and immediate, the way a man’s tools are in the cleanest armory.
Rhyosyn glanced up from the cot where she’d been tying her own gauntlets and arched one eyebrow. “That… looks useful.”
Evan smirked. “Not a bad choice. Cuts and doesn’t ask questions.”
Idris, unflappable as ever, simply nodded. “Keep it close and your hands where I can see them.”
Al slid the blade home, feeling the familiar click of the retention strap. The weight at his hip was more comfort than threat; the knife had always been a private thing, an insurance policy and a memory of men who’d taught him how to survive.
He tested the fit with a practiced hitch of his belt. “Ready when you are,” he said, voice low.
Outside, the yard sounded like a beating heart—boots, commands, the cadence of a world that still expected to be defended. He swallowed, pulled on the fatigue jacket, and followed the others out, the KA-BAR's silent presence against his thigh reminding him that, whatever this place called magic, he still carried pieces of home with him.
When Al stepped out into the exercise yard, the world seemed to pause.
The air was thick with morning dust and sunlight, the sound of drills echoing off stone — until a ripple of silence spread through the formation like a wave hitting sand. One by one, voices faltered, blades lowered, and the clatter of wooden practice weapons faded. A hundred women turned in unison, their gazes locking on him.
For his part, Al didn’t flinch. The stares of a hundred recruits had never bothered him before — though usually he was the one barking orders, not the one being watched like a ghost.
The soldiers were dressed for training: light tunics belted at the waist, loose pants for movement, sandals that looked comfortable but not at all suited for running drills on rough stone. He made a mental note of it — poor traction, no ankle support.
He leaned slightly toward Evan and Idris, his guards flanking him. “How do you want to handle this?”
Evan’s lips quirked faintly. “Don’t die,” she said.
Idris added, “Don’t stare back too long. They’ll take it as a challenge.”
Before he could answer, the crowd shifted. A line parted down the center, and the Commandant strode forward like the break in a storm front.
Vale wore no armor today — only a black officer’s tunic and boots that somehow managed to look both elegant and lethal. Her expression was carved in command.
“Marine,” she called as she approached, “I would like to see how your kind trains — and how you fight.”
Her eyes flicked toward the raised dais beside the yard, where several of her officers and a handful of nobles had gathered. “Show my ladies.”
Al nodded, the motion crisp and controlled. “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.”
He glanced around the yard — open ground, packed dirt, a few lines marked for formation drills. It wasn’t all that different from the grinder back home.
“Guess we’ll start with the basics,” he said under his breath. “Drill, calisthenics… maybe a warm-up run.”
He turned back to Vale. “How safe is it outside the city walls?”
Vale arched a brow. “Safe enough for those who can handle themselves. Why?”
“Because, ma’am,” Al said, stretching his shoulders, “where I’m from, every good training day starts with a few miles underfoot. And if your people are going to watch, they might as well learn how Marines wake up.”
Vale’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something that suggested she appreciated his nerve. “Very well. The outer road follows the east wall and circles back. Stay within sight of the watchtowers. Take a squad if you wish.”
Al gave a short nod. “No need. If something out there wants to try me, I’ll consider it part of the warm-up.”
That earned him a few muffled gasps from the watching ranks — and one sharp laugh from Evan.
As he stepped out toward the gate, the yard came alive again in whispers and murmurs. Some of the younger soldiers followed to the edge of the training grounds, curiosity gleaming in their eyes.
“Is he serious?” one whispered. “Saints, he’s mad,” said another. “Or he’s exactly what the Commandant thinks he is,” murmured a third.
Al rolled his shoulders once more, feeling the stretch across his back and the solid weight of the KA-BAR at his side. The gate opened ahead, spilling sunlight and the scent of wild grass into the yard.
He grinned, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Time to PT, ladies.”
And with that, he broke into a steady jog — the cadence of booted feet echoing against the walls of a world that had never seen a Marine before.