The Eternal Empire

The wooden floorboards creaked faintly beneath Heimrich's measured steps as he ventured further into the house. His sharp gaze scanned every corner with clinical precision, taking notes of the modest surroundings. A small wardrobe in the adjacent room caught his attention.

He approached it, pulling the doors open to reveal an assortment of simple garments. Rough-spun tunics, threadbare cloaks, and woolen trousers hung limply, their earthy tones starkly contrasting the pristine sheen of his modern attire. He selected a coarse tunic and trousers, noting their rudimentary stitching. They smelled faintly of sweat and damp wool, but he did not flinch.

Discarding his lab coat and gloves, he donned the garments, pulling the tunic over his sculpted frame. The fabric chafed slightly against his skin, a foreign sensation after years of tailored synthetic materials designed for comfort. He adjusted the trousers, tying the simple leather cord at his waist. The cloak followed, its rough texture draping awkwardly over his shoulders. 

Next, he turned his attention to his face. Even without a mirror, he knew his appearance was a glaring anomaly in this primitive world. His blond hair, perfectly styled, caught the beams of sunlight streaming through the unevenly cut windows, its sheen too immaculate to belong to a commoner. His sharp, symmetrical, regal features would draw suspicion wherever he went. He needed to diminish their effect.

Finding a small earthen jar on a nearby shelf, he pried it open to reveal a gritty mixture of ash and dirt. With steady hands, he smeared the substance across his cheeks and forehead, dulling the glow of his flawless skin. His fingers worked it into his hair, breaking the perfect alignment of each strand until it hung in a disheveled mess. The grime clung to his nails, and he smeared a final streak across the bridge of his nose. 

Satisfied, Heimrich moved to a large wooden barrel near the corner of the room. The faint scent of stagnant water wafted up as he leaned over its edge, peering into the dark surface. The water rippled faintly, distorting his reflection before settling into stillness. By the beams of sunlight streaming through the uneven windows, he could make out his transformed visage.

But even cloaked in filth, his striking features could not be hidden. His symmetrical face, with its strong jawline and high cheekbones, still carried an air of nobility. His piercing blue eyes—like shards of ice—shone through the dirt, their intensity undiminished. They held a cold, calculating edge that seemed almost unnatural in their precision. His tall, commanding frame, standing at 1.91 meters, added to his imposing presence. The rough clothing hung awkwardly on his athletic build, unable to mask the sheer perfection of his form.

He tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk touching his lips. Even in this degraded state, he radiated an aura of authority and control. There was no denying it—he looked out of place. Regal, almost divine, and utterly foreign to this time.

The dirt and simple clothing would serve as a temporary guise, enough to pass as a traveler or perhaps a soldier fallen on hard times. It was a crude solution, but it would suffice until he could move unnoticed in this new world.

He stepped back from the barrel and surveyed the room once more. His transformation was complete, but his work had just begun.

With his preparations complete, Heimrich opened the wooden door of the cabin, stepping out into the crisp morning air. The surrounding forest was dense and quiet, the towering trees casting long shadows across the clearing. The scent of pine mingled with a faint, sharp tang of iron and blood that lingered in the air. Heimrich scanned his surroundings, taking note of the cabin's isolation. There were no signs of activity—no footprints, no paths worn by regular travel. It appeared the cabin's occupant lived alone.

He walked toward the edge of the clearing, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. His sharp gaze swept across the forest, searching for anything that might provide insight into his current location or the fate of the cabin's owner. As he approached a thicket near the tree line, the faint metallic scent grew stronger, carried on a cool snowy breeze. Heimrich followed the trail of the scent, his analytical mind already formulating possibilities.

Pushing through the undergrowth, he came upon a grisly sight. The remains of a man lay sprawled across the forest floor, torn and mangled beyond recognition. Blood stained the ground in dark patches, the surrounding foliage flattened and broken as though a struggle had taken place. The wounds on the body were deep and jagged, consistent with the attack of a large predator. Heimrich crouched beside the corpse, his sharp eyes methodically analyzing the scene like a forensic expert. 

The angle of the torn fabric suggested the man had been attacked from behind, dragged a few meters before succumbing. Bite marks on the exposed bone indicated wolves, though the spacing of the punctures hinted at a larger-than-average animal. Mud embedded under the victim's nails told a brief story of resistance—the man had clawed at the ground in his final moments. Nearby, faint scuffs in the soil revealed paw prints partially obscured by the previous night's frost.

Heimrich shifted his attention to the environment, his sharp gaze scanning the forest floor. The dense trees around him created a natural canopy, their towering forms casting deep shadows over the scene. Nearby, he noticed faint paw prints in the damp earth, their size and spacing consistent with wolves. The ground showed clear signs of a scuffle—upturned soil, broken branches, and streaks of dried blood leading toward a cluster of nearby bushes. In the distance, the terrain rose sharply, suggesting the presence of rocky hills or caves, likely a predator's den. 

He considered the evidence. The paw prints were fresh, as were the claw marks on the surrounding trees, and the damage to the man's remains suggested a coordinated attack. If this truly was a simple medieval world, the attackers were likely wolves. Yet, Heimrich could not entirely dismiss the possibility of more fantastical dangers lurking in this unfamiliar realm.

The man's clothing was rough but functional, similar to what Heimrich had found in the cabin. A thick woolen cloak, now shredded, lay tangled beneath the body. The victim's hands were calloused, his build robust, suggesting he had been accustomed to manual labor. Heimrich surmised that this must have been the cabin's owner—a woodcutter, most likely.

The body was fresh. The blood had barely begun to congeal, and the wounds showed no signs of decay. Heimrich estimated the death had occurred within the past one to two days. The cause was evident: wolves, or some other pack of predators, had attacked the man. Their tracks were faintly visible in the disturbed soil around the clearing.

Heimrich stood, brushing dirt from his hands. As he considered the situation, a thought struck him: whoever this medieval middle aged man was, he must have had connections. In an age like this, survival alone was nearly impossible. Family, friends, or perhaps colleagues would surely notice his absence and come searching for him sooner or later. 

Just as this thought crossed his mind, he froze. "Speaking of the devil," he muttered under his breath. His keen ears caught the faint sound of footsteps approaching from the forest. Three distinct voices carried through the trees, low but discernible. He couldn't see them yet, but the crunch of leaves and muted tones confirmed their presence. The first encounter was imminent, whether he was ready or not.