No Name, No Clothes, No Clue
A man wakes up in a dark, breathing forest with no memories, no name, and no clothes — only dirt in his mouth and the absolute certainty that this is not his world.
What follows is survival by accident and sheer dumb luck, stealing a chicken that turns out to be a fire-tempered devil woman, nearly dying from a single bite of glowing poison fruit, and earning the sarcastic nickname “Chickenman” from a plague-masked alchemist who seems to collect broken people like stray cats.
Soon he’s tangled up with Inferna (explosive, prideful, emotionally constipated), a beautiful, melancholic traveler who never laughs at the ridiculous name, and the grumpy healer who grudgingly keeps them all from burning down his crooked clinic in the woods.
But the outside world refuses to stay outside.
A zealous military order in white surcoats squeezes villages for tribute, burns those who refuse, and hunts anything that smells of “devil.” Roads are taxed by robbers, executions double as public theater, and local lords send garrisons that feel more like occupations than protection.
Through market mishaps, clumsy sword lessons, tavern nights, and fights that end in vomit rather than glory, Chickenman slowly stops being just the guy who dies from fruit.
He’s still incompetent, still terrified, still hilariously out of his depth but he’s not alone anymore.
No system. No cheats. No instant power fantasy.
Just four mismatched idiots on a rattling wagon, carrying debts, secrets, guilt, and one very important emerald, trying to stay alive in a world that doesn’t particularly care if they do.
A low-fantasy road story about found family, unglamorous survival, and the small kindnesses that keep people from breaking.