Historical Accuracy Demon, Heading to the Holy Land

"No way, are you all history noobs? What the hell is full plate armor doing in the 12th century?!"

In the cramped forge, amid the humming electricity—more precisely, the noise and heat of the resistance furnace—my voice boomed out on its own. And what had instantly seized my attention on the monitor was a still from a fantasy drama in production.

My fingers, moving on autopilot, hammered out a post as effortlessly as pulling it from a mold, following a familiar template. The gallery's resident ghosts piled on with their replies.

The comment section was already a warzone. Someone dropped a "just enjoy the drama for what it is" line—the kind of brain-dead "game-enjoyer" nonsense that screams paid shill in the Historical Accuracy Gallery. The moment it appeared, I fired back to obliterate the poster's intent to dilute the thread.

It might seem weird. Why waste energy on something unproductive? But keyboard battles—kibae—were one of my joys in life.

"Hoo... what a bunch of idiots..."

Like a machine churning out rebuttals, I silenced them all, then drew in a deep breath. Before I knew it, I'd lit a cigarette dangling from my lips. With my other trembling hand, I chugged the cold coffee.

It wasn't just anger at my knowledge being dismissed. This was blasphemy. Disrespect to the era's progress, to the steelworkers and historians who'd built survival and advancement through their legacy. A vile mockery.

I glanced at my prized sword on the display shelf nearby. The practice longsword I'd measured myself against a real 15th-century artifact, drafted blueprints for, cast and polished at the perfect temps. A Feder schwert. My cherished companion from rolling with the Western Swordsmanship Federation, infused with the essence of classical fencing I'd internalized through my body.

After wrecking my breath with smokes and coffee, I turned back to the monitor. A reply notification flickered at the edge of my vision. I clicked it, landing on the thread of my latest kibae victim.

"What the—new troll tactic?"

Schrödinger's gallery troll. Can't tell if shitpost till you poke it.

But the truth came quick.

"This bastard?"

I was convinced. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Weird troll, and that last line slammed my pride head-on.

Exhaling smoke, I hammered the keys furiously.

I mashed enter with pent-up rage. If I'd known what it would unleash, I'd have ignored it. But I summoned my own disaster.

Post-cig-and-coffee rage-vent, my vision warped strangely. Then my eyes locked on that troll's IP in the monitor.

Anon(211.999)

'Wait... IPv4 doesn't go past 255...?'

It didn't make sense. 999? No DCInside or anywhere has a second octet like that.

That's when I realized my mistake.

And a sinister, fishy chuckle echoed in my ears.

"Ah, shi—...!"

My last curse cut off as I fell.

*****

"Cough! Gah, hack!"

Impacts hammered my back, sand gritted between my teeth. Dizzy, I opened my eyes to a golden plain stretching to the horizon. And the blazing sun.

Not Korea's muggy summer—this was raw, skin-scorching solar fury.

"Haa... ha... what? A dream?"

Stumbling up, I scanned the alien scene: crude stone houses, distant massive walls, horses whinnying along paths.

Seemed dreamlike—until something worse hit me.

"Uh...?"

My gaze fixed on a stall at the village entrance. A mercenary-type in ragged gear whetted a rusty, blunt sword on a grindstone.

That convinced me: this was real. My dreams wouldn't tolerate such abominations; their very wrongness proved reality.

"Wh-what the hell is that... ha, haha."

A hollow laugh escaped. That "sword"? Barely fit for scrap. Wrong for desert climes, crudely made. Edge butchered from endless sharpening, lost its curve; fuller asymmetrical and worn. Worst: the material. With bronze-age to modern steel knowledge in my head, it screamed impurities, trapped slag—brittle junk ready to snap. How it survived sharpening at all? Unfathomable trash-tier blade.

Body moving before brain, ignoring danger, I charged.

"Hey, you! Yeah, you sharpening that thing!"

Some implanted language rolled off my tongue unbidden. Heart led over head.

The grinder looked up with hollow eyes.

"What're you, some infidel-looking freak?"

"Infidel ain't the issue! You trusting that sword in a fight? One clash and it'll shatter like glass!"

"Crazy bastard... wanna die?"

He rose threateningly but glanced at his barely-used weapon with pathetic resignation.

Following his gaze, past his ugly mug to his chainmail—mail—in a wretched state. Links sloppy, rivets botched, rings gaping.

"You'll die first! Look at that armor—connections crap, rivets half-assed, rings popping open! What's the point of wearing uncomfortable junk like that? No different from naked! Who's the smith who made this? Or the merchant who sold it? Either way, lemme see that hack's face! This is accessory to murder!"

"Y-you...!"

As he stammered, my occupational fury boiled over. Eyes darted around.

Camels hauling loads under thirst, saddles poorly woven and crooked—zero load distribution, crushing spines live. Collapse means crushed goods and riders.

Up to the low village walls: a siege ballista, but to me, "giant kindling." String too stiff for tension, mangonel frame rusted beyond function.

Not heaven for smiths—this was hell.

And the rising discomfort made me snap.

"Shit... damn it...! Why suffer in this dump?!"

Kicking sand in frenzy, the merc now eyed me with fear over anger. "Madman, total psycho..." he muttered, grabbing his junk blade and backing off.

But my fit faded fast. Scorching sun? Or recalling that creepy laugh pre-drop?

Rage cooled to ice; priorities clarified.

"...Fine, you son of a— I get it."

Gasping, I swept back my messy hair. Rage to understanding, to twisted acceptance.

(211.999), that prick threw my gallery boast back at me. "No craftsman blames tools. Knowledge opens Iron Age from Stone."

Not grateful for the "upgrade," but better than worse. Lucky, even.

"Prove it, huh? Fine. I'll show what I can do in this junk-ruled era."

I glared at a shabby tent in the village corner, thin black smoke rising. The sole forge, doubtlessly hammering out "suicide scrap" sans metal grain knowledge.

Muttering to empty air:

"Watch close, you bastard... I'll return. And make you admit it's perfect."

Swept by colossal will, home and forge lost, barbaric era ahead—no worry for future. Only mad drive to prove it.

Historical Accuracy Demon Han Jinwoo. On the scorching sands of 12th-century Levant, he took his first step to validate his words.