Ah, This Is Called Soap
A real man could never pass up playing a barbarian warrior. It was an idiotic notion, perhaps, but to some, an eternal, immutable truth.
I should've just picked a different class.
Ivan sincerely loathed the past version of himself that had clung to such absurd conviction.
Transmigration, regression, reincarnation—the holy trinity of web novel tropes, clichés known to every avid reader. Looking back at his own predicament, having hit the jackpot by transmigrating into another world, he could only let out a hollow, incredulous laugh.
Come to think of it, he distinctly remembered snickering at fictional protagonists who wound up inside mercilessly difficult games, suffering through every manner of torment. If they'd just played casual games, they could've coasted through their new life for free, he had thought.
Only after being thrown into the exact same situation did he feel, right down to the marrow of his bones, just how moronic that thought had been.
Because how could he have known?! How was he supposed to know he'd actually get shoved into a damn game?! Would he have played it if he'd known?!
If he had known this would happen, he would have spent his days playing dating sims instead of hardcore RPGs.
Regret arrived too late, and spilled water could never be gathered back into the cup. Still, it wasn't entirely bad. Looking on the bright side, he had essentially been granted a second lease on life. No matter how harrowing the road ahead might be, it was a hundred times better than dying a meaningless death under the wheels of an eight-ton truck.
Besides, there was one more thing: Ivan actually liked his new body quite a bit.
A ruggedly handsome face, a towering height well over a hundred and ninety centimeters, and above all, slabs of dense muscle packed across his entire frame. The physique of his previous life—which had been decent enough for an ordinary person—paled in pathetic comparison to the vessel he now inhabited.
In the middle of those idle musings, Ivan's mood suddenly sank a notch. He had just remembered his personal trainer.
That guy probably thinks I died because of him.
He had an eccentric streak, sure, but he was a genuinely good man. Hopefully, he wouldn't torture himself too much over it. Hopefully, he wouldn't drown in unwarranted guilt and do something rash.
What crime was there in passionately pushing a client through a workout? Frankly speaking, if anyone was at fault, it was that son of a bitch driving the eight-ton truck. Just thinking about it pissed him off again. Who the fuck drives like that...?
Ivan took a slow, deep breath to rein in his fury. Dwell on the past, and you gained nothing. Especially right now.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Ivan looked toward the barbarian warrior who, just moments ago, had nearly squeezed him to death in a bear hug.
"So... you truly remember nothing?"
"...Yes. I'm truly sorry."
When Ivan couldn't even meet his gaze properly, Havel looked visibly rattled.
"Come now, there's no need to be so formal with me. What in the world are brothers doing acting like strangers?"
Ivan carefully scanned Havel up and down. Aside from the sheer, monstrous mass of muscle on their frames, it was startlingly difficult to spot a single resemblance between them.
"Uh, to call us brothers... we don't really look alike, do we?"
Havel blinked blankly as if whacked over the back of the head with a hammer, then burst into mad laughter.
"Ah, well, it's true we didn't come from the same womb."
"Then...?"
"What does that matter? What matters is that we are brothers bound by a friendship thicker than blood, is it not?"
So we're sworn brothers. Ivan gave a vague nod.
True to his words, the warmth in Havel's eyes radiated a bond deeper than that of blood kin. On the receiving end, it felt slightly overwhelming. Ivan briefly imagined what would happen if the man before him discovered he was an imposter who had possessed his sworn brother's body. By his estimate, getting run over by an eight-ton truck would probably feel like a peaceful death in comparison.
If he finds out, I'm fucked.
Ivan etched into the depths of his heart that he now possessed a secret that must follow him to his grave. Furthermore, to prevent anyone from uncovering his true identity, he needed to know how the original owner of this body had lived.
Ivan smoothly dropped the honorifics.
"Then can you explain what kind of person I was before I lost my memory?"
Havel hesitated for a moment before parting his lips.
"Aye. It's not something that can be hidden anyway. Ivan, you have no parents. You were abandoned in the forest, and the tribesmen happened to find you."
Havel paused, cautiously gauging his reaction. Surprisingly, Ivan seemed utterly unfazed.
"Well, I figured as much. If my parents were alive, there's no way they wouldn't have shown their faces in a situation like this, right?"
"Now that you mention it... that is true."
Ivan felt no sorrow over being an orphan. Having parents would only make things awkward to navigate, and it would drastically raise the chances of his identity being exposed.
Not bad. In fact, it's better this way.
He was even immune to 'yo mama' insults. No matter how he sliced it, this was pure profit.
"...Ivan, are you smiling right now?"
Ivan wiped the grin off his face in an instant.
"How could you say something so terrible?!"
"No, I didn't mean it like that...! Forgive me! My eyes must have played tricks on me!!"
Realizing the gravity of what he had implied, Havel freaked out and practically slammed his forehead to the ground.
"As long as you know you were wrong. Be more careful next time."
Ivan covered his mouth and chuckled softly. This was turning out to be far more amusing than he'd expected.
Having narrowly avoided tumbling into the abyss over a slip of the tongue, Havel hurriedly changed the subject.
"Ah, right! Ivan, you were an exceptional warrior."
"Me?"
"You had virtually no match among your peers. I still remember how you went around beating the daylights out of anyone who picked a fight over you being an orphan."
His physical stats are no joke, that's for sure. It didn't sound like mere flattery to cheer him up. Havel proudly recounted Ivan's past exploits as if they were his own triumphs.
As Ivan listened with mild amusement to the tale, which was clearly spiced with a healthy dose of exaggeration, an abrupt wave of disgust washed over him.
"Back then, when you felled that giant boar in a single breath—"
"Wait a second. Now isn't the time for stories. There's a far more important issue at hand."
Ivan's expression turned dead serious.
The abrupt shift put Havel on edge. What kind of critical problem could it be? Amid the suddenly tense atmosphere, Ivan asked with utmost solemnity:
"Havel... when was the last time you washed?"
Havel blinked. Only after several seconds did he finally register that Ivan wasn't joking.
"Well... I've never bothered counting, so I wouldn't know. Warriors don't concern themselves with such trifles."
"...What?"
Hearing that, Ivan didn't just stare at Havel as if he were an incomprehensible monster—he physically recoiled and backed away.
Havel looked slightly wounded.
"I don't know why you look so shocked. It's not as though you washed either."
That blunt retort left Ivan utterly appalled.
"Nonsense! As if I would do something so barbaric—"
Midway through his righteous outrage at this vile slander, Ivan caught a whiff of the rancid stench wafting up from his own body. It was no different from Havel's—in fact, having been bedridden with severe illness, the foul odor clinging to him was arguably even worse.
How humiliating. Feeling his dignity as a civilized human being ground into dust, Ivan lowered his head. Seeing him like that, Havel chuckled in genuine amusement.
"I never thought I'd see you make such a dazed face. Losing your memories might not be entirely a bad thing after all."
Ivan barely suppressed the murderous urge that only true brothers could evoke in each other. Honestly, he also figured he'd probably lose in a fistfight.
"...I need to wash. Can you lend me some soap or something?"
"Hm? What is 'soap'?"
"..."
Ivan realized anew that the civilization of these barbarians was filthy and backward beyond his wildest imagination. But it was too early to despair. Any seasoned web novel reader worth their salt had memorized how to craft soap precisely for scenarios like this.
As long as he was provided with enough time and raw ingredients, Ivan was confident he could whip up a crude bar of soap. The problem was the risk of exposing his identity, but for the sake of soap, he was more than willing to take that gamble. He could compromise on anything else, but not this. If a person couldn't even wash properly, were they even human? They were just beasts.
"Havel, I have a favor to ask. Could you fetch me some fat and lye?"
"That's easy enough, but why would you need... No, never mind. If you're asking, you must have a plan. Wait here."
Havel asked no further questions and brought back a generous supply of ingredients. Ivan was genuinely grateful for his sworn brother's generosity. And while he was at it, he hoped Havel would be just as forgiving of whatever happened next.
After several bouts of trial and error, Ivan finally succeeded in crafting soap. He shared this monumental achievement first with his brother—the greatest contributor who had aided in an invention destined to echo through the history of this other world.
"Is this... that 'soap' thing?"
"Yeah. Amazing, isn't it?"
Havel stared down at the soap in silence. In those eyes, Ivan clearly read vigilance and deep-seated suspicion. Naturally, it was obvious things wouldn't resolve so smoothly.
I think I'm fucked... Did I rush it after all?
Ivan seriously contemplated whether this was the moment he should bite off his own tongue.
And then, Havel did the exact opposite of what he had braced for. Havel wet his hands with water, slowly rubbed the soap between them, rinsed the lather away, and stared in awe at his clean, grime-free palms.
"Ivan, you were right! This is truly an incredible thing!"
Ivan couldn't tell whether Havel genuinely believed that or was simply trying to save his friend's face. Yet he knew there was no real need to distinguish between the two.
Still, Havel's real brother was already dead, and he was nothing more than an uninvited squatter occupying an empty shell. Reminded of that cold reality, Ivan offered a bittersweet smile.
"Others will probably recognize its value too. Even if it takes time..."
Knock, knock. A steady rapping echoed against the door.
"May I intrude for a moment?"
The owner of the voice shoved the door open before anyone could answer. In Ivan's eyes, it was an exceedingly rude gesture.
"What bastard...?"
Thoroughly displeased, Ivan was about to unleash a barrage of curses when his eyes locked with the person who had stepped inside. To his astonishment, it was a face he recognized.
"Oh my, forgive me. My eagerness got the better of me, and I overstepped."
The High Priest chuckled benignly, playing the part of a genial old man.
"Word reached my ears that you had shut yourself away to craft something extraordinary, and I simply couldn't contain my curiosity. Would it be acceptable if I took a look?"
Ivan and Havel exchanged a covert glance.
A foul premonition crept up on Ivan, but trying to hide it now would only invite deeper suspicion. Surely nothing catastrophic could come of this. It was just a bar of soap, after all. What kind of disaster could making soap possibly provoke?
Ivan placed the soap onto the High Priest's palm.
"Yes. This is called 'soap.' It's slippery, so be careful."
"Oho, the texture is quite peculiar. Where did you ever find such—"
As the High Priest squeezed the bar resting on his palm, the natural laws of physics took over, and the slick object tried to squirt free from his grip.
"Whoa? What in the world—"
Flustered, the High Priest clenched his fingers with sudden, frantic force.
At that, the slick bar shot out of his grip at blistering speed—and struck him dead center on the bridge of his nose.
Drip, drip. Crimson blood flowed without pause from the decrepit, unsightly nostrils. Ivan felt the distinct sensation of things going horribly, inextricably sideways.
"W-What is this wicked abomination?!!"
Right on cue, the High Priest—his face flushed furious red—bellowed in outrage.