Vandren.
A world unbent by science.
Here, the sun rules the seasons like an ancient, capricious king.Rain falls not by prediction, but by prayer.The people live off the land, the rivers, and their sweat.Few question. Even fewer understand.There are no schools, no machines, no science—only tradition.
When I awoke here, there was no voice calling my name.No gods, no destiny, no chosen one waiting.Only the damp smell of straw, the morning cold, and the faint light slipping through crude gaps in the thatched roof.
I was a boy.Confused.Carrying the weight of another life that no longer fit into this one.
My parents... my wife...All of it left behind, unreachable.
And so my story began in Vandren.Not as a hero.Not as a noble.But simply as Torren.
The first sound I heard was the gentle creak of wind pressing against wooden walls.Then came the distant clucking of chickens and the rhythmic chopping of wood somewhere nearby.
The air was cold, thick with the scents of damp straw, aged timber, and wet earth.I opened my eyes with effort and stared at the ceiling above me.Rough beams, irregular and cracked, supported a messy weave of straw, letting in thin streaks of golden light.
This was not my room.There were no machines humming softly.No glass windows.No polished floors or painted walls.Nothing I recognized.
A strange weight pressed on my chest as I forced myself upright.The crude mattress of straw creaked beneath me.My mind was fogged, caught between what I remembered and what I saw.
Then, the memories surged—Fragments at first.Disjointed, raw.But painfully clear.
My old world.
The screeching tires.My wife's scream.The blinding headlights.The sharp crack of the crash.The seatbelt crushing my chest.The silence that followed.
I remembered her face.My parents.My routine.The years of labor—metalwork, carpentry, markets, construction.My college years, studying business management more for survival than passion.A simple life, but one that was mine.
And now—Here.In this young, fragile body.Far too young.
I exhaled deeply. The cold air stung my lungs.My fingers trembled. My arms felt thinner than they should.My face, smooth and unfamiliar.No beard.No callouses.I was... perhaps twelve years old.
That's when my new memories started to surface.Not all at once—but like slowly opening doors in a strange house.Each door revealed faces, names, feelings.
Erwin.My father—here.The smell of sweat and wood after his hunts, the deep chuckle after a long day's work, the firm but gentle hand on my shoulder as he taught me to split logs.
Mara.My mother.The warm scent of fresh bread, the sound of her humming while she wove baskets, her comforting voice as she sat by my bed on cold nights.
Lina.My younger sister.Her laughter as she chased chickens, the mischievous games we played, her wide curious eyes during late-night stories.
They weren't distant recollections—they were vivid, living inside me.They were part of me now.
And yet, the discomfort lingered beneath it all.As if I were occupying a space that once belonged to someone else.An intruder learning how to become its rightful owner.
The door creaked open.
Erwin stepped inside.Tall, broad-shouldered, his face worn by years of labor.His brown eyes softened with relief as they met mine.
"Finally awake, Torren," he said with a faint smile.
There was a brief pause.My mind instinctively searched through these new memories again—images of him guiding my hands, teaching me with patience.His voice was familiar now, but my answer came just a second late.
"Yes... I'm awake," I replied.
Behind him came Mara, carrying a steaming bowl.The warm aroma of porridge filled the small room.Her brown hair was tied back simply, and her gentle smile eased the heaviness inside me.
"I made something light. You should eat."
Again, my mind opened doors.I saw her humming while kneading dough, scolding me playfully for skipping chores, her quiet laughter on bright mornings.
"Thank you, mother," I answered, more naturally this time, though the lump in my throat remained.
Then came Lina, peeking from behind both of them.Her big brown eyes studied me with unusual focus.
"You're acting weird today, brother."
The innocence in her voice cut through me.I smiled and gently ruffled her hair.
"Just a little dizzy. It'll pass soon."
She accepted my answer without question and smiled brightly.
After breakfast, Erwin helped me up.My legs wobbled slightly, but I found my balance.The wooden floor beneath my bare feet felt cold and solid—like I was finally grounding myself into this life.
I opened the door.
Morning light poured in, bathing the small home.The clear sky above, the packed dirt of the village square, the well at its center surrounded by humble homes of straw and clay.Women carried baskets.Men stacked firewood.Children chased chickens with laughter ringing through the air.
The scent of burning wood, fresh bread, and damp earth filled my lungs.The village was simple.Rough.Alive.
This was my home now.This was Vandren.
I wasn't a prince.I wasn't a hero.I wasn't chosen.But I was here.Alive.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the morning sun warm my face.And though the weight inside hadn't fully lifted, I made my decision.
From here, I would begin again.