The bread was a rock.
Alistair—he clung to the name as a man overboard clings to a splinter of wood—turned the object over in his small, trembling hands. It was a dense, dark rye, baked to the consistency of petrified wood and smelling faintly of sawdust. In his old life, he would have called it an interesting artifact. Here, it was sustenance. A command: Eat.
He tried to bite it. The impact sent a painful shock through his jaw, and he tasted a small, coppery tang of blood from his gums. The bread was utterly unyielding. He considered its properties, analyzing it not as food, but as a problem. It was too hard to bite, too dense to tear. His mind, starved of abstract puzzles, latched onto this simple, physical one with ferocious intensity.
He looked around his small, dark space. There was nothing. Straw, dirt, wood. He crawled, the movement agonizingly slow, to a corner where moisture had collected, creating a small, murky puddle. He dipped a corner of the bread into the cold water. He waited, watching the liquid refuse to soak into the dense crumb. This was not going to work.
Frustration, a raw and unfamiliar emotion, flared in his chest. He was Dr. Alistair Finch. He had deconstructed the metaphysical arguments of dead geniuses. He would not be defeated by a piece of bread.
He found a loose stone near the wall, its edge slightly sharper than the rest. Holding the bread against the hard-packed earth, he brought the stone down, again and again, the dull thuds echoing in the confined space. It took nearly a minute before a small, jagged piece cracked off. He picked up the shard, his breathing shallow and rapid from the exertion, and placed it in his mouth. He didn't chew. He simply let it sit, his saliva slowly, painstakingly, softening the dense grain until it could be swallowed.
The process was long and methodical. Each small piece was a victory, a hard-won calorie that felt more significant than any academic accolade he had ever received. By the time he had consumed half of the hunk, the sliver of moonlight had vanished, and the darkness was complete. He saved the rest, tucking it into the folds of his rough-spun tunic with a primal sense of foresight he hadn't known he possessed. Then, exhaustion, absolute and profound, claimed him.
He was jolted awake by the screech of the wooden bar. The same hulking silhouette from the night before filled the doorway, bringing with him the gray, unforgiving light of dawn. The air was bitingly cold.
"Up," the man grunted.
Alistair's body refused. It was a machine whose gears had rusted solid overnight. The man clicked his tongue in annoyance, strode forward, and hauled him to his feet with a single, powerful hand. The world tilted violently. Alistair stumbled out of the small hut, his eyes watering against the sudden, bleak expanse of the world.
He stood in a large, muddy courtyard surrounded by a crude wooden palisade. A dozen other figures, all dressed in similar drab, patched tunics, were already moving about. They were mostly children and teenagers, their faces smudged with dirt, their movements weary and economical. They moved with a shared, joyless purpose, their shoulders slumped under a weight that wasn't entirely physical. This was a work camp.
The foreman pushed a wooden yoke across Alistair's shoulders. It was heavy and crudely carved, digging painfully into his collarbones. Two large, empty buckets dangled from either end.
"The river," the foreman pointed towards a break in the palisade. "Full. No spilling. Go."
The walk was a study in misery. The path was uneven, and his bare feet, soft and uncalloused, protested against every sharp stone and twig. The yoke, even without the weight of water, was a constant, oppressive burden. He saw other children on the same path, their small frames already accustomed to the load, their faces blank and resigned.
Reaching the river, a fast-moving slate of gray water under a white sky, he struggled to fill the buckets. The current was strong, and the cold water that splashed onto his legs and tunic made him gasp. The journey back was a new dimension of suffering. The weight was staggering. Each step was a precarious, trembling negotiation with gravity. His mind, which had once soared through realms of pure thought, was now reduced to a single, desperate mantra: Left foot. Right foot. Don't fall.
He fell.
The yoke twisted, one bucket slamming into the muddy path and disgorging half its contents. The jolt sent him sprawling to his knees. Pain shot through his shoulder. For a moment, he simply stayed there, the cold mud seeping through his trousers, the world a blur of failure.
A small sound made him look up. A girl, perhaps a year or two younger than his new body, had stopped beside him. She had a placid, round face and eyes that held no judgment, only a deep, abiding weariness. Without a word, she knelt, righted his spilled bucket, and then adjusted the yoke on his back, shifting it slightly so the weight settled more evenly.
She pointed to his hands. "Hold here," she whispered, her voice raspy, as she guided his grip to a point closer to the central beam. "It balances."
He nodded, unable to speak. The simple act of kindness, of shared practical knowledge, was more startling than the foreman's cruelty. She gave him a final, fleeting look before continuing on her own way, her steps slow but steady.
He struggled back to his feet, adjusted his grip as she had shown him, and lifted. The load was still heavy, but the girl was right. It was balanced. Manageable.
He made it back to the courtyard, his legs trembling uncontrollably, and poured the remaining water into a large cistern. He was turning to go back for another load when the foreman's booming voice stopped him. The man's eyes were narrowed, fixed on the half-empty bucket.
"You useless wretch! That's not a full load!" the man roared, striding towards him. Alistair flinched, bracing for a blow. "Look at you, weak as a newborn kitten! If you spill the water again, you'll get no dinner tonight, you hear me?"
The man jabbed a thick finger into his chest.
"Answer me, Jin-Hyeok!"
The name struck him with the force of a physical blow. It was alien, yet it landed with the undeniable weight of truth. It wasn't a suggestion or an insult. It was his designation. His label. The final nail in the coffin of a dead man from another world.
He stood there, the empty yoke pressing down on his shoulders, the cold morning air stinging his lungs. The foreman was still yelling, but the words were a distant buzz. All Alistair could hear was that name, echoing in the ruins of his mind.
Alistair Finch had been a prodigy, a seeker of the Logos.
Jin-Hyeok was trash who couldn't carry a bucket of water.