Life in this new body was a strange prison.
I was helpless, unable to walk or speak, but my mind—the mind of Jake Allan—remained awake, restless. I carried the memories of my old world into this one, and though I wore the skin of an infant, I saw things with the weary eyes of someone who had already lived and died once before.
We were commoners. It didn't take long to understand that.
Our house was small—modest wooden walls patched carefully, smoke curling from a single chimney. To anyone else, it might have seemed humble, even quaint. To me, it screamed poverty. There was no glass in the windows, only shutters. The floorboards creaked, uneven from years of wear. Our field stretched modestly around the house, just enough land to survive on, but never enough to thrive.
I had studied history back in my first life. Feudal systems, social hierarchies—how the gap between the powerful and the powerless was carved into law and tradition. Here, I didn't just read about it. I lived it. Nobles and royals stood at the top, cloaked in authority and wealth. Commoners like my new family? We weren't considered people. We were dirt.
I didn't have to wait long to see proof of that.
The memory still sears itself into me.
It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low, casting a golden haze across the fields. My sister, Lila, sat with me just outside our house. She was only a few years older than this body, but already she had taken on the role of my protector. She busied herself stacking little stones, creating towers for my clumsy baby hands to knock over.
"Look, Xavier," she whispered, placing another stone carefully. Her small hands trembled slightly, though I didn't notice it then. She forced a smile each time I toppled her little structure, laughing as though nothing in the world could ever hurt us.
But her eyes kept drifting to the field.
I followed her gaze. My father—Brian—worked the soil, his back bent, hands raw and calloused. I had seen men work hard before in my past life, but this… this was different. His body carried the memory of toil in every muscle. Each swing of his hoe was heavy, deliberate, as though he had been born to labor and would die laboring.
The ground shook faintly. A rumbling noise carried through the air.
Wheels. Hooves.
I knew that sound. My mind conjured images instantly. Carriage.
Carriages weren't foreign to me; I had studied them in history, seen them in period dramas. But this one—this one wasn't a relic of the past. It was alive with wealth and power. Its polished black wood gleamed as though freshly painted. Silver trim caught the sun like fire. Horses, strong and sleek, pulled it with the precision of soldiers. This wasn't transportation. This was a declaration.
It rolled to a stop at the edge of our field.
The door opened.
A man stepped out.
Even from a distance, I felt the difference. He wore wealth like armor—clothing stitched from velvet and silk, a long coat trimmed in gold, polished boots that never touched dirt unless he willed it. Rings adorned his fingers, each one glittering like a shard of sunlight. His presence didn't just fill the field—it claimed it.
He spoke. His voice was muffled by distance, but I didn't need to hear the words to understand the tone. Authority. Arrogance. The kind of voice that didn't request—it demanded.
Father straightened, wiping sweat from his brow, his shoulders tense. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of submission, and murmured a reply. His tone was calm, deferential.
The noble's expression shifted, and then—without warning—he struck.
A fist connected with Father's jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt he had just tilled.
I froze. My small body couldn't react, but inside, Jake screamed. My hands, uselessly tiny, clenched into fists.
The noble kicked him again, a sharp blow to the stomach, then another to the ribs. Father didn't fight back. He curled into himself, shielding his body with his arms, taking the punishment in silence.
Why? Why doesn't he resist?
Lila's body stiffened beside me. She pulled me into her arms, pressing my face into her shoulder, whispering words I couldn't understand in her trembling voice. She didn't want me to see. She didn't want me to know.
But I did see.
Through strands of her hair, I caught glimpses of Father collapsing beneath each blow. The noble's hand swung down like a hammer, his boot driving Father deeper into the soil.
The carriage waited patiently, horses pawing at the ground as if this violence was routine.
It was.
The noble spat a final string of words—disgust curling his lips—before climbing back into the carriage. The door shut. The wheels turned. The carriage rolled away, leaving only silence behind.
Silence, except for Father's ragged breathing.
The door to our house burst open.
Mother ran out, skirts clenched in her fists, her face pale but her eyes burning with something sharp. She scooped me and Lila into her arms, turning us away from the field.
Her jaw was tight. Her mouth pressed thin. She wasn't surprised.
She had seen this before.
She carried us inside, setting us down carefully. Her hands shook, but her voice forced cheer as she whispered, "Let's play, hm?"
Lila nodded quickly, as though understanding her role. She grabbed a clay bowl and a handful of small pebbles. "Look, Xavier," she said, forcing brightness into her tone. She tossed a pebble into the bowl. Clink. The sound was light, harmless, almost musical. She handed me another pebble, guiding my tiny fingers to drop it in. Clink.
Mother sat with us, adding her own laugh—strained, brittle, but trying. Trying so hard.
We played like that for a while, though my mind kept drifting back to the image of Father crumpled in the dirt.
Is this normal? I asked myself. Is this what life means in this world? For commoners to be beaten like animals, powerless to resist?
The door creaked open again.
Father entered, limping. His face was bruised, his lip split, one eye swelling shut. He tried to straighten his back, but the effort only made his limp more obvious.
"Brian…" Mother whispered, rushing to him.
She raised her hands, hovering them just above his chest. And then it happened.
Green light.
It spilled from her fingers, soft and radiant, wrapping around Father's body like silk. The air hummed faintly, vibrating in my chest. The bruises faded, the blood dried, the swelling eased as though the wounds had never been.
Magic.
The word slammed into my mind like a thunderclap.
This world… has magic.
I had read fantasy novels, watched anime, played games where magic was a casual truth. But to see it with my own eyes—to feel the warmth of its glow wash across my skin—it was different. It was real.
My chest tightened. If such wonders existed in this world, then so too did horrors I couldn't yet imagine.
Mother lowered her hands, exhausted, but her smile softened at the sight of Father standing straighter.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something quiet, something only for her. Then he limped toward us.
He knelt, wincing as he lowered himself. His arms gathered me and Lila close, pulling us into the solid warmth of his chest.
"I'm alright," he whispered. His voice was steady, though his body still trembled faintly. "I'm alright."
Lila bit her lip, her eyes wet, but she didn't cry. She buried her face against him, holding it in, holding herself together.
I pressed my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
He was lying. He wasn't alright. None of us were.
But for that moment, wrapped in his arms, I almost believed him.
Almost.
That day, I learned the truth of this world.
The strong ruled. The weak obeyed. Nobles crushed commoners like insects, and the world allowed it.
But I also learned something else.
Even broken, even beaten, my father chose love over hate.
And deep inside this fragile body, I swore—
If this was the way of the world, then I would rise.
No matter the cost.