The day began like any other.
The sun rose slow and heavy, spilling gold across the horizon. The fields swayed gently as a soft breeze stirred the stalks of grain. From the cradle of my mother's arms, I watched the rhythm of it, the ordinary calm of our little life. My sister, Lila, hummed to herself as she tried to braid the coarse threads of grass into something that resembled a crown, her tongue poking out with childish concentration. My father sat by the table, repairing the worn handle of a hoe, his fingers rough but careful. Mother rocked me softly, reading from a thin book in her gentle voice, filling the air with a story of kings and heroes.
Peace. That's what it was. Fragile, but real.
And then—
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The door rattled under the weight of fists that were not knocking but demanding, threatening.
The sound cut the air like a blade. My mother stiffened instantly, her arms tightening around me. Lila's humming broke into silence, the strands of her grass crown scattering across the floor. My father froze mid-motion, the tool slipping from his hand. He breathed in, slow and steady, as though trying to anchor himself against something inevitable.
I didn't need anyone to tell me who it was.
Even as a six-month-old, trapped in a body that could not walk or speak, my reincarnated mind knew. The arrogant shadow I had seen in the fields before, the figure whose whip had struck my father's body without mercy—there was no mistaking it.
Lord Philips.
My father stood, every movement deliberate. His shoulders rolled once, tense, before he crossed to the door and pulled it open.
Light burst into the dim house, framing the figure who stood beyond.
Philips was dressed not for work but for display. His coat was a rich crimson, trimmed with golden thread that caught the sunlight with every subtle motion. His boots were polished so sharply that the dust dared not cling to them. His face was angled, handsome perhaps, but marred by the permanent twist of disdain at the corners of his lips. He looked not at my father as a man, but as one might regard an insect—something beneath notice, to be tolerated only as long as it obeyed.
Two guards flanked him, armored in steel polished with the kind of care that no farmer could give his tools. Their spears gleamed. Their eyes, however, were dull; men who had surrendered conscience long ago.
"Brian," Philips drawled, his voice smooth with mockery, every syllable dripping arrogance. "It's that time again. Taxes."
My father dipped his head slightly. "Yes, Lord Philips."
Philips stepped inside without waiting for permission, his boots striking the floorboards with sharp, deliberate rhythm. He surveyed the small house as though its very existence offended him. His gaze skimmed over my mother, lingered, then returned to my father with faint disgust.
"Let's tally this properly, shall we?" he said lazily, lifting a gloved hand to count on his fingers. "Land tax. Farming tax. Protection tax for the guards I so generously leave to watch this charming corner of dirt. That brings us to…" His fingers twitched, one by one, before he smirked. "Five silver coins."
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at those words.
Five silver. For a farmer, it was an absurd sum. Even I, a baby with the mind of a seventeen-year-old from another world, understood the cruelty of it. A single silver coin was worth ten copper, and copper itself was the sweat and blood of weeks. Five silver was robbery dressed as law.
My father's hand moved slowly to his pocket. The faint jingle of metal echoed in the silence, and he withdrew his hand to place the coins on the table.
Three silver coins.
They clinked together, their shine a poor reflection of what was demanded.
Philips's eyes fell to them. He let the silence stretch, his lips curling slowly upward.
"Three?" he said softly. His tone was amused, but the edge beneath it was sharp, dangerous. "Three, when I asked for five? Tell me, Brian—are you deaf, or merely stupid?"
My father bowed his head further, his hands tightening at his sides. "My lord… the harvest was poor. The rains were scarce. This is all I could gather."
"The rains." Philips's laugh cut through the room, hollow and cruel. He leaned closer, his sneer widening. "The rains do not pay taxes. You do."
He turned suddenly, his eyes landing on my mother. His smirk deepened. "Perhaps, then, we should settle this… differently."
Mother's arms tightened around me. Lila's breath caught, her little fingers trembling as she gripped at her dress.
Philips stepped forward, his boots slow, deliberate. He reached out a hand, his gloved fingers stretching toward my mother's arm.
Something inside me ignited.
No.
But before the fire in my chest could become action, my father moved. His hand shot out, gripping Philips's wrist with a force that shocked even me.
"You will not touch her."
The words were steady, but I could hear the tremor of fury beneath them.
For the briefest of moments, silence reigned.
Then Philips's expression shattered. His eyes blazed with fury, his voice dropping to ice. "You dare. You dare lay hands on me?"
The guards moved instantly. Boots thundered against the floor. The first blow came swift—a fist to my father's face that cracked bone and sent him crashing to the ground. Another kick followed, striking his ribs, then another, and another.
Lila screamed. The sound tore through the house, raw and desperate. She tried to lunge forward, but my mother pulled her back, holding her tightly, shielding both of us. Tears spilled down Lila's cheeks, her face twisted in anguish, her small body trembling as though it might break.
I burned.
Every strike echoed in my head like a drumbeat. I wanted to move, to scream, to fight. But my body was useless, weak, small. I could only watch, my heart clawing against my ribs, the memory of my past life rushing back like a cruel tide.
The fists. The laughter. The helplessness. The rooftop. The jump.
I had run once before. I had let despair consume me.
But not this time.
Philips stepped over my father's broken body with disdain, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. He looked back at my mother, his eyes narrowing. "Three silver," he said coldly. "Pathetic."
He sneered, turning for the door. "Tomorrow. Five silver. Or I collect differently."
He gestured, and the guards followed him out. The door shut behind them, their boots fading into the distance.
Silence.
My father lay on the floor, his breathing ragged, blood trickling from his mouth. My mother knelt beside him at once, her hands glowing faint green as she poured magic into his broken body. Her face was pale, her jaw clenched, but her hands were steady.
Lila clung to her, sobbing quietly, her tears soaking into Mother's dress. She buried her face into my shoulder for a moment, her small fingers gripping me desperately, as if I alone could keep her world from shattering.
And me…
I burned with helpless rage.
I remembered the life I had left behind, the pain I had fled from, the death I had chosen. Back then, I had been powerless. Back then, I had chosen to end it all.
But here—now—I had a family. A father who endured, a mother who stood firm, a sister who clung to me as if I were her anchor.
This time, I would not run.
I swore it then, in the silence heavy with pain and fear.
I would become strong. Strong enough to stand against men like Philips. Strong enough to protect them. Strong enough to tear down the chains that bound commoners like insects beneath the boots of nobles.
I would not be powerless again.
Even if it meant blood. Even if it meant fire. Even if it meant becoming something this world could not bear.
I would protect them.
No matter the cost.