Warmth.
That's the first thing I notice. Not the acrid smoke of a burning trench, not the mechanical buzz of machines slicing through bone, not the suffocating darkness of an execution chamber. Just… warmth.
Something soft presses against my cheek. The faint scent of woodsmoke mixes with the sweetness of bread, and I hear the low creak of wood as the house breathes around me.
I blink once. Twice. Light spills through a small crack in the shutters, painting stripes across the floorboards.
I sit up slowly, and my world shatters.
The hand in front of me—tiny. Small fingers. The soft skin of a child. I stumble to the mirror leaned against the wall, its surface cracked but serviceable, and stare at the reflection staring back.
A boy. Brown hair, wide eyes, no more than five years old. The boy from the portal. The one whose life I'd seen before falling into this world.
My lips part. A laugh escapes, high-pitched and childish, but laced with something older. "So it wasn't a dream."
The sound feels alien, yet familiar. This is me now. My fourth life.
"Jay!"
The voice startles me. A woman's voice, warm, carrying playful scolding rather than anger. The door creaks open, and she enters—my mother now.
She's plain in the way only reality allows: hair tied back, flour-dusted apron, rough hands from labor. Yet there's kindness in her eyes, a steady warmth that feels more foreign to me than any battlefield.
"You're awake late again," she sighs, shaking her head with mock exasperation. "Come on, breakfast is ready."
For a moment, I freeze. Words catch in my throat. I've been many things in my past lives: soldier, prisoner, experiment. But never… son.
"...Right," I murmur, voice awkward. Then, softly: "Mom."
Her smile blooms, bright and genuine. Not brittle, not forced. And something inside me loosens, cracks open.
The kitchen is small but alive. A wooden table sits in the center, clay plates already set. The air smells of eggs, bread, and herbs. I sit down, legs swinging under the chair.
"Eat up," my mother urges.
I take a bite.
Gods.
I've eaten field rations, nutrient paste, even rat meat cooked over a burning tire. But this… this simple bread nearly brings me to tears.
My mother laughs as I devour it too fast. "Eat slow. No one's stealing it."
If only she knew.
The day unfolds in fragments.
I chase chickens in the yard, nearly tripping over myself. My mother scolds, then laughs, then scolds again. I help her carry water from the well, though the bucket nearly drags me into the mud. The air hums faintly, charged, and I feel the tingle of something just beyond reach. Spirit energy. The boy had felt it too but never understood. Now, neither do I. Not yet.
But it's there. A subtle current under everything.
And then, as the sun dips lower, footsteps echo outside the house. Heavy, measured. A shadow passes by the shutters.
The door opens.
A man enters, broad-shouldered, with hair darkened by sweat and dust. He carries the weight of work on his frame, but his smile is easy as he sets a bundle of firewood against the wall.
"Welcome home," my mother greets warmly.
This is my father.
He turns toward me, eyes crinkling as he grins. "There's my boy." He ruffles my hair with a calloused hand.
The warmth of it is startling. No chains. No commands. Just… a father coming home.
It's then that I notice it.
Floating faintly above his head, like a shimmer only I can see:
[9700]
A number.
I blink, rub my eyes. It doesn't vanish.
I glance toward my mother—[7011].
My heart skips. Above their heads, glowing faintly like etched rubies in air, are numbers. Worth.
The portal had shown me a boy's life, but not this. Not the truth beneath it.
"Something wrong, Jay?" my mother asks, noticing my stare.
"Nothing," I reply quickly, tearing my gaze away. But the number remains burned into my vision.
That night, after supper, my father sits by the fire sharpening a knife. The glow flickers across his face, casting shadows that make him look older than he is.
I sit nearby, watching the numbers hover above his head. [9700]. Not random. Not meaningless.
"Dad," I say finally, voice careful. "What's that number?"
He pauses, knife still in his hands. His eyes meet mine, measuring.
"You see it already, huh?" he murmurs. Then he sets the knife down and leans back, folding his arms.
"That, son… is your Worth."
The word thrums through me like a chord struck too hard.
Worth.
"Every person's got it," he continues. "The measure of their value. Some keep it private, some display it. When you turn sixteen, yours will appear."
I swallow hard.
"So it's… important?"
He chuckles, though there's no humor in it. "Important? Boy, it's everything. It decides how people look at you. How much respect you get. Sometimes, even if you live or die."
The fire crackles. Shadows twist along the walls.
I stare at the glowing numbers again, and my chest tightens.
Worth. A system that measures value. A world where numbers define everything.
And me? A man reborn for the fourth time, carrying the weight of three deaths.
What will my Worth be?
I lie awake long after they've gone to bed, staring at the ceiling.
My mother's laughter. My father's tired smile. The numbers hovering above their heads.
Worth.
The word gnaws at me.
I close my eyes, and the memories come—one life, then another. A battlefield. A prison cell. A sterile lab. One death, then the next. Each one strips me bare, reforging me into something harder, stranger, less human.
And through it all, a single truth whispers:
This world will judge me by my Worth.
But this time… I'll be the one holding the scales.