Part 1 – The Hero of Purity
"Wake up! I said wake up!"
I opened my eyes, ready to snap back with something sarcastic—until I saw the old man.
He wore simple, rough-spun clothes.
Old Man: "Why don't you wake up when I call you? Hurry up, we've got work to do."
And just like that, he walked out.
I looked around the room.
A straw mat beneath me, a wooden wardrobe, a mirror, and walls made of cracked clay. The ceiling was wooden too.
I walked over to the mirror and—what the hell?
A boy. Seven or eight years old. Black hair, black eyes, light brown skin.
Was that... me?
No way. I slapped myself. Not only did I not wake up from a dream, it actually hurt.
Old Man (yelling): "Are you coming or not? We're late!"
I rushed to the wardrobe. Nothing fancy. Just a plain shirt, pants, and a simple vest. I threw them on and headed outside.
There he was, digging with a pickaxe in the yard.
Old Man: "You're nothing like your father. Neither of you are hardworking. You barely get out of bed. Now grab that shovel and get to work!"
I looked at the shovel. Then at the massive yard.
Oh hell no. Who's supposed to dig all this?
I worked until afternoon.
Got bruised and battered.
This wasn't my old body. And this kid—me—had no strength. The shovel kept slipping and hitting my face and hands.
Old Man: "Break time. Rest a few minutes before lunch."
My hands were throbbing. My face stung.
And worst of all—I didn't even know who this old man was to me.
I tried to ask, casually.
Me: "Um... my hands are kinda... injured. And my face too. What should I do?"
He gave me a look like I'd insulted his ancestors.
Old Man: "You're not like your father. Or anyone before you. Can't even handle a shovel. What kind of creation are you? Go find Sister Mary. She'll heal your wounds."
What a dramatic idiot.
Who expects a seven-year-old to dig like a grown man?
It's like sending a kitten to hunt crocodiles. Okay, maybe not the best metaphor, but still.
I didn't ask where Sister Mary was. I figured it meant church.
If I had asked, he probably would've hit me again and compared me to my father—who apparently climbing a school staircase was like conquering Everest. Again, not relevant, but whatever.
I walked until I saw a monastery.
Sister Mary = church = monastery. (Yeah, I went full sports commentator there.)
I approached a woman—stunning, with snow-white skin, icy blue eyes, and hair hidden under her veil.
Me: "Um... the old man... I mean, my hands... they're injured."
Woman: "Tom, do you even know what you just said?"
Wait—Tom? So that's my name?
Me: "Uh, yeah... my hands are injured. I came to see Sister Mary."
Woman: "She's not here. But I'll take care of it. Say hi to your grandfather for me."
So that old comparison-obsessed man was my grandfather. Great.
She placed her hand on my head.
No potions. No bandages. Just a chant.
A green glow appeared—and my wounds healed instantly.
Woman: "Anything else?"
Me: "Can I know your name?"
Woman: "Tom, what's wrong with you today? Did you forget my name?"
Me: "I did... but only because you're so beautiful."
She chuckled.
Woman: "Looks like that shovel knocked some memories loose. My name's Platina. Ring a bell now?"
Me: "Yes, my lady."
I kissed her hand and ran off.
We worked again until evening.
Then I sat down and thought about my situation.
I had a good life.
Twenty years. No romance, but still decent.
I made a living through painting.
I'd read tons of novels and watched movies about reincarnation.
Most were cliché—wake up in a new world, get a system or goddess helper, become overpowered, and live happily ever after.
Me? I died choking on a fish bone.
Not in my sleep. Not hit by a truck.
Just a stupid bone stuck in my throat.
And now I'm here. What a dumb way to die.
But that's not the point.
I need to figure out which world I've reincarnated into.
Wait... there was a story.
A character named Tom—Tom Breach.
He was in a church too.
A pathetic side character.
I've reincarnated into The Hero of Purity!
Yeah, that story set after World War III, where most humans died.
The church believed technology was the devil's creation, so humanity regressed to medieval times.
Radiation mutated animals and even humans. Frogs turned into horned beasts. Humans were born with magic.
People built giant walls like in Attack on Titan.
Inside were three zones:
- Outer zone for the poor
- Middle zone for merchants, soldiers, and officials
- Inner zone for nobles, royalty, and the church
Seven noble families ruled the inner zone.
The hero, Henry, belonged to House Flor.
He lost his parents young and was raised by his uncle.
Like every cliché hero, he trained, got stronger, and eventually defeated the villain.
He ended up with multiple lovers and a harem.
So much for "purity."
The story was infamous for killing off main characters.
Henry Flor was a descendant of Lady Flor, who ended the Breach uprising.
In this world, people without magic are called Breach.
And I'm Tom Breach.
A pathetic side character.
A church gardener who gets sacrificed by Henry to save one of his lovers.
Look at me.
No system. No goddess. No magic.
I might as well start reciting my funeral rites.
But no.
I won't die again.
I won't let Tom Breach—me—die a second time.
There has to be a way to survive.
There has to be a way.
End of Part 1