I died like an idiot.
One moment I was swearing at a moderator in a glow-lit chatroom. The next, I was choking on someone else's rotten breath, the stink of wet earth so thick it felt heavy in my lungs. There was no blinding light, no cosmic fanfare—just cold air and the rise and fall of ribs that weren't mine where my chest should have been.
My head was full of memes, bad decisions, and the fading memory of a late-night pizza order. The world crept into focus in fragments: a wooden beam overhead, rain hissing against thatch, a goat bleating like it had a personal grudge. My hands were smaller, callused, reeking of smoke and hay as they clawed at straw. I tasted metal and spat out a curse before I even realized I understood the words.
"You awake, Chief?" a woman asked.
Her voice was soft but tired—not the voice of a moderator. Her dark hair was pinned back with leather, messy in a way that spoke of long days and little rest. Her face was practical, worn by sun and work. She held a steaming mug like it was the most important thing in the world. Gray eyes, steady and patient, studied me with the expression of someone deeply familiar with nonsense and thoroughly unimpressed by it.
"Chief?" I croaked. My throat sounded wrong—too thin, too young. "You've got the wrong idiot."
She blinked, then the corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"You're the one who swore at Old Harven for taking the last of the fresh milk," she said, "then banged on the councilhouse door at dawn and declared yourself chief. You passed out right after."
That made less sense than most things life had thrown at me—and I'd seen some weird stuff. I searched for memories of my death: a crash, a fall, something spectacularly stupid. Nothing stuck. What was clear was that this body wasn't twenty-four anymore. Eighteen, maybe. Classic transmigration. Inconvenient. Annoying.
"Where's my phone?" I asked automatically.
She stared at me like I'd asked where the beasts kept their chargers.
"What's a phone, Chief?" she said. "We have horns, bells, and gossip." She nodded toward the doorway, where villagers hovered close—sun-darkened faces, knife-carrying teenagers, children who had never seen a screen in their lives. "I'm Lira. I fixed the churn you broke when you wandered into Harven's barn."
"You fixed it?" I asked.
She rolled her eyes. "No. I convinced it to fix itself. Whistled at it a bit."
I laughed—a sharp, misplaced sound. "Of course. Whistling milk churns. Very reasonable."
"You're not funny," Lira said, though her expression softened. "But you're alive. That's enough." She glanced at the crowd. "The council will want to see you."
Naturally they would. I tried to stand and nearly collapsed as unfamiliar muscles screamed their objections. A boy with a missing front tooth eyed me critically.
"You sure, Chief? You can't even stand straight. Could be entertaining, though."
I forced out the flat, cutting tone I used online when I wanted control.
"Listen. I might look like a kid, but I know how to run a forum. Same thing. Give me rules and a bell, and I'll sort you into roles."
It sounded bolder in my head. Out loud, it ended in a cough.
Lira stepped closer and took my hand. A jagged scar crossed my palm—old, ugly, and unfamiliar. The weight of someone else's life settled on me, and for the first time since waking, I felt small.
"I'm Lira," she said quietly. "I run the healer's work and the soup kettle. And I cleaned up your mess when you passed out in Harven's barn."
The councilhouse was squat, with a skull nailed above the door—equal parts decoration and warning. Inside, three elders waited like grumpy game moderators. Edda, sharp and brittle. Borrik, broad and scarred, who looked like he chewed iron for breakfast. The third's name refused to stick.
They asked questions like interrogators. Who were my parents? Where did I come from? What right did I have to lead?
I used charm—the only weapon I still trusted. Barbed compliments. Careful promises. Just enough confidence to sound useful. People didn't want certainty; they wanted movement. Someone to act, or someone to blame.
Under the table, Lira's fingers found mine and held tight.
"You're not fit to be chief," she whispered. Not cruel. Just honest. "But neither are the others. Maybe that's the point."
The perfect comeback died in my throat. Instead came a word I hadn't used in years.
Responsibility.
"All right," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "I'll be your chief. But I have conditions."
The elders scoffed. Someone outside laughed. Lira's grip tightened.
"First," I said, leaning into performance because it was the only language I knew, "we modernize. We start with the well and the walls. Then—"
Laughter rippled through the room. People trusted a liar with a plan more than an honest man with none. Cold comfort, but it was something.
Lira leaned in. "Don't make enemies faster than you can kill them."
I almost told her I'd survived years of online warfare. Instead I said, "No promises," and meant it as both joke and warning.
Outside, rain drummed on thatch. Somewhere, a goat cried like it regretted every decision it had ever made. I was thirty-six years of sarcasm and regret stuffed into borrowed bones—this village's thinnest hope.
I didn't know how to lead.
But I knew one thing with absolute clarity.
I wasn't going to die quietly.
Lira lifted her mug and gave me a look that said, Try not to ruin us.
I grinned. Old habits die slow—and part of me liked the challenge.
"Alright," I said. "Let's get to work."