I scrunched my little face in genuine confusion, tugging at my mother's sleeve as we watched the carnage from our "safe" perch. "Mother, I don't get it. The bear is only Rank 0, 1-star. Everyone out there is 2-stars—whole star above it! Why can't these guys kill this stupid bear already?"
She chuckled, ruffling my hair with a soot-stained hand that smelled of smoke and wild herbs. "Sweetie, animals, monsters, beasts—anything not human—is just built different. At the same level, they're always stronger than us. Physically, anyway. It's basically impossible for a human to kill one unless you're at least two stars higher just to fight on equal ground."
My five-year-old brain clicked a few pieces together. So that's why each star feels like the gap between a child and a full-grown warrior—heaven and earth. And then I remembered the lifespan thing.
"Wait…" I whispered, eyes widening. "Each star gives a hundred years of life, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
I did the quick math in my head: me (unawakened, basically 0), father and most warriors at 2-stars = roughly 200 extra years on top of normal human lifespan. My brain short-circuited in the best way possible.
Wait… what the fu—— holy mother of all that's reincarnated, that's an insane lifespan!
I must've gone quiet for a solid ten seconds, mouth hanging open, because my mother poked my cheek. "You okay, little genius?"
Snapping out of it, I asked the next burning question. "What about skills? Don't those help?"
"Skills?" She grinned wide, eyes sparkling again as she turned back to the fight. "Those you have to develop yourself. Look—your father's been practicing the same Basic Spear Thrust his entire life. Watch."
And right on cue, there he was—still gloriously naked, dirt-streaked, and furious—planting his feet wide in the dust. He leveled his stone-tipped spear at the bear and bellowed for the whole village to hear:
"TAKE THIS! I'VE BEEN PRACTICING THIS BASIC SPEAR TECHNIQUE MY ENTIRE LIIIIIFE!"
He thrust forward with all his dramatic might—muscles rippling, war cry echoing off the huts, sweat flying in slow-motion arcs.
The spear tip poked the bear right in the chest fluff.
The bear blinked once.
Then, with a bored flick of one massive paw—CRACK—the wooden shaft snapped clean in half like a dry twig. The stone head went flying into a nearby roof with a comical thunk.
Absolute silence fell over the battlefield.
Even the bear paused mid-swipe, tilting its huge head and scratching its ear with a back claw, looking genuinely confused—like it was thinking, I swear to the forest gods, that wasn't on purpose.
Every warrior froze mid-pose. Dust settled. Somewhere, a baby stopped crying.
Then my father stared at the broken stump in his hand, eyes welling up faster than a summer rainstorm. His lower lip quivered.
"Oh my gooooods… my spear… my SPEAR!" he wailed, voice cracking into full baby-mode. "If my father sees this, he'll kill meeee!"
He dropped the broken half, bolted straight toward us, bare cheeks jiggling with every panicked step, and threw himself into my mother's arms like a heartbroken toddler.
My mother—caught completely off guard—accidentally dropped me (I landed on my butt in the soft dirt, totally fine) and immediately switched to comfort mode, hugging his trembling, naked self. "Shhh, shhh, honey, don't worry. I'll carve you a new one tonight."
"B-but… Father's gonna kill meeee…"
I dusted myself off, looked straight at the bear—still frozen in awkward innocence—and said in my sweetest, most innocent five-year-old voice:
"Oh, by the way, Mister Bear… the village leader? The Rank 0, 5-star guy who's coming back any minute? That spear you just broke? Yeah… that was my grandfather's."
I let out a tiny, evil giggle. "Heh heh heh."
The bear's eyes went wide—actual cartoon-level wide. Its fur bristled. It let out a panicked, high-pitched whimper-roar that sounded more like a squeak, then spun around, barreling through the stunned circle of warriors like a furry freight train. People dove left and right as it fled toward the forest, crashing through bushes and splintering small trees in its terror.
But before it could vanish into the treeline, a thunderous, earth-shaking voice boomed from the forest edge—deep, furious, and very, very familiar:
"WHICH MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD BROKE MY SPEAR?!"
Grandfather was home.
Grandfather burst into the clearing like a storm made flesh—tall, broad-shouldered, gray beard bristling, muscles corded from decades of hunting. He carried a massive wooden club over one shoulder and, in his other hand, the broken halves of the spear, which he waved like evidence in a courtroom drama. The air around him practically crackled with Rank 0, 5-star pressure; even the dust seemed to settle out of respect.
He planted himself nose-to-snout with the bear, who had skidded to a halt and was now trying (and failing) to look small. Grandfather leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, then jabbed a thick finger right against the bear's wet black nose.
"Do you have ANY idea, my furry friend, that this spear was crafted from ironwood heartwood—technically below Black Iron grade, sure, but it was MINE!" He roared—actually roared—louder than the bear ever had, veins popping in his neck. "Who's going to compensate me for property damage, huh? WHO?!"
The bear whimpered. A literal eight-hundred-pound killing machine whimpered like a scolded puppy. Its massive paws shuffled in the dirt, kicking up little puffs of dust, and it raised one paw in a surprisingly human-like gesture of surrender, as if saying:
"I-I just wanted some honey, man. That's all. Swear on the forest spirits."
The entire village went dead silent. You could hear chickens clucking in the distance and someone's stomach growling.
Grandfather narrowed his eyes, scratched his beard thoughtfully, then nodded like a merchant closing a deal. "Alright, alright. Fair enough. But you did break our territorial fence—splinters everywhere. Caused mass mental disturbance—half the kids will have nightmares for weeks. And most importantly…" He shook the broken spear halves again. "You snapped my favorite spear in half like it was kindling."
He paced in front of the bear, tapping the broken shaft against his palm. "So here's the deal: from now on, you guard that fence yourself. Night shift, day shift, rain or shine. You sit there, look scary, keep wolves and bandits away. We'll even throw in a jar of honey every week—best wildflower stuff, straight from the cliffs."
The bear hesitated, glancing longingly toward the forest, then back at the broken spear, then at Grandfather's very serious face. It let out a low, resigned grumble that sounded suspiciously like "fine, whatever."
Grandfather grinned wide enough to show every yellowed tooth and slapped the bear on the shoulder—hard enough to make it stagger. "Deal! Welcome to the village guard, big guy!"
The tribespeople erupted into wild cheers—whistles, whoops, warriors banging spears (the ones that weren't broken) against hides. Someone started drumming on an overturned log. My naked father, still sniffling in Mother's arms, suddenly perked up and yelled, "Yeah! Free honey tax!"
Even the bear managed a sheepish huff that might have been a laugh.
I stood there on tiptoes, watching my new grandfather negotiate a monster into community service over a jar of honey, and thought:
A few minutes later, the forest path erupted with noise—boots thudding, laughter booming, the creak of overloaded travois dragging behind the hunting party.
Fifty male warriors, all Rank 0 3-stars, swaggered in first: sweat-slicked, smeared with dirt and blood, hauling massive haunches of some horned beast that smelled like wet dog and iron. Right behind them came sixty-five women warriors, spears slung across backs, baskets overflowing with wild roots, berries, and leafy greens that filled the air with sharp, tangy scents.
Leading the women was my grandmother—the fifth wife—Rank 0 6-stars, built like a boulder with arms that could snap trees. She carried her prized sword propped on one shoulder: sub-Black Iron mortal grade, chipped and scratched from decades of use, but she polished it every night like it was a divine artifact. She barked orders in a voice that could curdle milk, and every warrior—male or female—snapped to attention.
I did the math in my head and nearly short-circuited again.
My father has four big brothers and five big sisters. He's the baby of the family. That means Grandfather has ten children total… and five wives. Current wife number five (Grandma Sword) was busy directing traffic. The other four wives—each with their own gaggle of kids—were already unloading piles of foraged vegetables and smaller game: rabbits, birds, weird spiky fruits that smelled like pineapple and regret.
Children swarmed everywhere. My cousins. Second cousins. Probably some third cousins twice removed. I waddled over to join a cluster of uncles and aunts who were wrestling massive baskets off the travois, surrounded by at least thirty grandkids of various ages—all shouting, chasing each other, stealing berries, and occasionally getting bonked on the head by an auntie's gentle (but still terrifying) swat.
One uncle hoisted me up like I weighed nothing. "There's the little troublemaker!" he boomed, spinning me until the world blurred. Another aunt pinched my cheek hard enough to leave a mark. "Growing fast—gonna be stronger than your naked-streak father soon!"
I glanced over at Dad, who was now wrapped in a borrowed loincloth two sizes too small, sulking beside his newly carved (very basic) replacement spear. He shot me a betrayed look, as if I'd personally orchestrated the entire bear incident.
Grandfather stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, grinning like a king surveying his empire. The new bear guard sat awkwardly by the broken fence section, already munching on a consolation jar of honey and looking deeply regretful about its life choices.
I tried to count the grandchildren again—lost track somewhere around forty-seven—and gave up.
Oh boy.
We weren't just a big family.
We were a small army.
And I, the five-year-old reincarnated trillionaire genius, was officially the tiniest soldier in it.