There was a small village named Elram, surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests.
A lazy river bordered it on one side, and a winding road curled along the other.
It was not a special village—there were many like it along the edge of the Bragi Highlands.
But every village told a story of its own.
The old but sturdy cottages had character, as if they had absorbed generations of emotions from the lives they sheltered.
The farmlands flourished in vibrant greens, with grazing livestock occasionally dotting the scenery. Children helped with chores in the morning—milking cows, tilling soil, and gathering eggs.
But the afternoons were theirs. They ran laughing through the fields, playing games only they understood, under the gaze of a sun that seemed to watch in gentle amusement.
Yet not every child had a home. Not all was well in Elram.
The war had ended ten years ago, but its shadow lingered. Many children had lost their parents, becoming orphans the village now struggled to care for.
They lived in a converted grain house under the watch of Father Gregory, the village priest of Idunn-- the goddess of spring.
And on the weather-worn steps of that orphanage sat a young man with a horrified expression frozen on his face.
He couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen. The softness of youth still clung to his features.
His eyes were a warm, common brown—but his hair was anything but common: a pale, ashen grey, more suited to an old man than a teen.
He stared at something in front of him—something only he could see.
This was Siege. And what he saw was the legacy he'd just received.
*No… no, this can't be right! This isn't what Officer James told me at all!*
---
[Name: Siegfried]
[Legacy: —]
[Rank: —]
[Armament: —]
[Aspect: Farm Boy]
[Attributes: {Stalwart} {Journeyman} {Warrior}]
[Description: A simple farm boy from a common village. Though this one has a tendency for violence.]
Siege kept staring at the screen, willing the words to change. They didn't.
*Officer James said I'd start with a legacy! What the hell is this?!*
He was furious. How was he supposed to survive with no legacy and the bland title of farm boy?
What was he supposed to do—till the monsters' fields?
Desperate, he checked his attributes, hoping to find something—anything—useful.
>[Stalwart]: Your body is naturally strong with an admirable recovery speed.
>[Journeyman]: The wind holds your heart and guides your path. Where it leads you is your destiny.
>[Warrior]: A natural fondness for violence and combat, and the instinct to match.
Siege exhaled sharply. At least his attributes were mostly combat-oriented. There was still hope.
But he'd never finished formal training as he dropped out of school—his skill with weapons, or even fists, was amateurish at best.
Worse yet, he couldn't tell if this was a storyline-themed trial or a unique one.
In this world, he was just an orphaned farm boy—no memories, no powers, no guidance.
The odds were clearly stacked against him.
He stood up with a sluggish groan and pushed open the creaking wooden door of the orphanage.
Inside, mold crept along the corners of the warped walls. Thin beds lined each side—about twelve in all.
Loose floorboards forced Siege to step carefully as he made his way to the back—the only semi-decent part of the building.
He glanced around to ensure the others were out playing before slipping into Father Gregory's room.
The priest's quarters were better kept, with a full-sized straw bed and a small bookshelf filled with worn books.
That shelf was Siege's target.
Thankfully, he could read the local language—even though it clearly wasn't English.
Father Gregory had gone out to meet an important visitor, so Siege had some time.
Most of the books were religious texts devoted to the goddess Idunn—useless.
But through scattered passages, Siege learned he was in a country called Greatland, ruled by King Beowulf.
The name Beowulf tugged at something in his memory, but he couldn't place it.
Still no clue what the goal of this trial was. No magic. No legacy. Just farm boy.
At most, he was slightly stronger than average.
Frustrated, Siege left the room and stepped back into the daylight. The other kids were still out. No information to be found here.
Lost in thought, he wandered down the dusty path to the village center—so distracted he didn't see the small boy appear in front of him.
"Siege! Siege! I was just coming to get you! The village head says everyone needs to go to the center!"
The boy was around eight, hair matted with sweat, eyes sparkling. He must've been running all over the village delivering the message.
"I'm on my way. Was headed there anyway," Siege replied with a smile.
Luckily the Oracle had carved him a place in this world and given him an identity.
He was also one of the many orphans in the village, which he learned as he interacted with the others when he awoke here.
Siege didn't know the kid's name, but his boundless energy was oddly comforting.
The boy scampered off.
Siege watched him go, then continued down the road, wondering what kind of announcement could require such urgency that even little children were being used as messengers.
The village center was already crowded when he arrived. Around sixty people had gathered.
Two men stood apart from the rest.
One was an older man in coarse linen. His hair was entirely grey, but his posture was straight, his eyes sharp.
The village head, no doubt.
Beside him stood a soldier. A large man clad in iron—mostly chainmail, with a gleaming breastplate and leather guards.
A worn satchel hung at his waist, alongside a sheathed sword.
His helmet was tucked under one arm; the other rested lazily on the hilt.
He looked bored.
Siege watched silently as the village head stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Good afternoon, everyone! Sir Eric Baldwin from the royal capital has come to deliver a message on behalf of the king!"
A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.
Sir Eric drifted forward, pulling a sealed letter from his satchel.
He cracked the wax, raised it high, and read in a booming voice:
"In response to a dragon wreaking havoc on the western border, a draft has been enacted to form an army in support of our king—even in his old age, he rides to war!
All men between the ages of sixteen and forty are hereby conscripted.
Failure to comply will be met with the death penalty.
This is a call to arms—for our nation, for our homes, and for our king!"
The village fell into stunned silence.