His new name was Alaric. His new life was one of entrenched poverty in a remote village called Oakhaven, a place where advanced technology was a rusted iron plow and magic was a story told to children to explain the unexplainable. His body was that of a twelve-year-old boy, frail and weakened not just by the recent sickness, but by a lifetime of poor nutrition and hard labor. The disconnect between his godlike intellect and this feeble vessel was a constant, maddening hum in the back of his mind.
He spent the following days conducting a silent, systematic audit of his new existence. He willed the Turner System to appear, and after a moment of focused concentration, the golden text flickered obediently into his vision. It was unchanged. v1.0. No new data fields, no skill unlocks, no experience points. It was a read-only status screen, a taunting monument to his ignorance and powerlessness. A counter for his remaining lives.
Observation: This world operates on principles unfamiliar to my previous understanding. "Mana" is not just a mythological concept; it is a measurable, ambient energy field. The locals utilize it instinctively—the healer woman exudes a faint warmth that accelerates tissue regeneration, the farmers hum tunes that seem to strengthen the soil. They are users of a system they do not comprehend, like primates tapping on a keyboard.
He practiced motor control, his mind running constant diagnostics on the clumsy, uncoordinated limbs. Walking was a complex calculation of balance and momentum. Lifting a full water bucket was a test of grip strength and skeletal leverage. He was in the middle of these frustrating calibrations when a commotion erupted near the village square—the sharp, metallic clang of armor and the guttural snorts of large animals.
A group of ten armored men on massive, scaled reptilian mounts trotted into the heart of Oakhaven. Their armor was polished to a cruel shine, each breastplate emblazoned with the crest of a clenched fist gripping a starburst. The Merion Empire. The sight triggered a cold cascade in his memory, not a personal one, but a deep, soul-level recognition of a pattern—the antagonist.
The lead soldier, his face a mask of bored contempt, unrolled a scroll. His voice, amplified by some minor enchantment or simple vocal training, cut through the villagers' fearful murmurs. "By the decree of His Imperial Majesty, Vahln Merion, Protector of the Realm, the tithe for this region is increased by twenty percent. Grain, lumber, and able-bodied youth for the frontier garrisons. Non-compliance is treason. Punishment is eradication."
The air grew thick with despair. Hidden behind a large water trough, Kelvin watched, his mind cold and analytical. This was the face of the systemic oppression that, according to the cosmic rules of his new existence, would one day be the instrument of his destruction. He was observing a variable in his own tragic equation.
His eyes, however, were drawn not to the soldiers, but to a cage of iron bars mounted on a wagon hitched to one of the mounts. Inside was a boy not much older than his current body. His clothes, though torn and filthy, were of fine, dark blue fabric and intricate stitching. His hands were bound in front of him, but his posture was ramrod straight, his chin held high. Dirt smudged his cheeks, but it could not obscure the sharp, intelligent lines of his face or the fire in his eyes. It was not a hot, wild fire, but a cold, lightless one—a black flame that absorbed all hope and reflected only resolve.
The bound boy's gaze swept over the cowering villagers with a look of pitying disdain, and for a single, electric moment, it locked with Kelvin's from across the square. There was no plea in those eyes, no fear. There was only a deep, simmering rage and a terrifying, calculating intelligence that mirrored Kelvin's own. In that silent exchange, a thousand words were spoken. A recognition of another mind trapped in an unjust system. A potential ally. A fellow player.
The soldier kicked his mount, and the procession began to move out, the cage rattling on the wagon. The boy in the cage held Kelvin's gaze until the very last second, then turned his face forward, into his bleak future.
"The first rule of any system is to understand its rules. The second is to know who else is playing the game."