The morning sun spilled through the cracks in the wooden roof. Arsus woke to the smell of porridge and the sound of a broom scraping across the floor. His body still felt strange, light, and small. When he stretched, his joints didn't ache, but his stomach growled like a beast.
He sat up, rubbing his head. "So this is hunger without battle rations," he muttered. "How nostalgic."
The woman from before turned from the table. Her smile was soft but tired. "You're awake early, Lio."
Arsus blinked. "Lio?"
She laughed lightly. "Who else? You're my son."
He froze. So the boy's name is Lio.
He forced a small smile. "Right. Sorry, I'm still sleepy."
She handed him a wooden bowl of porridge. It was thin and watery but warm. Arsus ate quietly. The woman, whose name he learned was Mira, hummed while preparing herbs. Her hands were calloused, her clothes patched. Life here was hard, but she moved with quiet strength.
Arsus studied her movements. So this body's mother is poor, but kind. That's a start.
Outside, voices called. "Mira! The merchant's here!"
She looked at Arsus. "Eat slowly. I'll be back soon."
When she left, Arsus stood and looked around the small hut. It was old but clean. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling. A single rusty sword leaned near the doorway, dull from disuse.
He reached for it out of habit. His fingers trembled. The sword felt heavy. He tried to lift it, but the weight dragged his small arm down.
"Tch." He set it back. "This body is weak."
Still, his stance straightened. His mind, though trapped in a child, remembered decades of battle.
He stepped outside. The air smelled of soil and smoke. Wooden cottages dotted the valley, and fields stretched toward the forest edge. Alder Village, he thought. Forgotten by history, but alive in its own way.
Children ran past him. One of them stopped and grinned. "Hey, weak Lio! Your mom says you fainted again!"
Arsus stared at the boy, unamused. "Weak Lio?"
"Yeah! You're always sick. Even the goats are stronger!" The kids laughed and ran off.
Arsus exhaled through his nose. So this body was bullied. Wonderful.
He walked to a nearby stream to think. His reflection looked back—young face, serious eyes.
"You were weak," he said quietly, speaking to the boy whose life he'd inherited. "But not anymore. I'll make sure of that."
He knelt by the water, closed his eyes, and began to meditate. His breathing slowed, his focus sharpened. But moments later, his chest tightened, and pain shot through his lungs. He coughed and gasped for air.
"Still too frail," he hissed. "Fine. Step by step."
He forced himself up and began slow exercises. Stretch, balance, control. Even a frail body could learn discipline.
Hours passed. Sweat clung to his forehead. When Mira returned, she found him panting beside the stream.
"Lio!" She rushed over. "What are you doing? You'll collapse again!"
He smiled faintly. "Trying to get stronger."
She frowned. "You're already strong, my dear."
He shook his head. "Not yet."
That night, when the village slept, Arsus sat by the small fire, staring at the moon. His mind drifted back to his past life—the shrines, the battles, the endless fighting.
"I swore I'd live differently," he whispered. "No more killing, no more war."
But deep down, something stirred. Not pride, not anger—purpose.
If this world was the same, if monsters still roamed, then people would need strength. If this boy's life was marked by weakness, Arsus would change that fate.
A faint sound echoed outside. A low growl from the woods. The chickens in the coop stirred.
Mira stirred in her sleep. Arsus stood, alert.
He stepped out quietly. In the moonlight, a pair of glowing eyes stared back from the forest edge. A wolfling, mangy and starving, its ribs showing through fur.
Arsus gripped the old sword near the doorway. It felt awkward in his small hands. "You chose the wrong house, beast."
The creature snarled and lunged. Arsus moved by instinct. He sidestepped, slashing upward. The blade glanced off bone. The wolf yelped and fled into the dark.
Arsus lowered the weapon, breathing hard. His arm trembled, but he was alive.
He looked down at his shaking hands. "Even weak steel can cut, if used right."
He smiled faintly and returned the sword. "Tomorrow, training begins."
As dawn approached, light filled the small home once more. Mira awoke to find her son sleeping near the door, sword beside him, a strange peace on his face.
From that day, whispers spread across Alder Village.
The weak boy had changed.