I awoke to the rough prickling of straw against my cheek, the coarse mat beneath me scratching my bare skin like dry grass. The air inside the hut was thick and earthy—smoke from a dying fire mingled with the damp scent of mud walls and the faint, sour tang of unwashed hides. Dim light filtered through gaps in the woven roof, casting dusty beams that danced with floating motes. I blinked, my tiny five-year-old hands pushing me upright, and felt the cool clay floor beneath my palms.
Curious, I toddled to the low doorway and stepped outside. The morning air hit me like a slap—crisp, clean, carrying the sharp bite of pine resin, distant woodsmoke, and something wilder, like animal musk on the wind. Barefoot, I felt pebbles and packed dirt under my soles, the ground still chilled from the night. All around stretched a primitive village: crude huts of straw and mud clustered together, smoke curling lazily from roof holes. Beyond them, dense forest loomed, dark and endless, while in the distance I glimpsed figures in rough animal skins hauling wooden spears and stone tools. No metal glint, no roads, no hum of engines—just the rhythmic thud of stone on wood, the lowing of strange beasts, and the chatter of voices in a guttural tongue I didn't yet understand.
It looks like the Stone Age, I thought, a faint smile tugging at my young lips. The perfect beginning.
In my previous life, everything had been… predictable. Too slow. I was born with a gift—or curse, depending on the day: reaction speed and perception so sharp the world moved in slow motion around me. The moment my fingers touched a book, its knowledge flooded my mind like water into a sponge. I devoured textbooks, manuals, entire libraries. By elementary school, I topped every class without effort. My parents beamed with pride, teachers whispered "prodigy," but I was already bored, staring out windows while others struggled with basic math.
At fifteen, I'd turned that talent into billions—stock markets unfolded like children's puzzles before my eyes. Money, women, status, prestige, world records, philanthropic empires… I collected them all like trophies on a shelf. By twenty, the billions became trillions. I lived like a legend whispered in boardrooms and tabloids alike. Yet every morning I woke to the same hollow ache: nothing challenged me anymore. The world was too slow, too small.
I kept my body flawless—diet, exercise, the best medicine money could buy—yet at ninety-five, even perfect health couldn't outrun time. My heart simply… stopped. Peaceful. Healthy. Utterly meaningless.
After that, my soul drifted through the endless cosmos—formless, timeless, suspended in star-speckled void for what felt like eternity. Cold silence, pinpricks of distant light, the slow swirl of galaxies. Until finally, mercifully, I was pulled back. Reborn. Memories intact. The same gift burning behind these childish eyes.
And now, standing in the dirt of a Stone Age village, breathing air untainted by machines, I felt something stir for the first time in two lifetimes.
A spark.
I wandered through the village, barefoot in the cool dirt, pretending to be just another five-year-old. The sun hung low, warm on my skin, while the air carried the rich smells of roasting meat over open fires, damp earth, and the faint sweat of playing children. Laughter rang out—high-pitched, carefree—as a dozen kids my size chased each other with sticks for swords and flat stones for shields. We were playing some made-up game of hunters and beasts, tumbling in the dust, rolling down gentle slopes, shouting nonsense war cries. I joined in effortlessly, mimicking their clumsy swings and exaggerated roars, blending in perfectly. When in Rome, act like the Romans, I reminded myself with a private smirk. For once, the simplicity felt… refreshing.
Everything was peaceful: the distant thud of axes splitting wood, women humming as they ground grain on stone slabs, the low bleating of penned animals. Then, without warning, a thunderous crash shattered the calm.
The wooden fence at the village edge exploded inward in a spray of splinters. A massive bear—easily twice the height of a grown man on its hind legs—barreled through, its fur matted with mud and old blood, hot breath steaming in the cool air. The roar that followed rattled my tiny chest, deep and guttural, vibrating through the ground like an earthquake. Its yellowed fangs glinted, claws the length of daggers gouging deep furrows in the earth as it charged.
Chaos erupted instantly. Children around me froze, then screamed—sharp, piercing wails that cut through the air. Some dropped to the dirt, curling up and sobbing. Mothers scooped up babies, faces pale with terror, sprinting toward huts. The men—hardened hunters and warriors—snatched up stone-tipped spears and crude bone clubs, barking urgent orders. Sweat beaded on their brows despite the chill; I could smell the sharp tang of fear mixing with the bear's musky, wild stench.
I stared at the beast, heart pounding but mind razor-sharp. My gifted perception scanned it desperately, searching for any hint of aura or power level… nothing. Blank. Either it was far stronger than I could detect at my current stage, or this body's senses hadn't awakened yet. Either way, not good.
My father—tall, scarred, muscles like knotted rope—grabbed his spear and dashed past me toward the fight. Instinctively, I followed on stubby legs, slipping inside our hut just behind him. The dim interior smelled of smoke, dried herbs, and oiled leather. He strapped on a hide chest guard, movements quick and practiced.
"Father," I piped up in my childish voice, "what level is that bear?"
He paused, glancing down with grim eyes. "Rank 0, 1-star," he said, voice low and serious, gripping his spear tighter.
I blinked. "And… what level are you all?"
"We're Rank 0, 2-stars," he replied, thumping his chest with quiet pride. "Most of the warriors, anyway."
Inside my head, a single thought exploded: Wait… what the fuck?
He ruffled my hair roughly, mistaking my stunned silence for fear. "Don't worry, son. The village leader will be back soon—he's out hunting. Rank 0, 5-stars." His eyes lit with genuine respect. "That beast won't stand a chance."
With that, he charged out the door, roaring a battle cry that echoed across the village: "Aaaargh! Motherfucking bear—I'm cooooming!"
I stood alone in the doorway, watching his back disappear into the growing crowd of warriors forming a shaky spear line. The bear bellowed again, shaking leaves from nearby trees. Children's cries mingled with the shouts of men. Dust swirled in the fading sunlight.
A slow grin spread across my small face.
"Interesting," I muttered under my breath, voice too soft for anyone to hear. "Very… interesting."
My tiny hands clutched desperately at my mother's rough wool skirt as she tried to pull away, my voice coming out in a perfectly rehearsed five-year-old whine: "Mother, please don't go! The bear is scary!"
She knelt down, her calloused hands gentle on my shoulders, the scent of woodsmoke and crushed herbs clinging to her skin. "But, my sweet child, if we leave that bear alone, it'll destroy our home," she said, turning me toward the chaos and pointing with a trembling finger. "Look."
I looked. And immediately regretted it—or rather, struggled not to burst out laughing.
The "battle" was an absolute massacre. Thirty villagers—twenty grizzled men and ten fierce women—had formed a ragged circle around the beast, stone spears raised, bone clubs swinging. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and wet fur. Roars shook the ground; screams and grunts filled every breath. Dust churned into clouds as bodies flew.
But the bear? It was toying with them.
One casual swipe of its massive paw sent three warriors tumbling like ragdolls, their hide armor shredded. Another lazy backhand ripped my father's chest guard clean off—along with the rest of his clothes. There he stood, stark naked in the middle of the village square, face redder than a sunset, spear still clutched in one hand while the other tried (and failed) to preserve what little dignity he had left.
And then he bellowed, voice cracking with pure, unfiltered rage: "I'LL AVENGE MY CLOTHES, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"
The bear, almost offended, roared back and batted him into a haystack.
My mother gasped beside me. "Look, look! It ripped your father's clothes off! He's… he's completely naked now, and shouting like a madman!"
I stared at the scene: grown warriors rolling in the dirt, spears snapping like twigs, women shrieking battle cries that turned into yelps as they got flung aside. My father emerged from the haystack, still gloriously bare, charging back in with a war cry that would've made a barbarian blush.
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or applaud the sheer absurdity of it all. In the end, I settled for a perfectly flat, deadpan tone: "Mother, don't worry. The leader will come soon—he's out hunting, remember? Rank 0, 5-stars. Or… you could go join Father and dance naked in front of the whole village."
She whipped her head toward me, eyes wide, then glanced back at my father—who was now wrestling the bear's leg in a very undignified position—then at my completely expressionless little face.
A beat of silence.
Then she snorted. Actually snorted. "Fine, fine, alright," she muttered, cheeks flushing as she fought a grin. "At least let's watch from a safe spot." Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable excitement. "Come on."
She scooped me up, and we hurried to a low wooden platform near the edge of the chaos—close enough to feel the wind from the bear's swings, far enough not to get accidentally clothes-lined into next week.
As we settled in, her gripping my hand tight, gaze locked on the carnage like it was the best show in the world, I thought to myself:
So… my new mother really, really likes action scenes.