Chapter 1 : The New life

Inside a small hut made of mud walls and a straw roof, a woman cried out in pain.
Sweat clung to her brown skin, darkened further by years beneath the sun. Her cheeks were soft and slightly round, giving her an oddly gentle, almost adorable face even in the middle of suffering. Her brown eyes trembled with tears as another wave of labor pain seized her.
Beside her, an older village woman—likely the healer—kept guiding her through it.
“Breathe, Sera… just a little more.”
The cries rose, then broke, then rose again.
At last, after what felt like an endless struggle, the sound of a newborn’s cry filled the hut.
The healer smiled in relief, gently patting the infant before wrapping him in cloth and placing him into the exhausted mother’s arms.
The child cried weakly, then slowly drifted into sleep.
…
This warmth…
Is this what hell feels like?
The thought floated in the darkness of his fading consciousness.
No… this can’t be hell.
If hell had a warmth like this… something this soft, this safe… then maybe I could burn in it for eternity.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Blurred shapes.
A face.
A woman looking down at him with exhausted but overflowing love.
Her arms held him close, her body radiating warmth.
Arya tried to move, but something felt wrong.
His arm barely lifted.
Too small.
Far too small.
For a moment, his mind went blank.
Then the realization hit.
No way.
Don’t tell me…
He looked at his tiny fingers, then at the woman holding him, who was whispering something in a language he couldn’t understand.
What the hell is going on?
Did I actually… reincarnate? Like those fantasy novels?
His eyes moved around the room as much as his infant body allowed.
A straw bed.
Mud walls.
A clay pot in the corner.
Simple wooden hooks with rough tunic-like clothes hanging from them.
A flat stone being used as a table.
A roof woven from dried straw.
Wooden utensils, hollowed like flutes, resting near the wall.
The whole place looked painfully primitive.
Either this is some ancient era… or this family is desperately poor.
A wooden door creaked open behind him.
Arya turned his gaze as much as he could.
A man stepped inside.
Lean build. Dark eyes. Thin lips. Slightly darker skin than the woman’s. There was a strange mark on his forehead, almost like a faded symbol. He wore a sleeveless green vest and rough trousers tied with cloth.
He spoke in the same incomprehensible language.
The woman replied.
Then the man walked over, sat beside them, and gently placed a rough but careful hand on the baby’s head before embracing both mother and child.
The two adults smiled at each other.
Arya stared.
Alright… husband energy detected.
That must be my father.
And for the first time since dying, a strange calm settled over him.
So this is real.
I’m alive again.
---
One Year Later
Arya was now one year old.
By now, he could understand most of the local language.
His new name was August Vantes.
August…
The thought made him pause.
What a coincidence. The month I was born in during my previous life was August too.
His father’s name was Nicks Vantes, a farmer who worked a narrow field roughly forty steps long and thirty wide.
Every day, Arya watched him grow the same crop.
Wheat.
More wheat.
Always wheat.
A few vegetables lined the sides, but the system was painfully inefficient.
This is terrible crop planning.
No rotation. No soil recovery. No layered farming. No storage optimization.
Even as a toddler, his old mind couldn’t help analyzing everything.
Just give me a few years.
I’ll change this entire village.
His mother, Sera Vantes, was the emotional center of the house—kind, gentle, and somehow still cute in a way that made even his grown mind soften.
Her round face and warm smile made the harsh mud hut feel like home.
I need to protect this smile.
That thought came to him more often than he expected.
They lived in Pila Village, part of Ramine State under the Aurelian Empire.
The world was slowly unfolding in his mind.
A village economy based on copper coins, but still heavily dependent on barter.
Primitive houses.
Basic farming.
Limited tools.
But not ancient.
Interesting.
They know copper, which means they know mining and smelting at least on a basic level.
So the world itself may not be primitive… only this village is lagging behind.
One afternoon, August crawled out of the hut.
The moment he stepped outside, he froze.
A vast blue sky stretched endlessly above.
And in it—
two suns.
Both shone brightly, bathing the village in a strange doubled light.
His mother, Sera, was nearby, hanging washed clothes across a rope tied between two wooden poles.
A few meters away stood a mud boundary wall with a simple wooden gate.
August stared at it.
So they can shape wood into gates but still rely on mud walls and straw roofs.
That means either resources are limited… or tradition is stronger than innovation.
His mind raced.
This village can be transformed.
The question is whether the world will let it happen.
He crawled toward Sera.
She noticed him instantly and smiled before lifting him into her arms.
“Is my little Aug hungry?” she asked softly. “Or are you thirsty?”
Her face was close now.
Warm.
Kind.
So alive.
For a second, August felt his tiny face heat up.
This is ridiculous.
I may genuinely be the first person in history to blush because his own mother is too adorable.
Still, he couldn’t help smiling.
Then, gathering all the strength his little mouth could manage, he forced out a sound.
“M… ma…”
Sera froze.
Her eyes widened.
For a heartbeat, confusion flickered across her face.
Then joy burst through it.
“Aug… what did you say?”
He tried again, cheeks burning.
“Ma… Mama…”
Sera hugged him tightly against her chest, laughing and crying at the same time.
That warmth returned.
And for a brief moment, the pain of his past life felt very far away.
---
That night, Nicks returned from the fields.
The smell of earth clung to him.
His hands were rough, nails lined with soil, shoulders drooping from a day of labor.
The family sat together for dinner.
Tonight’s meal was Sativia, the staple dish of Ramine—a filling mixture of rice, maize, vegetables, and crushed wheat, often flavored with local spices when available.
As they ate, Sera suddenly smiled.
“Husband, do you know what happened today?”
Nicks took another bite before answering, “If this is about Chief Doran’s death, then yes. The whole village is talking about it.”
Sera blinked. “What? The chief died? When?”
“This afternoon.”
Her expression changed at once.
“Then… his son becomes the next chief, right?”
Nicks shook his head.
“No. His son will only serve as acting chief.”
Sera leaned closer, now fully serious.
“Then how will the new chief be chosen?”
Nicks wiped his hands slowly.
“This year’s harvest.”
A pause.
“The one who improves the village harvest the most will become chief.”
Even baby August, half-asleep beside them, felt his thoughts sharpen.
What?
Sera frowned. “But the harvest has been getting worse every year.”
“It has,” Nicks said grimly. “The taxes keep increasing. Offerings to Lady Prospire, Harbinger of Prosperity, grow larger every season, and the temple still demands coin for Monir’s blessing.”
So this village worshipped Prospire, goddess of prosperity, wife of Monir, god of gold and riches.
Religion tied directly to economy.
Arya’s mind immediately noted the implications.
Faith influences taxation.
Taxation influences farming pressure.
This is not just agriculture. This is power structure.
Nicks let out a tired sigh.
“If this keeps going, even Prospire’s blessings won’t save us.”
Sera lowered her gaze.
“I just want this winter to pass safely.”
Nicks gently touched her shoulder.
“It will.”
The hut slowly fell silent as the night deepened.
And while Sera drifted toward sleep, a faint thought crossed her mind.
Did I forget something important today?
Nearby, little August stared into the darkness.
His tiny fists curled.
Improve the harvest… become chief… change the system.
For the first time since his rebirth, his future path became clear.
Not survival.
Not comfort.
Control.
Next Chapter: Farming