Ooh, the sweet irony of being reincarnated into a body that can barely support its own weight! If only I could summon a magical sword or hurl fireballs like in the good old days… but, of course, no. Here I am, with "seven days of my name"—or as we'd say in my old world, a measly seven years—trying to create a mana core in a body that seems more suited for flying kites than for channeling magical energy.
I sat cross-legged, trying my best to appear like a wise monk, but the constant trembling of my body wasn't helping. Ah, the noble art of purifying corrupted mana... It's nothing more than sucking in the rot around you and trying to turn it into something marginally usable. Sounds simple, right? Well, it's not. If it were, I'd already have a throne made of pure crystallized mana instead of being here, struggling to keep my eyes open while my frail body slowly crumbles.
— Come on... just a little more... — I muttered, more to myself than to the mana around me, as if this fickle entity cared. The only thing that seemed to care, really, was the deafening growl of my stomach. Ah yes, that was the real battle here: a duel between my hunger and my stubbornness.
I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the fact that I was probably closer to conjuring a magical sandwich than forming a mana core. "Again... Again!!" my mind insisted, like a gladiator trainer yelling from the side of the arena. The difference was, at least those gladiators had muscles. Me? Well, I barely had the strength to lift a twig.
After a few minutes (or was it hours?), I gave up. Not from exhaustion, mind you, but from hunger.
— S-seriously… Trying this on an empty stomach wasn't the brightest idea! — I said, placing my hand on my stomach as it snored like a sleeping bear. — Maybe some bread... or maybe a roast chicken?
Beside me, an old book, its faded cover full of strange symbols, seemed to mock me. I grabbed it, clutching it like a lifeline, hoping that reading might distract me. Its yellowed pages were worn and smelled of mildew, but that scent… Ah, it was the smell of knowledge. And probably something that should've been cleaned.
This book belonged to Lady Darla, a woman whose wisdom, according to her, surpassed that of any other villager here. Sure, I listened to her stories attentively—even if most of them were pure exaggeration. Who would've thought that I, once a powerful mage, would be sitting here listening to tales about an ancient family that rode dragons? But Darla was my guide, and in the end, her stories were what kept me distracted between failed attempts to purify mana.
"Boy, you're too young to know about this!" she'd say, every time I tried to question a more spicy or profound detail in her stories. Little did she know who I truly was… Or perhaps she did, and that's why she avoided the complicated questions. Even if her wisdom was a bit more limited than she liked to admit, her days by my side were a true balm in this boring village.
And then there was my lovely aunt, Tasha. Ah, Tasha… always with a new fantastic story about rebellions and kings dethroned by love. She mentioned some rebellion like it was the most common thing in the world. But I knew better. There was more between the lines than she let on. Ah, how the irony persisted: a once-feared mage, now listening to stories of "glorious" nobles riding dragons, unable to even cast a spark.
The world around me was a complete mess, and I, a stranger in a young and fragile body, was trying to find my place in it.
"Westeros..."
Ah, Westeros... A name that sounded like a mix of exotic and dangerous, almost like those fancy dishes you impulsively order, only to realize you've bitten off more than you can chew. This was the continent where I had been reborn, and everything about it felt... slightly out of place. Imagine leaving a world where magic was as common as a sip of water, and ending up in a place where it was treated like some bizarre superstition told by drunken tavern-goers. It was like going from an epic party full of dragons, elves, ogres, dwarves, magical beasts and magic to a village meeting where everyone argued about the height of the fences. Frustrating, to say the least. And to make matters worse, everyone here looked at magic like it was a forgotten curse or, worse, like that strange relative no one wants to sit next to at family gatherings. Yes, it was official: I was stuck in a world where magic was the equivalent of a bad joke told at the wrong time.
And speaking of complications... Ah, my dear grandmother! The woman was a well of love and affection... or maybe just a well. She always gave me that look of "if your mother weren't here, I'd have dealt with you by now." You know, the kind of affection only family can provide. Running away? Of course, I thought about it. Who hasn't? But I quickly realized that trying to escape without a plan was about as smart as a fish trying to climb a mountain. I needed power, and to get it, I had to master the mana of this place.
Ah, the corrupted mana of this world! If in my old home it was clear and pure, here it was like trying to filter well water with a broken sieve. But I was adapting, of course. For brief moments, I could channel it to strengthen my body. I could feel my muscles vibrate, my skin harden slightly, before... well, before I'd probably faint shortly after. But hey, progress is progress! Who needs dignity when there's power at hand, right?
My Aunt Tasha? Oh, she was another story. If I didn't know better, I'd say she looked at me like she was about to exorcize me with a broom. "That child is possessed," I could almost hear her thoughts. And to be fair, considering the questions I asked—questions a seven-year-old certainly shouldn't be pondering—I can understand her suspicion. Oh, and old Darla called me a "little monster." Honestly, I think that was her peculiar way of complimenting me.
This world was a snack of mysteries, and I was starving, ready to devour every crumb. The only problem? I was trapped, like a bird in a gilded cage, hearing the song of mysteries outside but unable to fly to them. Frustrating? Doesn't even begin to cover it! I was no longer the powerful mage I used to be. Now, I was "Aiden," a commoner with dirt-stained hands and a future as clear as a morning in Winterfell.
"I need to be careful..." A thought crossed my mind, as my eyes skimmed over the yellowed pages of the book in my hands. The smell of mold was oddly comforting now, almost like a hug from an old friend you hadn't seen in years. At least this book knew more than most people here.
My stomach growled, but who had time to eat when there was so much to uncover? Until, of course, the wooden door decided to creak open, as if waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt my little peace. I lifted my eyes, already prepared to face whoever the intruder was, and there she was. Always with that dramatic air.
I let out a sigh—a mix of exhaustion and irritation. Ah, time. How it took hold of people and sculpted them, or rather, wore them down like a stone being eaten away by the sea. The person before me seemed to have carried the weight of a thousand years, with life's marks engraved in every wrinkle and spot on her skin. Commoners like us didn't age. We were devoured by time, burning out too quickly until we were nothing but ashes.
But for now, I still had a few good pieces of me left.
When my mother finally entered the room, she closed the door with a softness that contrasted with the heavy air. The room, always stuffy, seemed to shrink even more in the space between us. I watched her as she approached, trying to convey some serenity upon seeing the book in my hands. Yet her eyes betrayed a slight contortion, as if the very object offended her.
— You're reading again? — her voice echoed firm, a distant thunder signaling the coming storm. The hidden disdain, like poison mixed with courtesy, made every word cut deep.
— Sorry, mother. — my response was almost automatic, tired. The sound left me without soul, as my shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. I knew what was coming, knew that nothing I said would appease her fury. It was as if we were trapped in an unbreakable cycle—the same words, the same actions.
She moved with the stiffness of someone accustomed to carrying too many burdens, as if life itself was a weight she couldn't let go of. Her reproaches were like chains, invisible and suffocating, keeping me captive in an emotional prison I barely understood. Perhaps, deep down, she believed she was right. That somehow, her resentment would be enough to shape the son she needed.
— You should be helping in the garden. — she said, her voice cold and sharp, like the blade of a war axe. Her eyes darkened, signaling the coming storm of reproaches I would once again have to face.
I wanted to argue, maybe quote some wise passage from one of the ancient mages I had read — something about the importance of knowledge for personal growth. But I knew it would be as effective as trying to stop a catapult with a bird's feather.
— Are these books going to fill our table? — The rhetorical question was shot like a poisoned arrow.
I sighed deeply, standing up as if every part of my body were covered in iron plates. The weight wasn't just physical fatigue, but a frustration growing stronger every day. The garden, magic, my mother... nothing seemed to be progressing. Maybe it was time to admit that, for now, in terms of magic and family relationships, I was... how to say... somewhat tragic.
My mother was a storm, shaped by life's disappointments and bitterness. She poured all of it onto me, and I was the only one bearing the weight of her emotions. My father, the knight who had abandoned us, was the ghost that haunted our home, a silent presence that filled me with contempt. The heroic tales about knights were nothing but lies; I knew that better than anyone.
— Please, mother... — my voice came out soft, almost childlike, as I glanced at the book in my hands, as if it was the only refuge I had left. — Just a little longer...
She looked at me with hardness, but for a brief moment — a tiny, fleeting moment — I saw something else in her eyes. Vulnerability? No, it was too quick. Before I could decipher it, her gaze was sharp again, like a blade.
— Absolutely not! — her hand trembled slightly as she pointed to the door. — You will help in the garden, and that's final. Don't be useless!
Her tone struck me like a whip. It was always like this: I would shrink back, and she would command. But in that moment, I felt something different inside me. Anger was growing, spiraling like a serpent ready to strike. Why did she always treat me this way? Why did life always punish me?
— Do you think it's easy living in this filthy place? — and again, my voice came out harsher than I intended, my words sharp like stones rolling in my throat. My fingers tightened around the book, my knuckles turning white. The anger inside me flared, a flame I had tried to keep under control for too long.
She stepped closer, her breath almost audible, a heavy rhythm that blended with the tension in the air.
— How dare you speak to me like that? — her voice was a sharp blade, cutting through any attempt at reconciliation. — You are just an ungrateful child!
My hands were trembling, but not from fear. I was tired, tired of staying silent, tired of being just a reflection of her frustrations. Something in me snapped.
— Maybe it's because all you do is criticize me! You and that witch of a grandmother! — the words escaped before I could stop them, carrying a fury I didn't even know existed. She seemed stunned, as if my sudden boldness was something she had never imagined witnessing.
Before I could process what was happening, her hand struck my face with force. Pain exploded in my cheek, hot and throbbing. I staggered, dazed, my vision blurred for a second. And then, before any rational thought could reach me, she hugged me, her arms wrapping around me with desperate urgency.
— I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... — she whispered, as if her words could somehow heal the hurt.
We stayed like that, trapped in the embrace of an emotional storm. She cried silently, her body trembling against mine. Normally, I would accept her apologies, swallow my frustration, and move on. But this time, something had changed. I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of waiting for things to get better.
When she finally let go, there was nothing left to say. I walked away, leaving the book on an old, small dresser, and as I approached the door, I gripped the handle, glancing one last time at the woman who was my mother in this new life. Then, I left the room, my heart heavy and my thoughts as dark as the night that was soon to fall.
"Not a child," the voices in my head echoed incessantly, questioning and chastising me with cruel precision. "Why are you behaving so childishly?!"
It felt like an internal battle, a duel between my old self and the new, both fighting for control of my emotions and reason. One tried to dominate the other, with no sign of truce in sight.
— It's a real hell — I muttered, the weight of frustration slipping from my lips, muffled like a lament, as I made my way to the field.
The houses around, as fragile as dry leaves, barely withstood the passage of time, their foundations crumbling like shattered dreams. Men and women moved among them, their faces marked by relentless labor, hands calloused and eyes heavy with exhaustion. Amid scattered laughter and hushed whispers, they shared simple stories of love and loss, as if those narratives were their last refuge. Children, oblivious to the harshness of life, ran through the dirt streets, their feet kicking up dust and stumbling over loose bricks, playing among the weeds that grew as reminders of neglect.
The sky, vast and indifferent, stretched above, a boundless blue that seemed to completely ignore my suffering. Finally, I arrived at the garden.
As I approached the rows of vegetables, I spotted a wicker basket discarded on the ground, an insignificant object, as if it no longer had an owner. With a quick gesture, I picked it up, and soon my nimble fingers began working among the green leaves and colorful fruits. The sun, climbing ever higher on the horizon, heated the air around me, the warmth intensifying and causing sweat to drip down my skin, mixing with the dirt that clung to my body, forming a dirty film, testimony to my constant struggle.
Over time, the work became a welcome distraction. Harvesting the vegetables, feeling the touch of the leaves and the weight of the fruits in my hands, was a simple, repetitive task, almost hypnotic. Each of my movements seemed to drown, if only for a moment, the internal storms that tormented me. And as I filled the basket with vegetables of all sizes, a bitter smile grew on my face, reflecting the contrast between the physical burden I bore and the much deeper pains I carried.
But the mind, treacherous as ever, soon drifted. The tranquility of the fields, which should have been a refuge, only stirred memories I wished to forget. I lost myself in the harvest, seeking some relief from the consuming pain, as if each vegetable pulled from the earth could take away a piece of my suffering. The wild herbs swayed gently in the breeze, while distant birds sang their melodies, perhaps trying to remind me that there was beauty amidst the chaos.
Basket after basket, the sweat trickled down my face, mixing with the dust of the ground, as though even the sky was weeping for me. I had lost count of how many times I had repeated the process. When I carried what seemed like the eighteenth basket, my arms trembled, the muscles burning in protest, and the veins beneath my skin stood out, pulsing under the scorching heat.
Then, my strength failed me. The basket slipped from my hands, and the vegetables scattered across the ground in a spectacle of disaster.
— DAMN IT! — The word came out as a primal roar, the anger boiling in my chest as I watched the vegetables roll away, as if mocking my exhaustion. Distant laughter from the villagers echoed around me, but it was far off, lost in the sound of my own heartbeat, thundering in my head like a drum.
My hands trembled, not only from the physical effort but from the torrent of emotions flooding through me. I stared at the fallen vegetables at my feet, a silent reflection of my own weakness.
— Hell... Hell... Hell! — I muttered repeatedly, each word laden with the weight of frustration, reverberating in the air like a muffled cry of helplessness.
I knelt, trying to gather the scattered vegetables. Every movement was a struggle against the exhaustion that accumulated in my muscles. As I attempted to tidy the mess, I realized I no longer had the strength to continue. So, I decided to give in to the exhaustion.
I lay on my back on the ground, arms crossed under my head, and let my gaze wander to the sky. The clouds formed strange shapes—dragons, fairies, castles floating, like reflections of a distant past. I recalled the days when I mastered magic, shaping the elements around me with the ease of a minor god. Back then, I was a force to be feared, and the world bowed before me.
Now, I was nothing more than an exhausted commoner, sprawled under the sun like any other. How had I come to this point? A soft, bitter voice echoed in my mind:
— Never... — a whisper escaped, like an echo of something lost. — This will never happen. Not as long as you remain in this place.
I closed my eyes, searching, for a moment, for a way to escape this prison that was my body and my life.
But soon, something covered the sun; a shadow cast itself over me.
— Hey...
The sweet yet insistent voice that interrupted my rest made me slowly open my eyes, a mix of curiosity and impatience taking over me. No words came from her mouth, but the slight smile on her face said everything that needed to be said.
— What is it? — I asked, already bracing myself for the teasing that often irritated a seven-year-old. The woman I knew as Tasha, my aunt, glanced at the mess I had made, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips.
— Hey, kid! What are you doing lying there? Have you forgotten what you were working on? Are there no more tasks to be done? — her voice was a cheerful melody, tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
— Just three more baskets left... — I muttered, avoiding her bright gaze, which reflected a good-natured mischief. — I just took a moment to rest...
She raised an eyebrow slightly, keeping that mischievous smile while gesturing toward the vegetables scattered on the ground.
— This isn't rest, Aiden. This is pure laziness!
I took a deep breath, her words seeping into me like poison.
— I'm not being lazy, I just took a break. I've been working all day! — i defended myself, my voice betraying a hint of desperation.
She let out a laugh, clearly amused by my irritation.
— Oh sure, you've worked SO hard, right? — she mocked, dramatically gesturing toward the fallen vegetables.
I sighed, resigned. The absence of a convincing response seemed to have a stronger impact than my frustrated words. For a brief moment, I considered acting childishly and kicking her ankle, thinking I might get away with it. A small smile crept onto my lips as I imagined the scene.
She sighed and shook her head lightly, as if I were a mischievous child. Without hesitation, she sat down beside me on the ground. The scent of the earth, mixed with fresh herbs and the fragrance of wildflowers, created an almost magical atmosphere, as if we were in an enchanted realm where every plant had its own story to tell.
— So, what's your plan now, hero of the field? — Tasha asked, a playful glint in her eyes. — Gonna lie here and wait for the fairies to do the work for you?
As she spoke, an involuntary smile spread across my face. The simplicity of peasant life, with its struggles and laughter, still managed to remind me of the beauty that existed amidst the pain.
— What are you thinking, kid? — Tasha asked, using that exasperated tone she often adopted with me, as if talking to a child who didn't understand the gravity of life.
— Aunt... — I paused briefly, the words weighing on my mind. — Don't you feel exhausted by all this too? — I spoke softly, in a voice more childish than I intended, as if a part of me was trying to steer the conversation to a place where I could be heard.
She seemed a little surprised by my question, but her tone remained unchanged, like a gentle breeze that didn't falter in the face of storms.
— Exhausted by what? — she asked, tilting her head slightly, her dark hair gleaming under the sunlight.
I leaned forward slightly, making a broad gesture with my hands, pointing to the vast field that stretched out before us, filled with vegetables and wildflowers swaying in the wind.
— Exhausted by this! — I exclaimed sulkily, frustration rising in my chest. Maybe this defiance seemed strange to her eyes, a young peasant boy amidst endless fields. — There's no freedom in this...
Tasha looked at me, a hint of understanding emerging on her face. The field, with its vibrant colors and enveloping aromas, felt like a maze without an exit, where endless tasks overshadowed hope. Routine became a burden, and the idea of freedom, a distant echo.
For a brief moment, she remained silent, seemingly reflecting on what I had said. The silence around us was profound, broken only by the song of birds and the rustling of leaves.
Then, she let out a soft laugh, as if she were dealing with a mischievous child.
— Oh, Aiden, you're too young to worry about that.
In an instant, I turned quickly to look her in the eyes, frustration burning like a flame. It wasn't fair for her to dismiss my discontent.
— This has nothing to do with age! It's not fair! I spend a lot of time working, without time off, without freedom. Do you think this is fair? Do you think I should just accept this situation? — my voice rose, a mix of indignation and despair.
Her nimble fingers acted quickly, flicking me on the forehead. The pain was light, but the intention was clear. Her voice came out gentle, as if trying to soothe my concerns, but also prevent me from continuing down that path of despair.
— Of course it can be tiring, boy. Without dedicating ourselves to work, we will not be able to feed ourselves or have a roof over our heads. Can you understand this? — her tone was almost maternal, as if each word carried the weight of something more.
I let out a deep sigh, feeling a slight wave of frustration as her words echoed in me like a distant truth I already knew but didn't want to accept.
— I understand, but there are limits. It feels like every day is just a constant repetition... Harvest, harvest, and harvest. Isn't there anything else to do besides work? — my voice grew quieter, a whisper lost among the sounds of nature.
Tasha watched me with a look that mixed empathy and understanding. The flowers around us seemed to sway as if they were listening to our conversation, and a light breeze passed by, bringing with it the scent of moist earth and freshly cut grass. The simple scene was, in a way, magical, but I couldn't see the beauty at that moment. The feeling of being trapped was overwhelming, like invisible chains binding me to a fate I hadn't chosen.
She sighed, her hands resting gently on her knees.
— I understand, Aiden. The work can be heavy, but it's through it that we build our lives. However, that doesn't mean we can't find joy even in the simplest tasks. Sometimes, we just need to change our perspective — she said, her tone now softer, like a tea to soothe the stress building up inside me.
Those words echoed in my heart, challenging me to reconsider my situation. If I could find some form of freedom even amid hard work, perhaps the burden I carried could be a little lighter.
My aunt's expression subtly shifted, and an understanding look appeared in her eyes. Tasha recognized the anguish surrounding this situation, but like all commoners, she had no choice but to accept the life that had been given to her. I understood that, but it didn't stop the rebellion growing inside me.
— Though it seems endless, there is beauty in the act of cultivating. We can gain essential values like responsibility and perseverance — she said, her voice as gentle as the rustling leaves in the wind.
A bitter laugh echoed inside me. Those ideas, those principles, felt so distant from my reality. What I truly craved was independence, excitement, influence. To feel the power pulsing in my veins again.
Tasha gave me a discreet glance, then looked up at the sky, where white clouds slowly danced. Her voice was filled with resignation and melancholy.
— There's not much we can do. — she whispered, as if speaking to a lost bird. — This is our reality, and we have to accept it... We came into this world for this purpose. — A faint smile returned to her face as she looked at me with playful eyes. — You've been reading too many books!
I chuckled resignedly, shaking my head with a weak expression. She noticed, and with a caring gesture, ran her hand through my hair, messing it up, as if trying to fill something missing in my life. In both her world and mine, there were similarities. The peasants from there and here shared a common burden: they were trapped in miserable lives, with no hope of change, always bent under the authority of nobles. With anger and frustration, I turned my gaze to the field, watching the other workers in their daily tasks, sweating under a sun that seemed so far from our freedom.
Tasha stood up from the ground, brushing off the dirt clinging to her thick clothing, while the flowers around her bent gently, as if appreciating her grace. Then she bent down again, gathering the vegetables scattered across the grass and placing them in the basket. Each of her movements was swift and methodical. After finishing, she shot me a simple smile, somewhat teasing, as if amused by my annoyed expression. She was really irritating, but deep down, I knew she was trying to be kind and gentle in her own way.
— Are you planning to sit there all day, or are you going to give me a hand? — she teased, her cheerful voice mixing with the birdsong.
— Mhhmm, Aunt, I'm just taking a break. Could you carry that for me this time? — I made sure to use a softer, more innocent tone, as if asking a friend.
Aunt Tasha looked at me with an uncertain gaze, a hint of suspicion evident in her expression. She was clearly sharp and didn't miss the chance to tease a bit more.
— Of course, 'my lord,' of course! I'll carry the basket for you... But only if you ask me properly — she said, her voice full of irony.
— Please, Aunt, I beg you... — I pleaded, tilting my head slightly and joining my hands in a supplicating gesture. — Do you have any idea how much I love you, Aunt?
She tried to keep a serious expression but couldn't hold back a weak laugh that escaped her lips. Then, as usual, she tried to disguise her joy in false irritation. She shot me a disapproving look, but soon her face broke into a wide smile, lighting up her features.
— Oh, now you say you love me after saying you hated all this. How convenient, don't you think? — I saw her face twist as she tried to hold in her laughter. But she couldn't resist and gave in to my request, laughing as if she were enjoying herself.
— Ooh, fine!! All right, all right. I'll carry the basket for you! — she said, picking up the basket with a dramatic gesture. — And it's only because I love you too! — and she added playfully.
My back hit the ground again, and a mischievous smile crossed my lips. As I watched her walk away, my innocent expression faded, replaced by a more serious one.
— Soon, I'll be out of here. — I whispered to the fresh winds caressing my skin. — First, I need to regain my power.
If anyone had been there at that moment, they would have noticed the peculiar difference between my childlike appearance and the determined, almost frightening expression that now took over my face. A burning flame of ambition began to reignite within me, and the hope of freedom became more tangible with each passing moment.