Thud!

 The makeshift dumbbell hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust on impact. A drop of sweat fell from the stick handle to the dry soil below. Labored breathing echoed nearby as Seth collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. Whatever was left of the light from the darkening sky reflected off his sweaty forehead. His limbs trembled as he struggled to catch his breath.

 "I guess it's time to go now," Seth muttered to himself, not quite ready to leave the forest's quiet solitude behind. He pushed the dumbbell beneath a tree, adding it to the hidden collection of similar makeshift weights. He crouched down, using thick underbrush to cover the weights, making sure they blended seamlessly with the forest floor.

 With a sigh, Seth stood back up and hoisted the large bundle of foraged herbs onto his back. It was time to return to the castle before the yeoman lost his temper again.

 Seth walked hastily, trying to regulate his breathing as he made his way along the familiar path, his steps steady despite the short journey's exertion. As he moved further, the greenery around him gradually thinned, until he reached a barricaded two-meter wall made of gray stones common in the area. The cement-like material binding the stones had weathered over time, showing cracks and wear. The yellowish-gray wall was topped with embedded shards of broken glass, glinting like teeth in the fading light.

 He took a sharp right, staying close to the wall until he reached a gate guarded by medieval-looking knights. He wasn't alone, so he moved to the back of the queue behind the waiting carriages and people on foot. This was the town of Melloumere, where he had been living.

 After standing idly and occasionally shuffling forward in line, it was finally his turn. The guard's frown seemed permanently etched into his features, as if carved by a skilled craftsman. He glanced at Seth's dirty yellow, coarse linen long-sleeve shirt and brown pants. Seth's face was streaked with grime, no different from a coal miner's, and his hair was rough and unkempt, though still cut short.

 Seth could see the disgust in the guard's eyes, partially hidden behind the helmet, but his own dark eyes and stoic expression betrayed nothing, even under the scrutiny.

 "Go on, you dirty rag!" yelled the guard.

 "Easy there, Bernard. If you keep yelling, you might lose your voice again," called the other guard from further inside the gate.

 "I can't help it, Walter, especially with this eyesore," said Bernard, grinning as he glanced at his co-worker.

 By this point, Seth was already a few steps ahead of the two guards, as he muttered, "Uncultured sh*t stains," under his breath. He could still hear the guards' laughter echoing behind him, fading with each step as his feet steadily tapped on the roughly paved stone ground.

 The people around him hurried along, each with their home as their destination. Nearby, a few merchant stalls were visible, their owners busy packing up for the day. As Seth continued through the residential area, the houses shifted from simple stone huts to larger, more luxurious buildings, reflecting the town's wealthier residents.

 At the center of town stood a modest castle made from the same gray stone as the town's wall. Seth approached the entrance, only to be stopped once again on his journey.

 "Stop right there," said another guard, this one wearing armor that looked sturdier than Bernard's and Walter's.

 "Seth, put down the herbs. You know the drill," the guard ordered as he approached. Seth dropped the herb pack from his shoulders, letting it hit the ground with a dull thud. At 5'7", he looked too thin to be considered healthy, his frame more wiry than robust.

 The guard proceeded to dismantle the herb pack, roughly checking inside before patting Seth down. Afterwards, he yelled, "CLEAR!" The gate creaked open, and Seth picked up the herbs again, the weight settling back onto his shoulders.

 As he walked through, his ears caught the guard's muttered words: "I hope Yeoman Gerg breaks one of your ribs someday."

 Seth paid it no mind. In the kingdom of Rocadia, being an orphan with no background—or wealth—meant even a guard outranked you. At least they had status and worth, he thought bitterly. The world was messed up, and that was Seth's conclusion.

 Seth moved along inside the castle. The first thing that came into view was a beautiful garden. He quickly took a side path meant for workers, skirting the garden's edge until he reached his destination: the workers' quarters. He dropped the herbs he'd foraged near the best-looking door and knocked lightly, three times. Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by low growling.

 The door swung open to reveal Greg, the Yeoman—a nearly six-foot-tall, beer-bellied, hairy man. His dirty red hair was tied back in a messy braid, and his bloodshot eyes glared out from a face framed by a rough, unkempt beard. The linen shirt's neckline showed a patch of his hairy chest, and he was in the midst of pulling his pants up, barefoot and unsteady. His unsettling gaze fixed on Seth.

 "Look who it is. Ungrateful brat. I asked you to bring more herbs. How many times do I have to say it?"

 "I went through the whole forest. This is all I could find," said Seth, keeping his head low.

 "I don't care. Go deeper if needed. You're lucky I'm in a good mood. Next time, bring more, or I'll break your legs."

 "Yes, Sir."

 "Oh, one more thing." Greg kicked Seth in the stomach so hard he fell back, struggling to keep from vomiting. His stomach churned, but after all, he'd only had a loaf of black bread to eat in the past two days.

 "Never interrupt my happy time, got that, slave boy?" Greg slammed the door shut, leaving Seth on the floor, curled up as he tried to adjust to the pain.

 After a while, Seth struggled to stand up again. His steps were unsteady as he walked toward the back of the workers' quarters. He could hear doors creaking open slightly, followed by mocking whispers drifting out from behind them. It felt as though fingers were pointing at his back as he made his way down the hellish corridor, moving like a broken kite.

 He finally reached a small, makeshift door and pushed it open. Inside was a rug he'd crafted from the stitched-together skins of dead animals, dried in the sun. A small pile of hay served as a pillow. That was all. He had to duck slightly to enter this "room," then lay down on his "bed." His legs curled up to fit in the cramped space as he stared up at the ceiling.

This used to be a storage area for the servants' food. Now, it was his "home." The outside world had grown dark, and the cold began to seep in, sending a chill through the air. His stomach still throbbed, but a small smirk appeared at the corner of his lips.

"This is a new chance," he whispered. "I will definitely use it well. I will get out of this hellhole."

 Seth removed his shirt and inspected his recent wound. He ran his hands over his arms. After three months of constant training, he could finally feel the separation between his shoulder muscles and arms. His abs were also starting to show, giving his thin frame some definition. Despite his slender build, his relentless effort and discipline had yielded visible results.

 He tried to keep his body fat as low as possible. For protein, he would occasionally hunt birds or squirrels in the forest, and once in a great while, he'd manage to catch a rabbit—making sure to hide the evidence.

 Seth probed his ribs, wincing slightly to check if any were broken. He was lucky this time; nothing felt out of place. The process was painful, but he'd become hardened to pain after all these months of struggle.

 After finishing his usual inspection, Seth stayed still, listening for any signs of movement outside his room. When he was sure the coast was clear, he began patting the wall on his left. His fingers found a groove, and with a gentle pull, a small section of the wall opened. He reached inside and pulled out a tightly packed blanket made from furred game hides.

 Seth wrapped the blanket around himself, finally breathing a sigh of relief. Warmth seeped into his body in this unforgiving world. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, recalling the struggles to survive with whatever he could scavenge. He remembered the small victories—each time one of his plans succeeded, the brief spikes of dopamine that made him feel alive. They were fleeting moments of light in a pit of darkness, tiny windows of happiness in this living hell.

 Then his thoughts wandered back to another life: sitting at a desk for hours, typing away on a keyboard. He remembered the endless struggle to meet monthly targets and living as a modern slave, in another world, perhaps another time and galaxy altogether.

But one thing was certain—he was a transmigrated person, and he used to be a salaryman.