Ryan's head throbbed as he opened his eyes, greeted by sunlight streaming through a cracked wooden window. He blinked, disoriented, as the musty scent of dirt and old straw filled his senses. Slowly sitting up, he found himself lying on a shabby cot covered in rough, patchy fabric.
The room was small, its walls made of warped planks barely holding together. A single rickety table stood in the corner, its surface cluttered with worn tools and a half-empty bowl of porridge.
Where am I? he thought. His last memory was of the battlefield—the screams of his men, the cold steel piercing his chest, and the final moments as he surrendered to death. But now… he was here, alive.
Swinging his legs off the cot, Ryan winced. His body felt weak and unfamiliar, as if it didn't belong to him. His hands, which once wielded swords with ease, were thin and calloused in a way that spoke of hard labor, not training. He stumbled to a small mirror propped against the wall and froze when he saw his reflection.
The face staring back wasn't his.
Gone were his sharp, noble features and piercing blue eyes. Instead, he saw a young man, no older than twenty, with scruffy black hair and dull, tired eyes. His skin was pale, and his cheeks were gaunt from hunger.
"Who… am I?" Ryan whispered, his voice hoarse and strained.
As if answering him, fragmented memories not his own began to surface—images of a harsh life filled with hunger, scorn, and struggle. A name echoed in his mind: Eran.
The door creaked open, and a stout, middle-aged woman entered, carrying a basket of firewood. She stopped short when she saw him sitting up.
"Well, you're finally awake," she said, her tone gruff but not unkind. "I thought you might've died after collapsing in the fields."
Ryan—no, Eran—stared at her, unsure of what to say. His head swirled with confusion. "Fields? What happened to me?"
The woman frowned, placing the basket on the floor. "You don't remember? Typical. Overworked and underfed, that's what. You passed out near the southern road, so I dragged you here. You're lucky the beasts didn't get you."
"Beasts?" Eran asked, his unease growing.
"Where have you been living?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "You know, magical creatures—wolves with fangs like swords, or worse. The usual dangers outside the village."
Her words confirmed it: this was not his world. Ryan had heard no talk of magic or beasts in his previous life. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus.
"Thank you," he said slowly. "For helping me."
The woman waved him off. "Don't thank me yet. You'll need to pay me back. Get your strength up, then find some honest work. I don't run a charity."
As she left the room, Eran slumped back onto the cot, his mind racing. He didn't know how or why he was here, but one thing was certain: his old life as Duke Ryan Arnold was gone. In its place was the life of a commoner named Eran.
Later that day, Eran ventured outside the hut. The village bustled with activity—merchants shouted about their wares, children ran barefoot through the streets, and laborers hauled sacks of grain to and fro. The roads were uneven and muddy, and the air carried a mix of farm animals and cooking fires.
Eran's stomach growled, a sharp reminder of his new reality. He spotted a vendor selling roasted potatoes and approached, only to realize he had no money.
The vendor frowned at him. "If you're not buying, move along. I don't have time for beggars."
Humiliated, Eran stepped back, his cheeks burning. He watched as a boy about Sam's age—his former steward's son—snatched a potato and darted into an alley. The vendor shouted after him, but the boy was gone in an instant.
As Eran wandered further, he overheard snippets of conversation from villagers.
"The taxes are killing us."
"Did you hear? Another farm got raided by beasts last night."
"If only the nobles cared. They're too busy feasting in their castles to notice us."
Eran clenched his fists. He had once been one of those nobles, blind to the struggles of the people beneath him. Now, he was living their reality.
As evening fell, Eran returned to the hut. The woman who had taken him in—Marla, as she introduced herself—offered him a bowl of thin soup. "Don't think this means you can stay forever," she warned. "You need to pull your weight."
Eran nodded. He spent the night staring at the ceiling, reflecting on his situation. He had lost everything—his title, his wealth, his power. But for the first time, he felt a strange sense of clarity.
"This is my second chance," he murmured to himself. "I won't waste it."
Though he didn't yet know how, Eran resolved to use his skills and knowledge to rise above his circumstances. Not for himself, but for those who couldn't fight for themselves. His journey as Eran, the commoner, had begun.