Kael'tar groaned as sunlight pierced through the cracks of the shabby wooden roof above him.
He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
The room was small, barely large enough to fit the rickety bed he lay on and a broken chair in the corner. The walls were made of uneven planks, and the floor was just packed dirt.
"Wonderful," he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. "From a palace of obsidian to... this. I've been demoted from Emperor to peasant overnight."
Kael'tar complained for a few seconds before getting up.
Kael'tar went to the fields.
The fields were miserable.
Endless rows of dirt stretched into the distance, with the sun beating down mercilessly.
The tools were crude, and the labor was backbreaking.
Kael'tar's new body struggled to keep up, his hands blistering after only an hour of work.
Kael'tar sat on the edge of a rickety wooden bench, staring at his calloused hands.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, the action only emphasizing his current plight.
The body was frail, weak, and wholly unremarkable—nothing like the vessel he once possessed as the Demon Emperor.
"Alright," he muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation as he surveyed his surroundings. "This isn't hell. But it might as well be."
It's been three days since he reincarnated in this... this place.
The small hut he now inhabited was barely standing, its walls crooked, patched with straw, and weathered by years of neglect.
Outside, a chicken cackled triumphantly after stealing a half-rotten cabbage from a patch of weeds that could generously be called a garden.
Kael'tar pinched the bridge of his nose. "A thousand years of ruling demons and conquering realms... and I've been reduced to competing with poultry."
A loud knock on the door startled him from his thoughts.
The door creaked open without waiting for an invitation, revealing a gruff old man with a thick beard and a scowl that could curdle milk.
"Oi, Carseain!" Haron barked, referring to Kael'tar by this body's name. "The fields won't plow themselves. You've got half a day before the overseer shows up, and if you haven't done your share—"
"I'll get it done," Kael'tar interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. The old man blinked, momentarily taken aback, before scoffing and slamming the door shut behind him.
Kael'tar sighed. "Plowing fields. Fantastic."
He stood, every muscle in his borrowed body protesting.
His joints ached, his back felt like it might snap, and he was fairly certain that just lifting the plow would kill him outright.
As he trudged outside, he took in the sprawling fields.
Endless rows of dry, cracked soil stretched before him. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the occasional gust of wind carried the scent of manure.
He glanced at the wooden plow leaning against a nearby shed. It looked older than this body and twice as fragile.
Kael'tar crossed his arms, his crimson eyes narrowing as he muttered to himself, "I once commanded legions of demons to reshape mountains and rivers. And now I'm supposed to reshape dirt with... that."
Kael'tar trudged outside, the smell of manure and damp earth assaulting his senses.
Chickens pecked at the ground, and a scraggly dog barked at him from a distance.
It was a far cry from the grandeur of his throne room atop Sky Peak.
He picked up a rusted bucket and began scattering feed, his expression a mix of irritation and resignation. "The Demon Emperor reduced to a chicken-feeder. If Azarion could see me now, he'd die of laughter."
A particularly bold chicken flapped its wings and jumped onto the bucket, scattering the feed everywhere.
Kael'tar scowled at the bird. "You dare defy me, mortal creature? Do you know who I am?"
The chicken stared back, unimpressed, then pecked at his hand.
"Enough!" Kael'tar swatted the bird away, muttering under his breath. "One day, I'll be back on top, and you'll regret this insolence."
The chicken that had stolen his cabbage strutted by, clucking smugly.
Kael'tar glared at it. "Laugh it up, feathered menace. You're lucky I'm not a fan of poultry."
As he grabbed the plow and dragged it into the field, memories of his past life surfaced.
The power, the glory, the sheer terror he inspired—it all felt like a distant dream. Yet, his resolve only hardened.
"I'll rise again," he vowed, his voice low but firm. "This body may be weak, but my soul remains unyielding. This world hasn't seen the last of Kael'tar."
The plow caught on a rock, sending him stumbling face-first into the dirt.
He spat out a mouthful of soil, glaring at the ground as if it had personally wronged him. "You win this round, dirt. But mark my words—I'll have my revenge."
For now, though, he had a field to plow.