Chapter 1: Rebirth in the Riverlands

The darkness enveloped Ivar in a suffocating embrace, weightless and eternal. His memories swirled like a storm—chaotic flashes of his previous life. He remembered lecturing students on medieval strategy, debating the nuances of the War of the Roses, and late nights correcting essays by the dim glow of his desk lamp. A history teacher, a man obsessed with the past, now feeling as though he had no future.

Then came the light.

It wasn't warm or welcoming, but blinding, searing his senses as if someone had struck him across the face. Ivar gasped, his lungs drawing in air as though he'd been underwater for hours. The sharp smell of earth and grass invaded his nostrils, and the warmth of the midday sun kissed his face.

Disoriented, he sat up, clutching at the ground beneath him. The coarse texture of dirt and the prick of dry grass against his palms felt too real, too vivid. His chest heaved, and his heart thundered in his ears.

Where am I?

Blinking rapidly to clear the light from his eyes, he scanned his surroundings. He was on a small hill, overlooking a patchwork of farmland that stretched to the horizon. A winding river cut through the landscape, shimmering under the sun. A village lay in the distance, its cluster of wooden homes and thin plumes of smoke reminding him of a time long past.

And then it hit him.

This isn't my world.

His breathing quickened as panic clawed at him. His hands—small, pale, and delicate—drew his gaze. They weren't the hands of a 35-year-old man but those of a boy. A wave of nausea swept over him as his mind scrambled for an explanation. He scrambled to his feet, wobbling like a fawn, and stumbled to the edge of the hill, his eyes darting across the unfamiliar landscape.

"Ivar!" a voice called out, sharp and commanding.

Ivar turned, his legs weak beneath him. A man in a simple gray cloak was ascending the hill, his graying hair and weathered face betraying decades of hardship. Behind him were two younger men, each armed with a short sword. The older man's eyes softened when they met Ivar's.

"My lord," the man said, bowing his head slightly. "The village council awaits your command. They need guidance now more than ever."

Ivar opened his mouth to speak but stopped. My lord? Memories that weren't his own began to surface, hazy at first but growing sharper with each passing second. He wasn't just a boy; he was Ivar Sunblode, the only son of Ser Duncan Sunblode, a minor knight who had died just days ago. At ten years old, Ivar had inherited not only his father's title but also his lands—a small island in the Riverlands.

As the memories settled, so did something else: ambition.

"I'll address the council," Ivar said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the turmoil inside him.

The older man—his steward, Garen—nodded, his expression a mixture of relief and respect. "Very good, my lord. The people need to hear from you. Times are difficult, but with your leadership, we can overcome them."

Ivar said nothing, following Garen down the hill. Each step felt surreal, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him.

The Village

When they reached the village, Ivar's heart sank. The place was a shadow of what it could be. The houses were small and crude, cobbled together with timber and mud. Chickens pecked at the dirt paths, and emaciated villagers moved listlessly about their chores. The smell of unwashed bodies and stagnant water hung heavy in the air.

Garen led him to a wooden platform in the center of the village, where a small crowd had gathered. Men and women of all ages looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity, desperation, and skepticism.

Ivar stepped onto the platform, his stomach twisting. This is it. My first test.

He raised his hands for silence, and the murmurs died down. Clearing his throat, he began.

"People of Sunblode Isle," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "I know these past few days have been hard. My father's death has left a void, and many of you fear for the future. But I stand before you now as your lord, and I swear to you: this is not the end. It is a beginning."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"For too long, our lands have been neglected," he continued, gesturing to the surrounding farmland. "We have fertile soil, a river rich with fish, and strong hands ready to work. Yet we barely survive. That changes today. Together, we will rebuild. We will prosper. And Sunblode Isle will become the envy of the Riverlands."

The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. One man, grizzled and scarred, stepped forward. "Big words for a boy," he said, his tone laced with doubt. "How do we know you can deliver on them?"

Ivar's gaze hardened. He took a step forward, meeting the man's eyes. "Because I know this land's potential better than anyone. My father may be gone, but I have his blood—and his vision. If you're willing to work with me, I will show you what we can achieve."

The man hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "We'll hold you to that, boy."

Ivar turned back to the crowd, his confidence growing. "We start tomorrow. The river will be cleared for irrigation, the fields replanted, and the roads repaired. This is our home, and together, we will make it thrive."

The Cheat System

Later that night, Ivar sat alone in his father's study, the flickering light of a lantern casting long shadows across the room. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, but his mind was alight with possibilities.

Then it happened.

A sharp sensation, like a bell ringing in his mind, made him jolt. Before him, a translucent blue interface appeared, hovering in mid-air.

[Welcome, User.]

[Daily Points: 10. Use them wisely.]

Ivar's breath caught. "A cheat system?" he whispered.

The interface expanded, revealing a series of categories: Knowledge, Items, Training, Soldiers, Facilities, and Special Skills. Each category was filled with options, each more enticing than the last.

His eyes landed on Soldiers, and his pulse quickened.

[Soldiers Available: 10 Enhanced Warriors.]

He selected the option, and a detailed description appeared. The soldiers would be superhuman—stronger, faster, and more durable than ordinary men. They would obey his commands without question and could be summoned instantly.

He hesitated for only a moment before making his choice. The interface shimmered, and in an instant, ten figures materialized in the room.

They were tall and broad-shouldered, their muscles rippling beneath simple leather armor. Each knelt before him, their gazes unwavering.

"We live to serve you, my lord," the one at the front said, his voice deep and steady.

Ivar stared at them, his mind racing. These weren't just soldiers—they were weapons, tools to forge his destiny.

"This is only the beginning," he said, a cold smile spreading across his face.