The steady creaking of the cart, the singing of birds. An idyll, isn't it? But against the backdrop of the dreadful headache that had hit me, all of it felt like a sharp knife stuck in my head. How awful I feel, if only anyone knew. Before I could fully grasp the reality and realize that I had a body again, I was overwhelmed by a flood of someone else's memories. Memories, by the way, did not try to neatly settle in my head, quite the opposite, they quickly flowed into nowhere. All I managed to retain was the language, my name, and vague images of relatives. So, now my name is Akira. There is no last name, it doesn't apply to peasants. Blackfeet should know their place and all that. Damn, where did he stuff me? I had the feeling that the bastard in the darkness was laughing his head off. Seriously! I would've preferred to be sent to Hueco Mundo, honestly. Judging by the memories I managed to keep, I'm on one of the carts of a peasant caravan heading to the Land of Fire. And not because life's been good.
So, what do we have? A dozen families of serfs, fleeing from the Land of Waves. Several failed harvests in a row, as a result, famine. Epidemics. Medicine is unavailable to peasants here. Being sick, as they say, is not recommended. Less than a third of the population of the village where the previous owner of my body lived survived! The names, by the way, sound suspiciously familiar. I've definitely come across this in some anime. But where exactly? Never mind, that's just a side note, time to look around. I propped myself up on my elbow and cautiously lifted my head.
Twelve carts, surrounded by weary men and women in dusty, un-dyed clothes, slowly crawled along the road. For every two carts, there was one ox; the speed of movement was of the "barely crawling" kind. Though, expecting more from the exhausted animals would've been a stretch, unless you were an eternal optimist. A gray-haired man was walking beside the cart where my body was resting. From the fragments of memories left, it was clear this was the father of the child I had inhabited. How amusing. I'm sincerely starting to view a complete stranger as my father. It seems that, besides the memories, I inherited something else from the previous body's owner. Alright, so the father is here. But where's the mother? I wasn't brought by a stork, for heaven's sake. Hmm. It seems I don't have a mother. Or rather, not anymore. I have only a few vague images in my memory, ones that involuntarily bring tears to my eyes. I sniffled. Damn, I'm falling apart.
My stomach grumbled in protest, I was terribly hungry. Well, not really. This body had wanted food a few days ago. But now I was desperately craving to eat! As soon as I closed my eyes, a juicy pork chop from the neck appeared in my mind. Damn! My stomach rumbled, and my mouth filled with saliva. But no, forget the chop. The problem was, there was almost no food. The last meal was... hmm... yesterday evening. A bowl of rice, slightly seasoned with dry vegetables. And of course, no oil. Drink? Slightly colored water with a faint tea smell. And again, my stomach grumbled. Alright, I need to stop thinking about food, or I'll definitely end up with a stomach ulcer at this young age.
In fact, the food we had was taken before the escape from the village by the local feudal lord's requisition. The bastard came to claim his share. As usual, in the battle between reason and justice, force won—the thirty armed and well-trained guards with naginatas were the trump card that angry peasants couldn't counter. After taking everything they could and couldn't, the samurai, the local lord of fate, left for his estate, taking some of the peasant women for the soldiers' enjoyment. After that, some of the villagers decided to try their luck in another country. Honestly, I had strong doubts anything good would come of it—sheep are sheared everywhere. Perhaps the feed will be slightly more plentiful. I felt like shouting, "Hey, I don't know who you are, but if you can hear me—get me out of here! This isn't what I signed up for!" In the rustling of the surrounding forest, I distinctly heard a chuckle. Something about this story doesn't sit right with me.
Fear. Paralyzing, sudden, coming from who knows where. With a terrible creak, right in front of the leading cart, a tree fell across the road. Then, with screams and curses, armed men began jumping out of the bushes. For a moment, I froze, paralyzed by fear—a wet snap as one of the attackers cleaved the head of the lead ox driver from shoulder to waist. Another strike, and already bloodied naginata slashed the throat of another fugitive. Feudal soldiers! Of course, the attackers wore cloaks with the same crest as the samurai. A sharp pain slapped my back.
"Under the cart, you fool!" a familiar voice yelled into my head angrily. Right, they told me—once it starts, hide under the cart. Without standing up, I crawled to the edge. The key was not to attract attention, then maybe I could survive. Climbing over the low cart rim, I dropped into the dust, and with a sharp pain in my bruised side, I crawled. One good thing, the wheels didn't have spokes, so I could probably hide behind the wooden rim wrapped with metal. I crawled under the cart, leaning my back against the wheel, pulling my knees to my chest. Outside, there were cries and the crackling sounds of naginata blades clashing with peasant clubs. No chance for the peasants—clubs and pitchforks against spears and swords, they didn't stand a chance.