Six years had passed since my rebirth, and how do I put this... I had truly come to love my new life.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. In my previous existence as James, I had commanded multiple estates, sprawling mansions, and entire apartment complexes that stretched across city blocks. Now I found myself in what could only be described as a medieval European village, living in a humble cottage with walls of rough-hewn stone and a thatched roof that leaked when the rains came hard.
The adjustment had been brutal, especially that first year. I remember lying awake at night, staring at the wooden beams oveIsabellad, my body aching from sleeping on straw mattresses while my mind reeled from the stark contrast. Where once I had silk sheets and temperature-controlled rooms, now I had wool blankets that scratched against my skin and winters that seeped through every crack in the walls.
Our cottage consisted of just two small rooms – barely larger than walk-in closets in my former mansions. Currently, I alternated between sleeping in my mother’s room and my sister’s room, curled up like a cat wherever there was space. But I knew this arrangement wouldn’t last much longer. As I grew, they would inevitably ask me to make do with the living room – if the cramped space near our cooking hearth could even be called that.
Unless, of course, I could convince them to let me continue sharing their beds if you know what I mean. But that would require careful maneuvering, and the timing wasn’t right yet.
Despite the humble circumstances, everything else was progressing wonderfully. Today, in particular, brought me genuine joy because after two long years of patient observation and careful cultivation, something extraordinary had finally happened.
Skill: Blacksmithing
Current Mastery:
Rank 1Progress to Rank 2: 20%
The notification appeared in my consciousness like a warm glow, and I couldn’t suppress the grin that spread across my face. Two years ago I had begun haunting Henrik’s smithy with the determination of a man possessed. What had started as curiosity about whether my Omni-Essence Assimilation ability could work on crafting skills had evolved into something much deeper.
I remembered those early days vividly. Henrik, the village blacksmith, was a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks and a beard that seemed to have a life of its own. His first reaction to my presence had been less than welcoming.
"Get out of here, boy!" He had bellowed, waving a still-glowing piece of iron in my direction. "This ain’t no place for children!"
But I had persisted, day after day, standing just outside his workshop in the morning mist, watching through the open doors as he worked his magic on metal and flame. Gradually, my genuine fascination wore down his resistance. When I began offering sincere compliments on his work – praising the elegant curve of a horseshoe or the perfect balance of a knife blade – something in his gruff exterior began to soften.
"You’ve got a good eye for metalwork, lad," he had admitted one afternoon, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Most folks just see the finished piece, not the craft that goes into it."
From that moment, our relationship had slowly transformed. While he still wouldn’t let me touch any of his tools – "One careless move and you’ll lose a finger, boy!" – he had begun to tolerate my presence, then actually enjoy it. As he worked, Henrik would regale me with stories from his younger days, tales of the great weapons he had forged, the nobles who had commissioned his work, and the adventures he’d had before settling in our quiet village.
Some stories were tedious rambles about the proper temperature for tempering steel. Others were boastful tales that I suspected grew more elaborate with each telling. But occasionally, he would share something truly fascinating – like the time he had forged a blade so perfect that it could cut through silk scarves dropped onto its edge, or the winter when he had kept the entire village fed by fashioning hunting implements from scrap metal.
I had learned patience in my previous life, often waiting months or even years for business deals to mature or political situations to shift in my favor. That same patience served me well now as I absorbed every detail of Henrik’s craft, from the way he judged the color of heated metal to the rhythm of his hammer strikes.
"Why are ya grinning like a fool, brat?" Henrik’s gruff voice cut through my reminiscence, his weathered face creased into its usual scowl. Despite his harsh words, I could see the hint of fondness in his eyes – a warmth that hadn’t been there two years ago.
"I wanted to thank you, gramps!" I said, unable to contain my excitement about finally acquiring the blacksmithing skill.
"I told ya not to call me like that, little brat!" Henrik raised his hammer threateningly, but his movements were slow and theatrical. I danced away, laughing as he shook his head in mock exasperation.
This was another revelation that still amazed me – the fundamental kindness of the people in this village. After spending decades navigating the treacherous waters of high society, where every smile concealed a dagger and every friendship was transactional, the simple honesty of these villagers felt like a miracle.
In my previous life, compliments were weapons, generosity was weakness, and trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Here, when Old Martha brought soup to sick neighbors without expecting anything in return, or when the village children shared their meager sweets with newcomers, I sometimes found myself stunned by the purity of their intentions.
Henrik’s gruff affection was just one example. Despite his complaints about my constant presence, he had never once turned me away when I appeared at his forge. He shared his knowledge freely, never asking what I might give him in return. In my former world, such generosity would have been impossible – there would have been contracts, negotiations, quid pro quo arrangements that bound both parties in webs of mutual obligation.
But here, in this simple village cottage life, relationships were built on something far more precious than mutual benefit. They were built on genuine human connection, and after six years, I was finally beginning to understand what I had been missing all along.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I acknowledged a truth though—I was still manipulating those around me, carefully orchestrating interactions to serve my purposes.
But at least unlike in my previous life, where I had destroyed the women who had crossed my path, I was being more... considerate. Strategic, yes, but not destructive.
My hunger for knowledge and skills drove me forward with an almost manic energy. Every conversation, every lesson, every moment spent with the villagers was calculated to bring me closer to my ultimate goal: escape. The old Henrik’s warnings about the dangers of the outside world echoed constantly in my thoughts, spurring me to prepare myself as thoroughly as possible. I couldn’t afford to leave this place unprepared, not when the real world waited beyond these protective walls with its unknown perils.
By the time I had reached my second birthday, my reputation had spread throughout the entire village. The adults would chuckle and shake their heads when they saw me approaching, already knowing I would bombard them with questions about their trades, their techniques, their secrets. Some found my curiosity endearing; others seemed slightly overwhelmed by the intensity of a toddler who spoke and reasoned far beyond his apparent years.
Today’s destination was the workshop of Martha, the village seamstress whose weathered fingers could work magic with needle and thread. Her small cottage, with its distinctive thatched roof and walls lined with bolts of colorful fabric, had become as familiar to me as my own home. Everyone in the village relied on Martha’s expertise—she crafted not only everyday clothing but also the elaborate tapestries that decorated the chief’s hall and the sturdy carpets that kept floors warm during harsh winters.
I had begun visiting Martha a year ago, drawn by the beautiful patterns she could create and the practical necessity of understanding how clothing was constructed. Unlike my sessions with Enrik, which had required months of patient observation and careful questioning, Martha had proven more receptive to teaching. Perhaps it was because sewing seemed less threatening than blacksmithing, or maybe she simply enjoyed having an eager audience for her work.
The familiar blue glow materialized at the edge of my vision as I walked:
Skill: TailoringCurrent
Mastery: Rank 1
Progress to Rank 2: 84%
My previous life’s experiences, combined with my analytical approach to learning, allowed me to grasp concepts and techniques that took others years to master. Still, I maintained the facade of a struggling apprentice, asking carefully crafted questions that would advance my knowledge without revealing the true extent of my abilities.
Well, I was still miles behind Martha’s skills that was why I continued to see her to get advice or see her in work.
In my quieter moments, I had already begun planning a special project: masterfully crafted garments for my mother and sister. The thought of seeing their faces light up when presented with clothes that would rival anything found in the great cities filled me with excitation. That was my way to thank to them to give me a family.
But for now, this remained my secret, tucked away with all the other plans and preparations I was making for our eventual departure from this place.
"Hal!"
The cheerful voice of a girl called me as I had been so absorbed in my internal planning but I ignored it purposefully.
"Hey, Hal!" The voice called again, more insistent this time, and I felt small fingers wrap around my arm.
I turned, already knowing what I would find. Rumia stood before me, her presence as bright and overwhelming as always. At barely six years old, she possessed a quiet beauty that was striking even at such a young age. Her blond curls, always perfectly arranged despite her active lifestyle, caught the morning sunlight like spun gold. The pale blue ribbon that held her hair back matched her eyes perfectly.
As the daughter of Village Chief Aldan, Rumia occupied a unique position in our small community. Every child our age vied for her attention, hoping that friendship with her might elevate their own status or provide access to privileges usually reserved for the chief’s family. She was the prize that every young boy in the village dreamed of impressing, the golden child whose favor could change one’s entire social standing.
And yet, for reasons I couldn’t entirely fathom, she had chosen to focus her attention on me.
Our relationship had begun two years ago with an incident. I had discovered Rumia crying behind the baker’s shop, her knee scraped and bleeding from a fall. Without thinking—or perhaps thinking too much—I had knelt beside her and used my healing magic to mend the wound. At the time, I had told myself it was merely an experiment, a chance to test my abilities on a living subject without the risk of exposure that would come from healing someone important.
The magic had worked perfectly, of course. The scraped skin had knitted itself back together, leaving only smooth, unblemished flesh where moments before there had been torn skin and flowing blood. Rumia had stared in wonder, her tears forgotten, and I had hastily concocted a story about special herbs my mother had taught me to use. Thankfully she bought it and she might have forgotten by now.
From that moment forward, she had been my constant companion—or at least, she had tried to be. Her chatter filled our walks through the village, her questions about my daily activities seemed endless, and her genuine interest in my thoughts and opinions had slowly worn down my initial resistance to her friendship.
I had to admit, there were practical benefits to our relationship. As the chief’s daughter, Rumia possessed access to areas of the village and information that would have taken me months to acquire through other means. Her innocent questions about her father’s work, her casual mentions of conversations she had oveIsabellard, and her ability to open doors that remained closed to other children had proven invaluable to my intelligence gathering.
But somewhere along the way, something had shifted. What had begun as a calculated alliance had evolved into something more complex, something that made me uncomfortable in ways I didn’t want to examine too closely. Rumia’s genuine affection, her unguarded trust, and her obvious joy in my company had begun to affect me in ways that didn’t align with my carefully constructed plans.
Well maybe I was exaggerating with how it affected me, she was a kid and I had been heartless with countless tearing women.
But the problem was that the other children in the village had noticed our friendship, of course. In a community as small as ours, every relationship was scrutinized and discussed. The boys especially seemed to regard me with a mixture of envy and hostility that grew stronger with each passing month. I could see it in their eyes when Rumia chose to sit beside me during village gatherings, or when she would seek me out to share some exciting discovery she had made.
"Why are you ignoring me?" Rumia asked, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.
"My name is Harold," I replied, trying to inject some distance into my tone. "Stop giving me nicknames."
It was a futile protest, and we both knew it. The nickname ’Hal’ had emerged naturally from our early conversations, and despite my objections, it had stuck. Worse, it had been adopted by other villagers, creating an intimacy between us that seemed to exist whether I wanted it or not.
The real problem with the nickname—and with our apparent closeness—was the attention it drew from my peers. Every time Rumia called me ’Hal’ in that affectionate tone, every time she chose my company over that of the other children, I could feel the resentment building around me like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
I had no interest in becoming embroiled in the petty rivalries and childish conflicts that seemed to dominate the lives of my age-mates. My goals were far more important than schoolyard politics, and I couldn’t afford to have my plans derailed by the jealousy of boys who saw me as competition for Rumia’s attention.
Because I had no interest in a six year old little girl! I wasn’t a lolicon! The only woman I genuinely loved currently was my mother!
"But I like calling you Hal," Rumia continued, seemingly oblivious to my internal struggle. "It suits you better than Harold. Harold sounds so... formal."
"I should go," I said abruptly, pulling my arm free from her grasp. "Martha will be wondering where I am."
It was a lie as I always intruded myself into her house.
"Can I come with you?" Rumia asked hopefully.
I was about to refuse when I realized that Martha might be more willing to share information about her customers if Rumia was present. The seamstress had a soft spot for the chief’s daughter, and people often spoke more freely around children, assuming they weren’t really listening or wouldn’t understand the significance of what they heard.
"Fine," I said, trying to sound reluctant even as I recognized the strategic value of her presence. "But don’t get in the way."
Rumia beamed at me, her earlier hurt forgotten in the excitement of being included in my plans.