Morning came without kindness.
Cold air slipped through the cracks of the wooden walls, brushing against Charles's skin like thin blades. The blanket over him was rough, barely enough to hold warmth. When he opened his eyes, his body ached as if it had been beaten in his sleep.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He simply lay there… listening.
Thunk.
Metal struck wood outside.
Thunk… thunk.
A steady rhythm.
Somewhere nearby, a man cursed under his breath. Not loudly—just enough to release frustration before continuing his work.
Chickens clucked. A goat bleated harshly. Footsteps passed by the house—heavy, tired, purposeful.
No laughter.
No ease.
Only… survival.
Charles exhaled slowly.
"…so this is morning here."
His voice was quiet, dry.
In his previous life, mornings had been soft.
Filtered sunlight through clean glass. The distant hum of machines. Nurses speaking in low, controlled tones. Even suffering had been… managed.
Contained.
Here—
Nothing was contained.
Everything was raw.
He forced himself to sit up.
Pain answered immediately.
A sharp pull ran through his chest, and his arms trembled from something as simple as supporting his own weight.
"…pathetic."
The word wasn't filled with self-pity.
Just fact.
Another sound cut through the morning.
Metal scraping.
Charles turned slightly toward the window.
Through the uneven frame, he caught a glimpse—
A man sharpening an axe against stone.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Each stroke precise.
Charles watched in silence.
The blade wasn't polished. The handle wasn't elegant.
But it was… real.
A tool.
A weapon.
His mind shifted.
And then—
Memories surged again.
White sheets.
A machine beeping in a steady rhythm.
A doctor speaking carefully, choosing words that didn't sound like death—even when they meant it.
"Chronic."
"Unstable."
"We'll do what we can."
Charles closed his eyes.
His fingers curled slightly.
In that life—
He had never needed strength.
Everything had been done for him.
Food brought.
Medicine prepared.
Pain managed.
Here?
He looked down at his thin hands.
Callouses were faint, barely formed.
This body… had worked.
But not enough.
Not hard enough.
Not strong enough.
"There are no hospitals here…"
The realization came slowly.
But once it settled—
It didn't leave.
"If I fall sick again…"
His voice dropped.
"…I die."
No machines.
No medicine.
No second chances.
Charles opened his eyes again.
And this time—
There was no confusion left in them.
Only clarity.
Survive.
The door creaked open.
"Up already?"
Vaner stepped in, carrying the scent of earth and cold air with him. His eyes swept over Charles once, sharp and assessing.
"…good."
Not praise.
Just acknowledgment.
"Come," Vaner said, turning back toward the door. "If you can stand, you can walk."
Charles didn't argue.
He swung his legs down slowly, biting back the wave of dizziness that followed.
The ground felt colder than yesterday.
Harder.
More real.
Step.
His legs trembled.
Step.
His breathing grew uneven.
But he followed.
Outside—
The world expanded.
The village was small.
Smaller than it had felt through memory.
A handful of houses, scattered unevenly across dry, cracked land. Smoke rose thinly from a few chimneys. People moved without wasting motion—each step tied to purpose.
No one lingered.
No one idled.
Charles took it in silently.
This wasn't a place people lived.
This was a place people endured.
Vaner didn't slow down.
He led Charles past the house, toward a patch of open ground near stacked wood and tools.
Then he stopped.
"Look."
Charles followed his gaze.
An axe leaned against a stump.
Its blade was worn—but sharp.
Beside it, a sickle rested against a wooden crate. Its curve caught the light faintly.
And further back—
A spear.
Old.
Slightly bent.
But still intact.
Charles's eyes lingered there.
"These…" Vaner said, stepping closer, "are what keep you alive."
He picked up the axe.
The weight settled naturally in his grip.
Not as a weapon.
But as something familiar.
"For cutting wood," Vaner continued, lifting it slightly—
Then lowering it with controlled force against the stump.
THUNK.
The sound echoed.
"…and for cutting men."
Charles didn't react outwardly.
But something in his chest tightened.
Vaner set the axe down and picked up the sickle.
"This feeds you."
He ran a thumb lightly along the curve.
"…and opens throats just as easy."
No dramatics.
No exaggeration.
Just truth.
He nodded toward the spear.
"That's for when things don't come close enough."
Charles stepped forward slightly, eyes fixed on the weapons.
"…bandits?"
Vaner gave a short grunt.
"Sometimes."
A pause.
"Worse, if you're unlucky."
Charles frowned slightly.
"Worse?"
Vaner didn't answer immediately.
He just looked toward the distant tree line.
Dark.
Still.
Watching.
"…the forest doesn't belong to us," he said finally.
Silence followed.
Then—
Vaner looked back at Charles.
"Out here, boy… tools and weapons are the same."
A brief pause.
"…depends on the day."
The words settled heavily.
Charles nodded slowly.
"I understand."
But understanding… and reality…
Were different things.
"…then try."
Vaner stepped aside slightly, gesturing toward the axe.
Charles hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then—
He reached for it.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the handle—
He knew.
Heavy.
Not unbearably so.
But wrong.
Unfamiliar.
His grip wasn't stable.
His arm shook slightly just holding it.
"…lift it," Vaner said.
Charles tightened his grip.
Pulled.
The axe rose—
Halfway.
His arm trembled violently.
His shoulder burned.
"…again."
Charles gritted his teeth.
He adjusted his stance slightly—
Then tried to lift it higher.
Pain shot through his arm.
Sharp.
Immediate.
His vision blurred.
The axe slipped.
THUD.
It hit the ground.
Charles staggered back.
His breath came uneven.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
"…not enough," he muttered.
He bent down again.
Reached for it.
"Stop."
Vaner's voice was firm.
Charles froze.
"Pick it up again," Vaner said, "and you won't be able to stand tomorrow."
Silence.
Charles's hand tightened slightly… then slowly loosened.
His body swayed.
The dizziness came harder this time.
Stronger.
"…I can still—"
His words cut off.
The world tilted.
His legs gave out.
And he fell.
The ground hit him hard.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
For a moment—
He couldn't breathe.
Just pain.
And weakness.
And reality.
"…damn it…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
Footsteps approached.
But Vaner didn't help him up immediately.
"Feel that?" he said.
Charles clenched his teeth.
"…yes."
"Good."
A pause.
"That's what gets you killed."
No anger.
No comfort.
Just truth.
After a moment, Vaner crouched slightly and pulled him up—not gently, but not roughly either.
Enough to stand.
"You're weak," he said plainly.
"No strength. No stamina."
Charles didn't argue.
He couldn't.
"But," Vaner continued, looking at him carefully,
"…you're still alive."
Silence hung between them.
Charles's breathing slowly steadied.
His gaze drifted—
Back to the axe.
The sickle.
The spear.
Then—
Beyond them.
To the distant forest.
Something inside him settled.
Not pride.
Not frustration.
Resolve.
Slowly—
Very slowly—
Charles stepped forward again.
This time—
He didn't reach for the axe.
He picked up something smaller.
A knife.
Its blade was short.
Worn.
But sharp enough.
His hand trembled.
But not as much.
He held it.
Adjusted his grip.
Studied the weight.
Vaner watched silently.
"…start small," Charles said quietly.
Not to his father.
To himself.
The wind passed through the village.
Dry.
Endless.
And somewhere far beyond—
The world waited.
To be continued…