John's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one drawing the harsh, smoke-tinged air deep into his lungs. He forced himself to focus, to push past the throbbing pain in his skull. He looked up at the woman, her concerned eyes still fixed on him, her grip tightening as if afraid he might slip away again.
"W-where am I?" he managed to choke out, his voice trembling, a mix of fear and confusion. He tried to stand, but his legs felt weak, unsteady, as if they had been starved of strength for days.
The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the small, dimly lit room around them. Rough wooden walls, a threadbare mat on the floor, and a single flickering candle casting long shadows against the cracked walls. "You are home, John. You collapsed in the fields. I feared…" She trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. "I feared you would not wake."
John's mind raced, struggling to make sense of her words. Fields? Home? This place, this face, none of it matched his memories – the crowded lecture halls, the bustling city streets, the sleek, modern world he had known. His heart pounded as he looked down at his hands again, rough and scarred, not the hands of a student but those of a laborer, someone hardened by the unforgiving grasp of a harsh life.
The memories from before surged again – the dirt roads, the clinking of iron tools, the harsh sting of cold mountain air. Fragments of a life he had never lived but somehow remembered with bone-deep familiarity. His pulse quickened as the realization settled in his chest, cold and sharp. This wasn't just another nightmare. He had awakened in another world – a world where power and survival were carved into the flesh of the weak and the strong alike.
The woman's hands tightened on his shoulders, her eyes glistening in the firelight. "John," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, "thank the spirits you're alive."
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