Life in this new body was a strange kind of prison.
Helpless. Silent. Immobile. Yet my mind—the mind of Jake Allan—was awake, restless, burning with awareness. I carried the memories of my old world into this one, and though I wore the skin of an infant, I saw everything with the weary eyes of someone who had already lived, and died, once before.
We were commoners. That much became obvious almost immediately.
Our home was small, a modest wooden structure patched in several places. Smoke curled lazily from a single chimney. To an outsider, it might have seemed quaint, even charming. To me, it screamed poverty. There was no glass in the windows, only rough, hand-carved shutters. The floorboards groaned under even the lightest weight, warped by decades of labor and neglect. The surrounding fields stretched just far enough to feed us, never enough to flourish. Survival, not prosperity, was the rule of our lives.
I had studied history in my previous life—feudal systems, rigid hierarchies, the division of power and poverty written into law. Here, I didn't just read about it—I lived it. Nobles and royals occupied the top of society, cloaked in wealth and authority. Commoners like my new family? We were considered expendable. Invisible. Dirt beneath their polished boots.
The lesson came swiftly, and violently.
The memory of that day still burns.
The sun hung low in the sky, draping the fields in gold and orange, shadows stretching long across the tilled soil. Lila sat beside me, guiding my tiny hands to topple her towers of stacked stones. Her forced laughter filled the air, fragile and brittle. Every time I sent her structure tumbling, she clapped her hands in delight, a practiced smile masking the tension in her small shoulders.
But her eyes betrayed her. They drifted repeatedly toward the edge of the field.
I followed her gaze. Father—Brian—worked the soil, hoe in hand, muscles taut and raw from years of toil. I had seen men labor in my old life, but this was different. Every movement carried the weight of inevitability, each swing a measure of survival, not choice. His body was a testament to hardship; the land had carved him as much as he had worked it.
Then came a sound that made my tiny chest tighten.
Wheels on dirt. Hooves pounding. A carriage.
I recognized it instantly. Polished black wood, silver trim catching the last rays of sun, horses strong and sleek, moving with a rhythm that spoke of discipline and power. This carriage was not merely transport—it was a declaration.
It stopped at the edge of our field.
A man emerged.
Even from a distance, I felt the difference. Velvet and silk, gold-trimmed coat, polished boots that had never touched soil. Rings glittered on his fingers like shards of sunlight. His presence didn't enter the field—it claimed it.
His voice reached us, muffled by distance, yet the tone was unmistakable: authority, arrogance, command. He did not ask. He demanded.
Father straightened, sweat glistening on his brow, bowing slightly, careful, almost instinctive. His voice was calm, deferential, each word chosen with precision.
Then the fist came.
It connected with Father's jaw, sending him sprawling across the tilled earth. My infant body could not move, but inside, Jake screamed. My tiny fists clenched in impotent rage.
The blows continued—kicks to the stomach, ribs, and chest. Father did not fight back. He curled inward, arms shielding his body, taking each strike in silence.
Why? Why didn't he resist?
Lila stiffened beside me, pulling me close, burying my face in her shoulder. Her voice trembled, whispering words I could not comprehend. She wanted to protect me from the horror of reality. She wanted me to preserve my innocence.
But I saw anyway.
Through strands of her hair, glimpses of Father collapsing beneath the repeated strikes. The noble's hand swung like a hammer, his boot driving authority into flesh. The carriage waited, horses shifting, as though this routine violence was expected. And it was.
Finally, the noble spat words of disdain and disdain alone before remounting his carriage. The wheels turned, the animals obedient, leaving silence in their wake.
Except for Father's ragged breathing.
Mother emerged, skirts clenched in her fists, face pale but eyes sharp. She scooped Lila and me into her arms, spinning us away from the field. She was not shocked; she had seen this before.
Inside, she set us down gently. Her hands shook, but her voice forced cheer.
"Let's play, hm?"
Lila complied quickly, gathering pebbles and a clay bowl. "Look, Xavier," she said, tossing a pebble. Clink. Musical. Harmless. She guided my tiny fingers to drop another. Clink.
We played, laughter brittle but persistent. And yet, my mind kept returning to the image of Father crumpled in the dirt.
Is this normal? I asked silently. Is this the life of commoners? Powerless, beaten, and forced to endure while the strong strike without consequence?
The door creaked again. Father entered, limping. His face bruised, lip split, one eye swelling. He tried to straighten his back, but the effort betrayed him.
"Brian…" Mother whispered, hurrying forward.
Then she raised her hands, hovering above him. Green light spilled from her fingers, soft and radiant, wrapping his battered form like silk. The air hummed, vibrating faintly in my chest. Bruises faded, blood dried, swelling eased.
Magic.
I had read fantasy, seen it in stories, anime, games. But witnessing it firsthand—feeling the warmth radiate across my skin—it was different. Real. Terrifyingly real.
Mother lowered her hands, exhausted but smiling softly as Father straightened. He murmured quietly, a tone only for her, and then limped toward us. Kneeling, he gathered Lila and me into his arms.
"I'm alright," he whispered. His voice steady, but his body betrayed the lie.
He was lying. None of us were alright. But wrapped in his warmth, I almost believed him. Almost.
That day, I learned a harsh truth:
The strong ruled. The weak obeyed. Nobles crushed commoners like insects. And the world allowed it.
But I also learned this:
Even broken, even beaten, my father chose love over hate.
And somewhere deep within this fragile body, I swore:
If this was the way of the world, then I would rise.
No matter the cost.
Days passed, each blending into the next. Life demanded endurance, no matter how small the hands or fragile the body. Each sunrise brought labor; each sunset brought exhaustion. I watched, learned, and remembered.
Lila became my teacher, my guardian, and my friend. She taught me to recognize the subtle dangers of our world: which farmers' paths were safe, which nobles' estates were nearby, and which words carried hidden threats. Her energy, her curiosity, became a shield against despair.
Father worked tirelessly, but he also taught patience. He did not teach me to fight the world with fists; he taught me to endure, to measure, to observe, and to choose the moment when strength would matter most. Every swing of his hoe, every calloused hand gripping the earth, spoke of survival and silent resistance.
Mother, radiant yet exhausted, became the beacon of hope. She healed wounds, whispered courage, and even when magic drained her strength, she carried on. She showed me that even the powerless had tools—tools invisible to the cruel, but potent nonetheless.
And I absorbed it all.
I learned that life was a bitter teacher. Lessons arrived unasked for, often with pain and humiliation. Nobles would strike. Nature would challenge. Hunger would gnaw. Every day demanded adaptation. And yet, amidst the harshness, I saw sparks of beauty: Lila's laughter, the warmth of Father's embrace, Mother's gentle hands, and the first glimmers of magic.
This was a world that punished weakness—but also, quietly, rewarded endurance.
I did not yet know the price I would pay to rise. But I knew, with a certainty that resonated even in this infant body:
I would endure. I would learn. And when the time came, I would rise.
No matter the cost.