He finally stepped out of the dilapidated structure he called home. Before him lay the world, a sight he had viewed countless times in this life, yet today, it was utterly new.
This was the first morning after the tumultuous, overwhelming flood of memories from his previous life had finally settled, leaving behind a deep, unsettling wisdom.
He was no longer just the young, starving orphan boy of this forgotten village; he was a soul reborn, burdened with the knowledge of a past life that had ended in tragedy and a mind now sharpened with advanced, otherworldly concepts.
Despite his weakness, an internal compass, guided by his newly awakened, perfect memory, directed his weary feet.
Slowly, deliberately, he began to walk toward the familiar rush of the river, observing his surroundings with a keen, almost clinical curiosity he hadn't possessed before.
The village was a heartbreaking spectacle of neglect. Buildings slumped like exhausted beasts, walls were cracked and crumbling, and the dirt paths were uneven, choked with weeds.
It looked less like a functioning community and more like the skeletal remains of a ghost town teetering on the edge of utter ruin.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips, a sound too weary for a boy his age. Why is it always the innocent civilians who lose everything in these endless wars?
As he walked, he noticed the villagers. Their eyes, sunken and shadowed by famine, darted away as he approached.
They actively avoided his gaze, their movements quick and stiff. He understood their silent fear: they expected him, the orphan, to stop and beg for the meagre scraps they themselves barely possessed.
Seeing their desperation, a wry, melancholic smile touched his lips. He didn't hold it against them; there was no malice in his heart.
He remembered a time when they were kind, generous even. When his parents were alive, the village was a close-knit, supportive family.
Even after their untimely deaths, people used to leave small portions of food or worn-out clothes outside his door. But now, he understood the crushing reality.
The ongoing war had stripped them bare. Ruthless 'ninjas', a term he now recognised with a new, terrifying clarity, had swept through, confiscating all their harvested food and supplies, leaving them on the precipice of starvation.
When everyone is starving, when survival is the only law, how could they be expected to spare a thought for a solitary, unhelpful orphan?
The sight solidified a purpose in his newly awakened mind. He was not strong. He possessed no innate combat skills or arcane ninja powers. But he held something far more potent: knowledge. Advanced, systematic knowledge from a world centuries ahead in technology.
I will find a way, he vowed silently, his frail form standing firm. I will make this village normal again. I will protect them. He might not be able to stand on the front lines, but he could build, he could innovate, he could organise he could help them rebuild their lives in ways none of them could even imagine.
Lost in this determined contemplation, he reached the riverbank.
The water, clear and cool, flowed over smooth stones. He knelt down, drawn by the shimmering surface, and saw his reflection.
He stared at the face of his new life: striking white hair, a color he couldn't explain, and a pair of unsettlingly pure white eyes, a phenotype he vaguely recognised as significant but couldn't quite place.
He looked handsome, he conceded, a touch of self-deprecating humor flickering within him. Well, at least I have good genetics this time around. He reached out and touched the wavering image, a brief connection between the past and the present self.
His stomach groaned again, a loud, demanding sound that snapped him back to the pressing reality of hunger.
Survival first, saving the world second. He spotted a thick, dry branch lying nearby. With the nearby river stones, he worked patiently, chipping and grinding one end of the branch into a sharp, rough sphere a primitive spear.
He moved to the river's edge and stood perfectly still, his eyes tracking the darting movement of the fish below the surface.
Patience was a virtue he hadn't cultivated in his past life, but hunger was a demanding tutor.
Time and again, he thrust the makeshift spear into the water, only to come up empty. The fish were too quick, his reflexes too slow.
Finally, after a series of agonizing misses, a flicker of silver was impaled. A victorious, albeit weak, grin spread across his face as he hauled the single, modest-sized fish onto the bank.
There was no time to walk back. He would cook it now. He collected two dry sticks and a handful of dead leaves.
Crouching low, he began the rhythmic, exhausting process of rubbing the sticks together, his past life's knowledge guiding the physics of friction and heat generation.
A faint wisp of smoke, then a tiny, triumphant orange spark, and finally, a licking flame that grew into a small, steady fire. He threaded the fish onto a stick and suspended it over the flames, the aroma of cooking flesh intoxicating after so many days of near-starvation.
He didn't wait long. Tearing into the fire-roasted fish, he devoured it with a speed born of desperation, savoring every morsel until his stomach was finally, wonderfully full. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, the energy of the food battling the fatigue of his frail body.
It was in this moment of fragile peace that he heard the commotion, shrill shouts and the pounding of feet approaching from the clearing beyond the trees.
He turned his head and saw two boys, perhaps his age, locked in a fierce, clumsy fight. He watched with detached curiosity, thinking it was just a typical children's squabble, until one of the boys raised his hand and made some signs.
A roaring flame, a fireball, hurtled directly toward his position.
He was stunned, frozen in place, his mind flashing violently back to the instant his parents had been struck down by a similar, sudden violence.
I'm dying, was the first, paralyzing thought. In the same way as my parents. Fuck this fireball! Terror was a cold, complete shock.
The projectile was seconds away, its heat already searing his exposed skin. In that micro-instant of pure, unadulterated fear, an incredible, impossible thing happened.
A sudden, deep crimson ripple appeared in his hands, a piece of flowing, vibrant red cloth, a cape or a banner, materialised from nowhere. Driven by a primal, desperate instinct, he lashed out, waving the fabric with a frantic, wild motion.
There was no impact, no explosive blast on his body. Instead, the moment the fireball touched the red material, it seemed to fold in on itself, its trajectory violently altered.
With a whoosh of displaced air, the sphere of fire bounced back, shooting past the two fighting boys and detonating harmlessly against a distant tree trunk.
The world seemed to spin. The white-eyed boy stared at the dissipating smoke, then down at his empty hands. The red cape was gone.
His vision swam, his head felt heavy, and the last thing he saw before the world went utterly dark was the clear, blue river flowing by. He collapsed onto the rough earth, unconscious.