The body did not belong to him.
That was the first conclusion Duke reached upon waking the following morning.
Not philosophically.
Physically.
He lay still for several seconds, cataloging sensation. His ribs ached in dull waves rather than sharp spikes now. His arms felt light — not agile, but underdeveloped. When he flexed his fingers, there was delay between intent and full contraction.
Muscle mass insufficient. Nutrition historically poor. Recovery incomplete.
He sat up slowly.
The room tilted again, though less violently than the day before.
Progress.
Evelyn noticed immediately.
"You shouldn't push yourself," she said softly.
"If I don't move, I won't recover," he replied.
She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
He placed his feet on the floor and stood.
Five seconds.
Ten.
The trembling began around twelve.
He gripped the edge of the table and steadied himself until it passed.
This body had been seven years old.
Seven.
In his previous life, by seven he had already learned not to trust adults. By fifteen, he had learned to measure value in silence and skill. By twenty-five, he had understood supply chains better than the men who owned them.
Now he could barely stand upright without assistance.
The contrast was not humiliating.
It was instructive.
He forced himself to take three slow steps across the room.
Each movement required deliberate balance.
Weakness was not shameful.
It was temporary.
After a small bowl of thin porridge, he stepped outside for the first time since waking.
Morning had already settled over the village.
Smoke drifted lazily from low chimneys. Chickens scattered between houses. The main dirt road cut through the settlement toward fields beyond.
He moved carefully, resisting the instinct to walk with adult confidence. This body could not support that illusion yet.
Observation required subtlety.
He passed the grain stall first.
Sacks stacked in uneven rows. Customers arguing over weight and moisture content. Grain was essential — but margins were thin. High volume, low differentiation.
Not ideal.
The butcher stall sat further down.
Rendered fat collected in small wooden containers near the side — considered secondary product. Often sold cheaply or discarded.
He noted that.
Further along, a cloth merchant haggled loudly over the quality of imported fabric. Tools required skill. Fabric required supply lines.
Higher barriers.
He slowed near a small stand where rough, pale blocks were stacked in uneven piles.
Soap.
A woman complained openly.
"It barely lasts two weeks."
"That's what came from the city," the merchant snapped. "Take it or leave it."
Duke did not stare.
He merely watched.
The bars were poorly cut. Edges chipped. Surface texture inconsistent.
He remembered the faint lather from last night's test piece.
Better.
Not revolutionary.
But better.
He continued walking.
The village was small enough that most people recognized him. Several glanced at him with mild curiosity — the boy who had nearly died under a guard's gauntlet.
He ignored their looks.
He had survived gang wars and cross-border smuggling routes. Village whispers were irrelevant.
He reached the edge of the settlement and paused.
Beyond lay fields stretching outward in dull green waves. Labor-intensive. Slow yield.
Agriculture was stable.
But it was not scalable without land ownership.
He turned back.
On the return path, he slowed deliberately near the Adventurer's Guild notice board nailed to the tavern wall.
Simple contracts.
"Pest removal – 10 silver."
"Escort wagon to northern fork – 25 silver."
"Boar sighting beyond fields – inquire within."
Silver flowed differently in the Guild economy.
Risk-adjusted.
Strength-adjusted.
Aura-adjusted.
He remembered the guard's gauntlet glowing faint violet.
Enhancement.
Power in this world was not subtle.
It was visible.
Accessible — but not evenly distributed.
He returned home slowly.
Inside, he sat near the window and closed his eyes.
Breathing steady.
Inhale.
Guide attention inward.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A faint density.
Low in his abdomen.
Subtle.
Not imagined.
He inhaled again, focusing more carefully.
The density pulsed once — weak, but present.
He did not push further.
He opened his eyes.
Two simultaneous paths presented themselves clearly.
Path one: economic.
Low barrier entry. Immediate capital generation. Improve household stability.
Path two: physical.
Aura training. Long-term strength acquisition. Remove vulnerability.
Neither excluded the other.
But one funded the other.
He leaned back against the wall and thought carefully.
He could not begin formal aura training yet — not properly. The manual would cost money. The Guild would not instruct for free.
Capital first.
Then structure.
His gaze shifted toward the table where copper coins lay in a small cloth pouch.
Twenty-three copper.
Insufficient.
Soap required fat and ash.
Fat cheap.
Ash nearly free.
Heat accessible.
Barrier: minimal.
He did not smile.
He did not declare anything aloud.
He simply stood up slowly and walked toward the door.
Outside, the village noise continued as it always had.
People living within ceilings they did not question.
He had questioned one ceiling already in a previous life — and paid for it.
This time, he would not attack the ceiling.
He would build a staircase.
He turned back toward the house.
Tomorrow, he would ask for silver.
And this time, he would not fail.