The dirt path leading out of the village was narrow, uneven, and familiar.
Ren walked along it with small, careful steps, both hands gripping the wooden basket pressed against his chest. Inside were bundles of dried herbs and a clay flask of water, wrapped carefully in cloth so they wouldn't spill. It wasn't heavy—but to his six-year-old body, even simple errands demanded focus.
His father's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
"Just take this to Old Maren near the west fence. Come straight back."
Ren nodded to himself as he walked, repeating the instruction like a spell. He didn't want to make a mistake. He never did.
The village was lively behind him—voices, laughter, the sound of metal striking metal as someone practiced with a blade—but the farther he went, the quieter it became. Trees began to line the road, their shadows stretching long across the dirt.
That was when he felt it.
That strange tightening in his chest.
Ren slowed.
He didn't need to turn around to know he wasn't alone.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Not hurried. Not careful.
Casual.
"Hey."
Ren froze.
The voice was young, but confident—too confident for a child.
He turned slowly.
Three boys stood several steps behind him.
They were all around his age. Six. Maybe one was closer to seven.
Yet the difference between them and Ren felt vast.
The boy in the middle wore clean clothes, dyed faint blue, with a small emblem stitched near the collar. His posture was relaxed, chin slightly raised. Everyone in the village knew him.
The village chief's son.
To his right stood a sturdier boy, broad-shouldered for his age. His stance was straight, feet apart, like he'd been taught how to stand properly. A wooden practice sword hung from his waist, worn smooth with use.
The son of a former guild knight. Low-ranked, retired early—but still a knight.
And to the left…
A boy with arms thicker than they should have been.
His hands clenched and unclenched slowly, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. His Personal Magic—Strength Enhancement—was well known among the children. He didn't even need to activate it fully to scare others.
The trio.
Ren swallowed.
"I—I'm just running an errand," he said quickly, instinctively shifting the basket closer to his body. "I'll be out of your way."
The chief's son tilted his head slightly, as if considering something unimportant.
"An errand?" he repeated. "Already?"
Ren nodded.
The knight's son stepped forward, eyes flicking to the basket.
"What's inside?"
"Herbs," Ren answered. "And water."
"Huh." The boy smiled faintly. "Running around like a servant already."
Before Ren could react, a foot hooked around his ankle.
He stumbled.
The basket slipped from his hands, hitting the ground with a dull thud. The clay flask inside cracked, water seeping into the dirt.
Ren fell hard, palms scraping against the rough path.
Pain flared—but worse than that was the shock.
The strength boy laughed.
"Oops."
Ren pushed himself up, heart pounding. "P-Please… I have to deliver that—"
The knight's son stepped closer and pressed a foot against Ren's chest, pushing him back down.
"Relax," he said calmly. "We're just testing you."
"Testing?" Ren echoed weakly.
The chief's son crouched slightly, looking down at him with bored eyes.
"Father says people like you shouldn't wander around freely," he said. "You get in the way."
Ren shook his head. "I'm not— I don't—"
A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him up.
The strength boy loomed over him, grinning.
"Let's see how tough you are."
There was no warning.
Ren was shoved backward—hard.
His back slammed into the tree trunk behind him, knocking the air from his lungs. Before he could gasp, something heavy struck his side.
Pain exploded through his ribs.
He collapsed to his knees.
No kicks followed. No shouting. No rage.
That was the worst part.
They weren't angry.
They were bored.
"Still standing?" the knight's son asked, almost impressed.
Ren tried to rise. His arms shook violently.
Another shove.
He fell face-first into the dirt.
For a moment, everything went quiet.
The smell of earth filled his nose. His vision blurred.
Memories surfaced uninvited.
A school corridor.
Laughter behind him.
A foot hooking his bag strap.
Concrete.
Hands that never reached out to help.
His chest tightened painfully.
Not again.
"Enough," the chief's son said at last, standing upright. "He's not worth it."
The strength boy shrugged. "Yeah. Weak."
Footsteps retreated.
Ren lay still long after they were gone.
The basket lay broken beside him. The herbs were scattered, stained with dirt and water.
He stared at them, jaw trembling.
He didn't cry.
He couldn't.
His body shook as he slowly pushed himself upright. His hands were scraped. His chest hurt every time he breathed. But he forced himself to stand.
Weak.
The word echoed endlessly.
In his past life…
He had been weak.
Bullied at school. Bullied on the streets. Powerless even when his family was taken from him one by one.
He had believed rebirth would change everything.
But standing here now—small, bruised, alone—it felt the same.
Ren clenched his fists.
"No," he whispered.
This time… it wasn't despair.
It was anger.
A quiet, burning resolve.
If weakness invites cruelty…
Then I won't stay weak.
He knelt down, carefully gathering the herbs he could salvage. His hands no longer shook.
His path was clear now.
Strength.
Not borrowed. Not gifted.
Earned.
And no matter how long it took—
He would never lie helpless in the dirt again.