The first thing I heard was the sound of war drums.
Not the kind from movies or video games—no dramatic soundtrack swelling at just the right moment. These were raw, thunderous, and alive, echoing through the ground itself like a heartbeat that didn't belong to me. Each boom rattled my bones, as if the world was trying to remind me I was still inside it.
Which made no sense.
Because the last thing I remembered… was dying.
I had been ordinary. Painfully ordinary.
A small apartment, a job I didn't care about, microwave dinners, late-night scrolling, and the occasional thought that maybe—just maybe—life was supposed to be more than this. But "more" never came. Just routines. Just days blending into weeks until everything felt like a long, dull blur.
Then came the accident.
A flash of headlights. The screech of tires. Weightlessness.
Darkness.
And now—
"Push! The child is coming!"
The voice was harsh, guttural, spoken in a language I didn't know… yet somehow understood.
I tried to move.
I couldn't.
My body wouldn't respond the way I expected. My limbs felt wrong—too small, too weak. My chest tightened, and suddenly, I couldn't breathe properly.
Then pain.
Crushing, suffocating pressure wrapped around me, squeezing from all sides. Instinct took over where logic failed, and I struggled—kicked—panicked.
And then—
Light.
Cold air hit me like a blade.
I screamed.
But it wasn't my voice.
It was high-pitched. Fragile. New.
"A son!" someone shouted.
Rough hands lifted me into the air. My vision was blurred, unfocused, but shapes began to form—dark silhouettes, flickering orange light, shadows dancing across what looked like animal hides stretched over wooden frames.
A fire.
A tent.
No… not a tent.
A longhouse.
"Strong lungs," another voice grunted approvingly. "He'll be a warrior."
I wanted to say, Wait. No. This is wrong.
But all that came out was another cry.
They wrapped me in something coarse—fur, maybe—and placed me against a woman's chest. Her skin was warm, her breathing steady despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
I looked up.
Her eyes were fierce.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Fierce.
"You live," she whispered, as if that alone was a victory. "Good. You will need strength, little one."
Little one.
The words echoed in my mind as something cold settled in my stomach.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't some dying hallucination.
I had been born.
Again.
"Let me see him."
The voice that cut through the room was different.
Deeper. Heavier. Like a blade dragged slowly across stone.
The people around us shifted instantly. Even without understanding the full situation, I could feel it—the change in the air. Respect. Fear.
Power.
A large figure approached, his shadow swallowing the firelight. When he stepped closer, my vision finally focused enough to see him clearly.
He was enormous.
Broad shoulders wrapped in furs, arms covered in scars—old and new. His hair was braided tightly, streaked with gray despite the strength still evident in his body. And his eyes…
His eyes were like a storm waiting to break.
This man had killed. Many times.
And he would do it again without hesitation.
"The chieftain," someone murmured.
Chieftain.
The word struck me like another drumbeat.
Oh no.
No, no, no—
This couldn't be happening.
The man crouched beside us, studying me in silence. His gaze was sharp, calculating—not the look of a father meeting his child, but of a leader assessing something that might one day matter.
Or fail.
I felt it instinctively.
In this world… weakness wasn't forgiven.
"Hmm," he grunted after a long moment. "He looks small."
My heart—tiny and fragile as it was—dropped.
Small?
That was the first impression?
The woman holding me stiffened. "He was born in blood and storm," she said firmly. "He will endure."
A tense silence followed.
Then—
A low chuckle.
"Good," the chieftain said. "He will have to."
He reached out, one massive finger brushing against my forehead—not gently, but not cruelly either. Testing. Measuring.
"Because he is my son."
And just like that, the truth settled over me.
I wasn't just reborn.
I was reborn into a brutal world… as the son of a barbarian chieftain.
A world of war.
Of strength.
Of survival.
Where children weren't coddled—they were hardened.
Where failure didn't mean disappointment.
It meant death.
I wanted to laugh.
Or cry.
Or wake up.
But I couldn't do any of those things.
All I could do… was stare up at the man who was now my father—and realize that if I didn't change…
If I stayed the same weak, ordinary person I had always been—
I wouldn't survive this life.
Outside, the war drums continued to thunder.
And this time, I understood.
They weren't welcoming me.
They were warning me.
Survive… or be forgotten.