Six months was enough ti for the world to beco familiar.
Not safe—never that—but known.
Anders lay cradled against warmth, the longhouse breathing around him in the slow, living way it always did. Fire popped softly. Wood shifted. Outside, the wind dragged winter across the walls, but inside there was heat, rhythm, and the steady thump of a heart beneath his ear.
He was content.
The realization startled him more than the system ever had.
So part of him—older, sharper, forged in a life that asured worth by productivity and motion—expected guilt. Embarrassnt. Resistance.
Instead, there was ease.
He suckled, small hands gripping cloth and skin, and let himself rest fully in the mont. Milk was warmth and sustenance, but more than that, it was simplicity. Hunger answered without negotiation. Comfort arrived without cost.
The system was quiet.
No pressure. No tests. No watching weight pressing down on his chest.
For the first ti since waking in this world, Anders understood that the system did not exist to punish him constantly.
It waited.
His body was stronger now. His neck held steady. His hands closed with intent. He could roll, kick, push himself upright for monts at a ti. Small victories, all of them—but real.
And his mind remained fully awake.
A 35-year-old man, reborn into a body that knew nothing of deadlines or debt or the low hum of screens. He let himself enjoy it—the being held, the warmth, the lack of choice.
Choice would co soon enough.
Voices drifted through the longhouse, clearer now than ever before. Language no longer arrived as implication alone. Words clicked into place, locking aning to sound.
"Erik," a man called.
His father.
The na settled with weight. Erik’s voice carried easily—confident, grounded, edged with laughter when he spoke to others. When he spoke to Anders, it softened without losing strength.
Astrid answered him sharply from across the room.
His mother.
Her voice was fire—low, controlled, but ready to flare. She did not sound afraid. She sounded restrained.
Anders lifted his head slightly, attention sharpening.
Erik was speaking with the other n now. He recognized the cadence even before the words made sense. Planning. Agreent. Anticipation.
A raid.
Not spoken lightly. Not glorified. Just stated.
A nearby settlent. Close. Poorly defended. An opportunity.
Anders’ stomach tightened—not with hunger this ti.
He knew what raids were. He had known before this life, in a different way—through history books, docuntaries, half-rembered argunts online that reduced real suffering to abstractions.
Here, it was none of that.
Here, it ant blood.
Astrid’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade drawn too fast.
She wanted to go.
Not out of recklessness. Not bravado. Out of capability. She had gone before. Anders could hear it in how she spoke—not pleading, not posturing.
Stating fact.
Erik answered her calmly. Too calmly.
She was nursing. She was needed here. Soone had to stay.
Her frustration burned hot enough that Anders felt it against his skin. She did not argue because she doubted him. She argued because she hated the truth of it.
Anders shifted, uneasy now, the peace of monts ago cracked.
This was different from cold. Different from hunger. Different from endurance.
This was fear that had nothing to do with his own survival.
If Erik did not return, the world Anders was only beginning to enjoy would shatter. Astrid’s strength would turn inward. The longhouse would grow quieter. The warmth he took for granted would thin.
He could not endure that.
The system remained silent.
No quest appeared. No pressure descended.
Anders realized, with a chill that had nothing to do with winter, that so things were not ant to be tested directly.
Outside, iron rang against stone as weapons were sharpened. n laughed—not cruelly, not joyfully. Just to fill the space where anticipation sat.
Erik ca to Astrid before leaving preparations. He rested his forehead against hers. Said nothing that Anders could hear. Words weren’t needed.
Astrid held Anders tighter than necessary, fingers pressing into his back as if anchoring herself.
Anders stared at the fire, watching sparks leap upward and die.
For the first ti, a question ford in him that the system could not answer.
What did honor an
when blood was taken from those who never chose to fight?
The fire crackled.
The world turned.
And sowhere, unseen and patient, the system continued to wait—
not for his strength,
but for what he would one day decide to do with it.
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