Warm light flickered against rough clay walls.
Sothing crackled faintly — like oil burning over a small wick. Shadows swayed in gentle curves, breathing with the trembling fla of a spirit-oil lamp. The scent of resin and crushed herbs hung in the air, sharp and earthy.
A young man lay on a simple fur pallet, eyes shut, brow furrowed. His breathing shifted.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
A sharp inhale tore through his chest as if he’d just surfaced from drowning.
"—gh!"
The ceiling above him wasn’t the cracked paint of his apartnt in Manila.
It was woven reed and timber.
He stiffened.
The surroundings, the sll, even the sounds of insects chittering outside the small room were unfamiliar.
The last thing he rembered — he had been working overti on a ga his company was developing.
’Where am I?’
He pushed up on his elbows. A dull, unfamiliar ache tugged along his ribs. His hands trembled. The room was dim, the only light coming from a clay lamp on a wooden stand.
The fla flickered, revealing—
Stone floor.
Thick furs piled in a corner.
A bow rack — empty.
Not a single modern object.
He swallowed hard, heart hamring against his ribs.
"I’m... not ho."
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then slapped his own cheek.
"Ow— okay, not dreaming."
Wind whistled around wooden beams.
He dragged his palm across his face, and that’s when he felt it:
A body that wasn’t his.
A stronger jaw and a more chiseled face than he rembered. Shoulders broader and more muscular than he rembered.
His stamina, strength, vitality, all seed to have tripled.
He felt like the strongest man on earth. Even his height was more than 195 cm.
As he shifted, he noticed what he was wearing — a thin leather sleep vest lined with light fur. Practical. Warm. Tribal.
"...Okay." he muttered slowly. "Either I joined a cosplay cult in this new world, or—"
Pain.
Not physical, but ntal.
A surge of mories crashed into him like a wave.
He gritted his teeth and clutched his head.
Nas.
Faces.
Emotions not his own.
Buan Vila.
Age 22.
Son of the forr patriarch of the Vila Tribe.
Images slamd into him one after another:
— A towering man with stern eyes placing a hand on Buan’s head.
— Tribal warriors training with bare fists. Tattoos glowing faint blue on their backs.
— A woman with cascading dark hair smiling gently.
— Blood. Screaming.
— A funeral pyre.
He sucked in a breath.
The father — the patriarch — died one year ago.
Buan’s protection was gone.
Another mory surfaced, sharper, crueler — four warriors ganging up on Buan to beat him to a pulp. Not because he offended them; they pumled him because they could do so.
"Go hide behind your father’s ghost, Vila?"
Eric’s jaw clenched instinctively.
Now he understood why there was that lingering, stinging pain in his muscles. He was being used as a punching bag.
Buan was weak, and without his father, was also of low status.
Without strength and status, it was inevitable to be pushed around.
Suddenly, another mory flashed — Buan training day and night to beco stronger.
However, you just doesn’t grow strong in a flash.
"Why is my body so weak?"
Buan yelled in the mory flashback.
Eric’s eyes widened.
’This body is weak?’
Eric couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
This body of Buan was the pinnacle of strength in Eric’s mind, but in this world, this body was the weakest?
Nonetheless, the answers were hidden in his mories.
There were supernatural ways to get stronger in this world, so not all hope was lost.
The spirit tattoos granted the warriors of this tribe supernatural strength and skills; however, not everyone could have them.
You first had to kill spirit beasts roaming in the huge forest outside and then collect spirit fragnts.
Only after your body was strong enough to handle the strength of a spirit tattoo could you get one.
Buan, however, had never killed anyone. Thus, he couldn’t get a spirit tattoo.
Most of all, spirit beasts were horrors that no normal warrior could fight alone. They were many tis more powerful than regular beasts.
If Buan wanted to kill so, he had to join a party.
However, being the son of the previous patriarch, most of the warriors hated him.
Just the jealousy of the poor towards the rich.
Even now, Buan was constantly in danger of getting killed.
As the mories kept unraveling themselves, Eric learned more—
Buan’s father had been admired. Respected. Even feared.
But once he died...
The tribe stopped pretending.
The new patriarch tried protecting Buan out of respect for the forr leader, but pressure grew. Warriors didn’t accept weakness. Weakness was dead weight in war.
Buan had a stepmother — breathtakingly beautiful, with curves that made half the tribe whisper — but kind. Protective. Fierce toward anyone insulting her children.
And a younger sister — lively, mischievous, devoted to her brother.
Buan loved them more than anything.
They were the only reason he kept enduring.
The mories turned darker.
Buan’s real sister — the older one — despised him.
She was married into the Vice-Patriarch’s family.
She blad Buan for her birth mother’s death.
Their real mother had died just after giving birth to Buan.
Her husband — arrogant, entitled — loved tornting Buan.
And now that Buan’s father was gone, they didn’t need to hide it anymore.
He exhaled, a humorless laugh leaving his lips.
"So I get transmigrated... into the weakest guy in a warrior tribe. Great. Fantastic. Ten out of ten ga design."
His hand brushed against sothing warm on his wrist.
A faint pulse.
A soft chi rang in his mind.
[Spell Binding Complete]
Skillcraft Ascension Spell bound successfully to the host, Buan Vila.
He froze.
"...Okay, now we’re talking."
Primary Directive: Survive. Learn. Ascend.
Strength cannot be given. Only earned.
A panel full of runes shimred in the empty space in front of him.
For so reason, he was able to read the runes.
Survival rits: 0
And below it, a locked list:
Available Skills (Beginner Tier):
Archery (Cost: 25 rits)
Dagger Mastery (Cost: 25 rits)
Evasion (Cost: 15 rits)
Swordsmanship (Cost: 35 rits)
Spear Mastery (Cost: 30 rits)
"rits..." he murmured. "How do I earn them?"
The runes changed.
Earn rits Through:
Surviving life-threatening situations
Making allies, gaining their trust
Making decisions that alter fate
"So basically... live through hell." He snorted. "Got it. No pressure."
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