Three years passed since the night Rian awakened in the dilapidated shack. In the realm known as Oakhaven, his small frame had reached the age of a toddler—three years old. Yet, beneath his matted hair and dirt-streaked face, the mind residing within was that of a mature, former elite mercenary.

For three long years, Rian observed his new world through the narrow chinks in the wooden walls. And what he witnessed was far from pleasant.

Poverty in this borderland village was not merely a lack of coin; it was a systematic form of slow torture. This year’s winter had arrived harsher than usual. Thick snow blanketed the frozen earth, severing access to hunting grounds and leaving the food stores of Markus—Rian’s father—completely bare. All that remained in the kitchen were a few rotting, rock-hard tubers and a small sack of low-grade rye.

Day after day, Rian watched his mother, Elen, endure starvation just to feed him. Her body grew increasingly emaciated, her cheeks gaunt, and a dry cough frequently shattered the quiet nights inside the shack. Meanwhile, Markus broke his back from dawn till dusk in the fields belonging to the local lord, Lord Vane, earning a mere pittance of breadcrumbs that was barely enough to cover the interest on their mounting monthly debt.

In his past life on Earth, Rian was no stranger to the brutality of the battlefield, where lethal bullets and bombs extinguished life in a heartbeat. But the cruelty of this fantasy realm cut far deeper: a structural violence that slowly suffocated the common folk with no chance of escape.

One afternoon, a biting wind swept through, carrying bone-chilling snowflakes. Through a gap in the wooden planks, little Rian locked his gaze on the front yard.

The heavy clatter of horse hooves shattered the village silence. Two riders draped in thick wolf-pelt cloaks came to a halt right in front of Markus’s yard. They were hired debt collectors working directly under Lord Vane. Their leader, a burly man named Jorah with a prominent burn scar across his right cheek, dismounted with an arrogant sneer. His boots slammed into the slush, leaving muddy tracks that further defiled the small yard.

"Markus! Get out here, you old rat!" Jorah bellowed, his voice booming through the frigid air.

The cabin door creaked open slowly. Markus emerged with his head bowed, his face pale as death. He wrung his battered cloth cap in his hands—a gesture of absolute submission. Inside the house, peering from behind a worn-out curtain, Rian clenched his small fists tight. His eyes locked onto Jorah with utter revulsion toward the sheer weakness demanded by this world.

"M-Master Jorah," Markus greeted, his voice trembling as he tried to sound as polite as possible. "Forgive me... last autumn’s harvest was a total failure due to the harsh weather. I beg of you, grant us just one more month. I promise I will—"

"One more month?" Jorah interjected contemptuously. He burst into a boisterous laugh while his henchman snickered in disgust behind him. "Do you think Lord Vane’s estate is a charity, huh? Your family’s debt was due last week, Markus! If you can't pay in silver, we’re seizing everything in this rotting shack!"

"But Master! If you take our belongings, my wife and child will freeze to death in this snow!" Markus raised his voice, raw desperation breaking through his pleading tone. He stepped forward, attempting to draw closer to Jorah.

"Not my problem!" Jorah snapped. Without warning, his heavy, leather-gloved hand delivered a brutal backhand straight across Markus’s cheek.

SLAP!

The sharp crack echoed loudly against the silent yard. Markus reeled sideways and collapsed onto his knees in the frozen mud. The corner of his mouth split open, dripping fresh blood onto the pristine white snow, staining it a deep, stark crimson.

Hearing the commotion, Elen stifled a cry and rushed outside to throw her arms around her husband. Jorah merely spat near them, looking down with absolute disdain.

"Remember your place, peasant scum! You’re nothing but vermin living on Lord Vane’s land!" Jorah sneered before turning to remount his horse. "Tomorrow morning, I’ll be back. If those silver coins aren't on the table, I’m dragging your family out of this village!"

The two collectors spurred their horses, kicking up a spray of dust and snow as they rode off.

Inside the shack, watching through the slit in the wall, Rian had witnessed it all. There were no tears on the three-year-old’s face. Instead, an absolute silence settled over his mind, where the dormant spirit of an elite assassin roared to life. He stared at his father on the ground—weak, bleeding, and utterly helpless before a tyrannical system.

Rian slowly ground his teeth together. Deep within his heart, he forged a solemn vow wrapped in burning hatred.

Weakness is the ultimate sin in this world, Rian thought coldly, as a faint strand of pitch-black mana flickered around his small, clenched knuckles. Today, you struck my father and humiliated my family... I swear on this blood, this debt will be repaid a thousandfold with your lives.