Waking Up on a Farm in a Defeated Nation

I woke up on a farm in a country that had just lost a war—just like in my memories. Suddenly, someone kicked down the door of this house. The fragile, rundown house trembled under the impact. It was a simple dwelling, built only from clay and bits of husk ash, with a roof loosely thatched with straw. The midday sun was scorching, so intense that I could smell the dried straw baking in the heat above me.

The one who broke in was a soldier wearing light armor and a metal helmet. His right hand gripped a sword. I couldn’t see his face through the helmet, but he stormed in and shouted something in a language I didn't understand.

He barked more words at me, and before I could react, he shoved me with his right hand. The force of the push sent me crashing into the corner of the house. The already fragile structure groaned under the impact. He continued rambling in that incomprehensible language, then reached back with his left hand, preparing to thrust his sword.

The blade pierced my collarbone. He pulled it out, and warm blood began soaking through my coarse fabric shirt. It stung—so much—that was all I could think.

He raised his arm again for another strike. I dodged to the right just as he swung down—he missed! I thought. But then, a sharp pain flared in my left shoulder. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils, mixing with the unbearable heat of the sun. Nausea churned in my stomach.

I turned to my right—who was that? My daughter.

He saw her too.

I screamed, powerless.

He walked over and yanked her up by the arm like she was nothing more than a stray dog. I staggered, trying to get to my feet, but before I could, his sword plunged into my stomach.

It hurts…

He withdrew the blade and kicked me hard, sending me sprawling onto my back like a flipped-over turtle. He stepped closer, spat on me, and muttered something again. Then, he laughed and brought his sword down—cutting off both my legs.

The burning sensation of my blood spilling from the wounds was unbearable. The heat seared through me, but strangely, I felt no pain—only an overwhelming heat. A breeze passed over my wounds, briefly relieving the heat before the raw sting returned, worse than before.

He dragged my daughter out the door. I screamed again, but my voice was broken and weak. He turned back, glancing at me. The lunatic walked back inside, grabbed me by the hair, and spoke again.

"You can’t scream anymore, huh?"

He gripped my tongue between his fingers and sliced it off.

He laughed.

This time, I understood what he was saying.

"Go ahead, scream some more."

He dragged my daughter out. Each time she cried out, he slapped her.

My poor little girl…

He pulled her outside. I rolled over—I still had one arm. Using every ounce of strength, I tried to drag my broken body forward. So heavy… But I managed to crawl far enough to see outside.

To my left—fire.

They were burning the village. But that wasn’t all. They were gathering everyone in the center, right where the flames were roaring the highest.

And suddenly, I understood.

Strength surged through my right arm. I clawed my way forward, following the dirt path. Even from here, I could hear the screams.

Children wailing.
Pleading voices.
The laughter of those monsters.

I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful whimper—like a dying dog.

Yet my strength did not wane. I felt like I could keep going forever. I crawled, faster and faster. I can still reach her!

I pushed forward, dragging myself closer. But then I saw—

They were throwing people into the fire.

Men, women, the elderly, children.

One by one, they were tossed into the five-meter-tall inferno. Their screams tore through the air, their bodies writhing in agony.

I was still too far away.

And now—I had no more strength left.

I’m so tired… I just want to rest for a moment.

"I’m sorry, my daughter. Dad is tired. I miss your mother too. Let’s go see her together, okay… my little girl…"

The final moment of despair in my first life ends.

"A farmer with bare hands has no strength."
"A man who only survives day by day has no wisdom."
"A man who cannot make it to the end, even when it's so close, has no determination."
"A man who allows others to decide his fate is weak. He is nothing."

I ran from better choices and chose to be a farmer instead.
A fool who only wished for a peaceful life, choosing the simple path of farming.
I had a wife. She died, leaving me with a daughter.
I couldn’t even give her a good life.
I couldn’t even protect her.

And in the end, I died a meaningless death.

I didn’t even hate that monster for what he did.

I was just… powerless.

I was afraid of my own hatred because I knew I couldn't do anything.

So—do I need to be strong?

Power. Strength. Status.

Do I want them?

I was an arrogant fool. A worthless man. Not even as good as a dog.

And now…

Do I still want to be a farmer?

No.

I never want to experience this despair and helplessness again.

Only the strong can choose their own path.

Despair is the fate of the weak.

I refuse to be someone cornered with no way to fight back.

This is not the will of a thirteen-year-old child.

This is the mind of a grown man—one who once saw the world through the eyes of a fool.

That weak, pathetic man died here.