As the days went by, the man — who referred to himself as Tarmellon — slowly started introducing me to the outside world.

And to my surprise, we weren’t in a city at all, but in a rural area. Quite the contrast compared to my previous lives.

It looked like a forest, but there were crops scattered around, and the land didn’t seem entirely wild.

It was, in a way, a decent place to live. It had the greatest virtue of all: it was far away from other people.

My only major problem? Tarmellon. The man acted like a complete lunatic...

“Hatrellon!” he shouted — somehow always at the exact moment I opened my eyes. “Starting today, you're going to help me with the farm work!”

Oh, of course. Because nothing screams helpful like a literal baby doing heavy labor.

Then, after feeding me — which, miraculously, he started doing with more care — he strapped me to his chest with a cloth, like I was just another sack to carry around.

The place was half-cultivated, half-abandoned. Crooked corn stalks, pumpkins scattered around, kale that looked like it was begging for mercy. There was an improvised orchard with sketchy-looking apple and orange trees, bossy chickens marching around like they owned the land, and some forgotten flowers shoved into corners — not the poetic kind.

Surrounding all that, the forest. Dense enough to remind me that civilization was far, far away. Thank the gods.

Tarmellon was digging into the ground with a hoe, probably after some kind of root.

I could feel the tension of his defined muscles with every movement. He definitely didn’t have the body of a simple farmer.

And more than that, his movements were... deliberate.

“Ah, do you feel it, Hatrellon?” he said, with that same grandiose tone he always used. “The fields are the greatest source of poetic inspiration! I’m overflowing with it!”

No, you’re overflowing with sweat.

Literally.

I could feel it dripping onto me with every motion he made.

And the worst part — I couldn’t move at all.

I assume he only brought me along like this because he couldn’t find a worse method.

“You know, son,” — he paused for a second — “sometimes, the best way to end one cycle... is to end another.”

Idiot. Don’t talk to me about cycles. You make it sound like a bad joke.

And worst of all, he started staring dramatically at the sky. He's reminding me of Sid… and that is definitely not helping.

Thankfully, he didn’t stay in that poetic nonsense for too long.

His work was fast. Didn’t take long before he pulled up some roots and vegetables.

“Time to rest!”

Yes. Finally...

“Now it’s your turn.”

What?

He untied the cloth that had me stuck to his chest and set me down on the ground. My hands nearly burned from the scorching sun.

Then, he stepped back — about eight meters.

“Son, this is the beginning of the Prodigy Warrior Project!”

What!?

“We’re going to train so you can improve your mobility quickly. Aren’t you excited?” he said, with a mischievous grin.

Is he seriously trying to kill me?