REINCARNATED WITH THE BOOK OF SUPREME LAWS

HANDS OF BEGINNING

Morning sunlight spilled through the cracks between the wooden boards of their small home, striking dust motes that floated like tiny stars. A rooster crowed somewhere beyond the farm ridge, and the faint clatter of village life slowly woke with the day.

Inside, Elior sat up quietly on his straw mat. His breath came evenly, soft and controlled. His little body moved with the gentle stretch of someone much older than five years should. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinking slowly, adjusting to the dawn.

A soft clanking sound echoed from outside — iron tapping wood.

Father was already working.

Elior stood, rolled his tiny shoulders, and went to wash his face. The cold water snapped against his skin, refreshing him. When he stepped out of the house, the smell of wood shavings, oil, and morning dew greeted him.

His father was kneeling beside a workbench, big shoulders bent over a piece of wood. Sparks of effort, not magic, danced in every motion. His palms were scarred — the kind of hands that learned life through hardship.

Elior watched for a moment. Quiet. Observing.

His father noticed the small presence.

“You’re up early,” he rumbled without looking up.

Elior’s lips curved slightly. “You always say the morning belongs to those who value time.”

His father paused, a brow lifting at the oddly mature words. But he only chuckled. “And look at you, already trying to steal my wisdom.”

Elior stepped closer and bowed his head respectfully. “Teach me today too, Father.”

That earnest tone — pure, steady — softened the man’s rough features. He set his tools down and turned fully.

“You worked well yesterday,” he said. “Steady hands. Focused mind. But a craftsman isn’t made in a day.”

Elior nodded. “I will keep learning.”

Day by day.

Short thoughts. Quiet. Determined.

His father placed a block of wood on the bench. “A gate latch today. Simpler than a bow arm, harder than a spoon. Wood needs to obey you, not fear you. Understand?”

Elior nodded again.

Father ruffled his hair. “Start by measuring. Don’t rush.”

He handed Elior a tiny wooden measuring rod. Elior held it carefully, fingers adjusting until the balance felt perfect in his small hand. His father noticed. Another silent flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.

Elior bent slightly, marking the wood with quiet precision. No trembling. No hesitation. Each line true.

His father didn’t interrupt — he simply watched, arms folded, eyes thoughtful.

When Elior lifted the carving knife, his father finally spoke:

“Slow cuts. Don’t force the grain.”

“Yes, Father.”

The knife slid into the wood. Soft, crisp shavings curled away. His hands were small but his touch held an adult’s patience. His breathing steady. His posture calm.

A child shouldn’t move like that.

His father’s brows knitted. “Elior… where did you learn to hold a blade that way?”

Elior blinked. “I… practiced watching you.”

A pause. Truth in a child’s mouth, but something deeper behind his eyes.

His father exhaled slowly. “Then keep watching. And keep practicing.”

Minutes passed. Wood shaped slowly under careful hands. Chickens clucked nearby; the village well creaked in the distance; a vendor’s bell rang faintly beyond the farm road. Life simple. Life peaceful.

Father knelt beside him after a while, guiding his small wrist gently.

“Let the blade glide. Don’t fight it. Feel where the wood wants to go.”

Elior followed the gesture, joint steady.

Guide, don’t force.

A short thought. A rule. Natural.

He shaved another thin layer — perfectly even.

His father raised a brow again. “Hah. At this rate, you’ll be teaching me soon.”

Elior smiled softly, eyes lowered. “You are the master.”

Father’s expression softened. “If only all children were so humble.”

His voice grew quieter, thoughtful. “The world praises strength… but Jehovah praises humility and righteousness. Skills are gifts. We honor Him by using them well.”

Elior’s chest warmed faintly. “I understand.”

His father nodded in approval. “Good boy.”

They continued — wood falling away in elegant ribbons. Elior’s small nose wrinkled when dust tickled it; his lips pressed firm when the blade pressed harder; sweat dotted his brow but he never complained.

His father watched silently — proud, confused, moved all at once.

Finally, when the latch shape was finished, Elior sat back. His hands trembled slightly now — not from fear, but from effort. Small body, big focus.

Father stroked his beard. “It’s not perfect.”

Elior nodded. “I will get better.”

“But,” Father continued, “it is honest work. Proud work.”

Elior’s eyes lifted — bright, grateful.

Father took the piece, turning it in the morning light. “Clean the edges. Sand it smooth. Little things build great things.”

“Yes, Father.”

Elior grabbed the sand piece and smoothed the surface rhythmically. His arms grew tired fast; his breathing slowed; his fingers cramped slightly — but he kept going. Not stubborn — disciplined.

His father noticed the fatigue. “Rest.”

Elior shook his head gently. “Just a little more.”

A short silence, then the man placed a heavy hand on his small shoulder. “Strength isn't only in pushing forward. Sometimes, it is in knowing when to pause.”

Elior stopped. Looked up. “I’ll rest for a moment then.”

They sat side-by-side on the low bench. Father wiped a bead of sweat from Elior’s forehead with a coarse thumb.

“You remind me of someone,” he murmured.

“Who?”

“My father.” A sad light flickered in his eyes. “He worked like you. Determination like stone. Heart like fire.”

“I want to honor you,” Elior said softly.

“You already do,” Father replied.

A warm breeze swept gently across the yard. Leaves whispered. Somewhere, a songbird sang.

Elior lifted the latch he carved, holding it like something precious. “Will I ever grow strong enough to protect everyone?”

His father’s gaze softened further. “With time. With faith. Strength without righteousness becomes cruelty. But strength with righteousness? That is what Jehovah blesses.”

Elior nodded, absorbing every word. His past life’s mistakes hovered like a faint shadow — but here, he was new. He had been given a chance to build better.

He carved again. Smoothed again. Silence filled with purpose. His father eventually returned to his own work, but his eyes drifted often — studying the child who wasn’t entirely child.

The sun climbed higher. Sweat, wood dust, and quiet devotion filled their little world. No grand battles. No cosmic laws.

Just a boy learning to shape wood with love and patience.

When they finally stopped, Father examined the finished latch carefully. He turned it over, testing its corners, its balance, its polish.

“…Good,” he said at last.

Elior exhaled — a tiny sigh, gentle relief. Not pride. Gratitude.

His father placed the latch in Elior’s hands. “We’ll use this one for our barn door. Let your first craft guard our home.”

The child’s fingers curled tightly around it. “Thank you.”

Father ruffled his hair again. “Come. Wash up. Your mother will want you to help with bread.”

Elior nodded and followed him inside. The wooden latch pressed against his chest as though it held a heartbeat.

Step by step.

The world outside still slept in ignorance of the storm Elior would one day become — the laws he would bend, the heavens he would challenge.

But today?

Today he learned patience. Humility. Craft.

A foundation more powerful than raw talent.

Not every legend begins with fire and lightning.

Some begin with wood shavings in a quiet yard…

and a father who believed that strength must be righteous to be worthy.