REINCARNATED WITH THE BOOK OF SUPREME LAWS

THE WORLD BEYOND THE DOORSTEP

The morning breeze drifted through the small window, carrying the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke. Outside, birds were already squabbling in the trees, loud and dramatic, far too confident for creatures that weighed less than a loaf of bread.

Elior sat cross-legged by the door, struggling to tie a bundle of firewood. The rope kept slipping through his small fingers. He tried again, biting his lip in concentration, tiny brows furrowed. Most five-year-olds would have tied themselves to the wood by now. Elior only managed to wrap the rope around his sleeve once. Progress, at least.

Aran leaned over, adjusting the knot gently. “It’s not about strength,” he said, his voice calm and steady, like the river that ran past the fields. “It’s about patience.”

“Patience,” Elior echoed, testing the word on his tongue.

Rina peeked in from outside, a woven basket resting on her hip. “When you’re done, help me carry herbs to the square, alright?”

Elior puffed out his chest. “Okay!” Helping made him feel real. Not like a spirit trapped in the wrong form, not like a secret hiding in a tiny body. Just home.

The village square was alive. Chickens scattered underfoot, children darted between stalls, and the blacksmith’s hammer rang out like a heartbeat echoing across the houses. Rina’s herbs went to Granny Mira, the healer who was as tough as leather and twice as stubborn.

Granny Mira squinted at Elior. “Haven’t seen a boy sit still and work quietly like that since. Hm. Never.”

Elior tried not to smile too proudly.

A shrill voice interrupted. “Elior!” Lana came barreling toward him, a whirlwind of skinny legs and boundless energy. She latched onto his arm like an overly affectionate vine. “Come play!”

Before he could answer, another boy approached. Taron. Taller, older, always wearing the permanent expression of someone chewing a sour fruit. “He can’t run like us,” he said with a smirk. “He’s small.”

Elior didn’t take offense. He was small, physically. But Taron’s tone rubbed against him, an irritation like sand under a bandage. Rina sensed it and patted his head softly. “Go play a little,” she said. “But stay near the well.”

“Yes, mother,” Elior replied, and trotted off. Lana grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the other children. Taron followed with arms crossed like a miniature guard captain.

They played tag. Lana ran as if demons were chasing her, Taron played to impress, and Elior tried to keep up. His legs were short, but he kept moving, panting, determined.

“Slow turtle!” Lana called, tagging him.

“Not slow,” he panted, cheeks puffed. “Just saving energy!”

Taron scoffed. “Excuses.”

Elior looked at him and smiled. “You’re right.” A pause. “But one day I’ll outrun you.”

Taron blinked, as if challenged by a chick. “We’ll see.” There was no drama, no life-and-death glare. Just two children. One competing, the other quietly promising himself a future.

Later, Elior helped Rina pack dried leaves into cloth bags while she chatted with the other women. Near the well, two hunters whispered, unaware of Elior’s sharp ears.

“Tracks again near the fields.”

“Wolves?”

“No. Bigger. Not natural walking patterns.”

Elior’s small hands paused. Something in the forest was watching.

A shadow fell over him. Granny Mira bent down, eyes narrowing. “Weird energy around that one,” she muttered.

Rina chuckled. “He’s just quiet.”

Granny Mira snorted. “Quiet water hides deep currents. Keep him humble, girl. Children with fire in their eyes burn brightest and fastest.”

Fire? Elior blinked. He didn’t feel fire. He felt like a spark buried under earth, slowly learning to breathe.

A tug at his sleeve pulled him back. Lana whispered, “When we’re older, we’ll train like the hunters. I’ll get a bow taller than Taron.”

“I’ll learn too,” Elior promised.

Taron, overhearing, scoffed. “You? You’ll be sweeping floors.”

Elior didn’t argue. He only tied the herb bundle tighter, knots neat and firm. Someday.

Evening painted the sky in soft purples as they walked home. Aran sharpened a small carving knife on the porch. “Good day?”

“I helped,” Elior said simply.

Aran handed him a thin strip of wood. “Then help one more time. Shavings small and even.”

Wood curled away in the lightest strips. Patience. Steady breath. Control. Not cultivation, discipline.

A wolf howled in the distant forest. Rina stiffened. Aran’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Elior kept carving, the wood trembling in his small hands, not from fear but from focus. This was his world now. His family. His path. Quiet. Slow. Real.

And deep inside, like a heartbeat waiting to wake, a faint warmth stirred. Not yet, but soon.

A child on the outside, a promise on the inside.

Tomorrow, the chief would gather all children turning six to speak of something whispered like magic and myth. Cultivation, laws, the first spark toward the impossible. Elior didn’t know it yet, but the next dawn would begin a new chapter of his life.