THE TRANSMIGRATOR

Chapter 3 — The Grain Beneath the Floor

The first stone struck the storehouse wall hard enough to make John flinch. “Thief!” Another stone followed.

Then another. Within seconds, angry voices erupted outside the building. “You hid the grain!”

“He found it before us!”

“He's taking it for himself!” John turned toward the doorway. Dozens of villagers had gathered outside.

Their faces were gaunt, their clothes covered in soot, and their eyes were fixed on the sacks of grain behind him with an almost frightening desperation.

John understood immediately. Hunger had changed them. These people were not thinking about tomorrow.

They were thinking about the next mouthful. A man pushed through the crowd.

“Open the door!” Someone struck the wooden frame with a piece of timber. “We're starving!”

John looked at the grain. Then at the crowd. He had expected relief when he found it. Instead, he had discovered another problem.

There wasn't enough food for everyone to take whatever they wanted. If he opened the storehouse without a plan, the strongest would eat first.

The weakest would receive nothing. And by morning, the grain would be gone. John stepped outside.

The crowd immediately surged forward. “Move!”

“Give us the grain!”

“It's ours!” John raised both hands. “Everyone will get food.”

The shouting continued. A woman screamed, “That's what the elder said!” The crowd went quiet for half a second.

Then the anger returned twice as fiercely. John understood. They had been lied to before. Promises meant nothing anymore.

He stepped onto the broken foundation outside the storehouse so everyone could see him. “You want the grain?”

“Yes!”

“Then listen.” A man shouted, “Who made you our leader?” John looked directly at him. “Nobody.”

The answer surprised the crowd. John pointed toward the sacks. “But if you rush inside, some of you will eat today and starve tomorrow.”

He pointed toward the youngest children. “And some of them may not eat at all.” The villagers looked at their children.

The anger did not disappear. But it hesitated. John continued. “We divide the grain by household.” Someone shouted, “What if my family is bigger?”

“Then your family receives more.”

“What if someone lies?”

“Then we count everyone ourselves.”

“And who decides?” John looked around. “Everyone.” The crowd murmured. John turned to Marcus.

“Dad.” Marcus stepped forward despite his injury. John pointed toward the sacks. “Count them.”

Marcus understood. He began organising several men to move the grain outside. Within minutes, the first sack was opened.

The smell alone made the villagers restless. Fresh grain. Real food. For people who had been eating bark, it might as well have been treasure.

A young man suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed a handful. Several others followed. The crowd exploded.

People pushed. Children cried. Women screamed. Someone knocked over a sack. Grain spilt across the dirt.

John's stomach tightened. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.” He climbed onto the storehouse steps.

“STOP!” His voice cracked across the courtyard. Nobody listened. A man punched another villager.

A woman fell. Two men fought over a sack. John jumped down. He grabbed the nearest man's wrist.

“Let go.” The man snarled. “I'm taking food for my family!” “So is everyone else!” The man swung.

John ducked. The punch passed over his head. John drove his shoulder into the man's chest and knocked him backwards.

He was still weak. Still malnourished. But adrenaline gave him enough strength to hold his ground. “Listen to me!”

The crowd slowly quieted. John pointed at the spilt grain. “If we fight over this, we lose everything.” He picked up a handful of grain from the dirt.

“This is food.” He let the grains fall through his fingers. “It is not worth killing each other over.”

A voice came from the crowd. “Easy for you to say.” John turned. A large man stepped forward.

He was broad across the shoulders, with thick arms and a scar running from his left eyebrow to his jaw.

John recognised him from the body's memories. Rogan. The strongest man in Blackstone Village. Rogan carried a heavy iron club.

He walked toward John while the crowd parted. “You think feeding people makes you their leader?” John looked at the starving villagers.

“No.” He pointed toward the grain. “But starving them certainly doesn't make you one.” A few villagers lowered their heads.

Rogan's jaw tightened. “You've changed, boy.” John studied him. “What does that mean?” Rogan smiled. “You used to keep your head down.”

“So did everyone.” Rogan stepped closer. “Then perhaps you should start again.” He raised his club. John did not move.

Marcus immediately stepped between them. “Rogan.” The large man laughed. “You're injured, old man. Don't embarrass yourself.”

John touched Marcus's shoulder. “Move.” Marcus looked at him. “John”

“Move.” Marcus reluctantly stepped aside. Rogan raised the club. John watched his feet. Heavy stance. Poor balance. Predictable swing.

The same mistake as the soldiers. Strength without discipline. Rogan attacked. John stepped sideways. The club smashed into the stone beside him.

Before Rogan could recover, John kicked the back of his knee. Rogan stumbled. John grabbed his wrist and twisted.

The club dropped. The crowd gasped. Rogan stared at John in disbelief. “You little” John shoved him backwards.

Rogan caught himself. His face turned red. “You'll regret challenging me.” John's expression remained calm.

“Maybe.” He stepped forward. “But you're going to regret challenging everyone.”

Something shifted among the villagers. A woman moved behind John. Then another. An old farmer.

A young labourer. Two mothers. One by one, the crowd began standing behind him. Rogan looked around.

For the first time, he was alone. John saw something in his eyes. Fear. Not of John. Of what John had just created. Unity. Rogan lowered his weapon. “This isn't over.”

“No,” John replied. “It isn't.” Rogan turned and disappeared into the crowd. John watched him leave. Something about the man's reaction bothered him.

Too controlled. Too confident. Rogan had expected something like this. Perhaps he had known the grain was there all along.

John turned toward Marcus. “Where did he live?” Marcus frowned. “Near the elder's house.” John's expression hardened.

“Take me there.” They found Rogan's abandoned room behind the elder's compound. Inside were several documents.

Most had been damaged by fire. But one remained intact. John picked it up. The seal at the bottom belonged to the village elder.

The message was brief. Twenty sacks of grain. Delivery upon arrival of the military commander. John's eyes narrowed.

Marcus read over his shoulder. “They were going to give our food to the army.” John shook his head.

“No.” Marcus looked at him. John pointed toward another line. “The grain wasn't a tax.”

He looked toward the door. “It was payment.” “For what?” John didn't answer immediately. Then he noticed Rogan's name.

His expression changed. “Rogan was involved.” Marcus's face darkened. “He helped the elder?”

John nodded. The pieces began fitting together. The hidden grain. The conscription. The soldiers. The elder's death.

And Rogan's confidence. But there was one thing John still couldn't understand. Why would the military commander demand grain from a village that was already starving?

Before he could investigate further, a voice came from outside. “John!” They rushed back toward the storehouse.

The villagers had gathered around the grain. John spent the rest of the afternoon organising the supplies.

Every family received a measured portion. The elderly received extra. Children received priority.

The wounded were given the easiest food to prepare. For the first time in months, Blackstone's cooking fires produced something other than bark soup.

That evening, John watched Lily eat a small bowl of grain porridge. She ate slowly at first. Then faster. Elena gently touched her shoulder.

“Slow down, sweetheart.” Lily looked at John. “Can we eat this tomorrow too?” John smiled faintly.

“Yes.” Her eyes brightened. “And the day after?” John hesitated. That question hurt more than any insult could have.

He looked around the village. The grain would not last forever. The fields were nearly dead. The soil was exhausted.

There was little livestock. No proper irrigation. No reliable food supply. He had bought them time. Nothing more.

Later that night, John sat alone beside one of the grain sacks. He opened it. The grains looked different from the crops he had seen around the village.

Larger. Fuller. More uniform. He picked one up. His eyes widened. This isn't ordinary grain. A memory surfaced from his former life.

Agricultural varieties. Selective breeding. Yield optimisation. Hardy crops. John examined another handful.

These grains possessed characteristics that could produce significantly greater yields than the dying crops around Blackstone.

If they were planted correctly...

If the soil was restored...

If they had sufficient water... John's mind began racing. He could change everything. Not tomorrow.

Not immediately. But eventually. Then he remembered something. Water. John looked toward Marcus.

“Where does the village get its water?” Marcus's expression darkened. “The river.”

“Can we use it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“The river passes through Redwater Settlement first.” John frowned. “They control it?”

“They claim they do.” Marcus sighed. “Blackstone has been buying water from them for years.”

John looked toward the dying fields. “How much?” Marcus gave him a tired smile. “More than we can afford.”

A sudden pounding sounded at the village gate. John stood. Everyone turned. A rider waited outside.

He carried the red-and-black banner of Redwater Settlement. The messenger held out a sealed letter.

“By order of Redwater's council,” he announced, “Blackstone Village is forbidden from drawing water from the river without payment.”

John opened the letter. The demand was simple. Half of Blackstone's remaining grain. For water.

John stared at the words. Then slowly looked toward the fields. Without water, the new grain would never grow.

The messenger smiled. “Pay for the water, or go thirsty.” John folded the letter. His expression became strangely calm.

He looked toward the dark fields. Then toward the river. Finally, he looked at the handful of ancient grain resting in his palm.

For the first time since waking in this world, John smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a man who had just found his first real opportunity.

“Then,” he murmured, “I suppose we'll have to find another way to make it rain.”