Time in this secluded village flowed differently than in the world left on the other side of death. It did not race forward in an inexorable stream, but rather seeped, like tree sap—thick, measured, and filled with the meaning of every day lived. The years that had flown by since his new birth wove themselves into a single tapestry of changing seasons: the snow-white silence of winter, the riotous bloom of spring, the sultry haze of summer, and the crimson of autumn.
By the time Raine turned eight, he had already fully accustomed himself to his new reality. The child's body no longer seemed an alien prison but had become a compliant instrument, one that he, using the knowledge from his past life, tirelessly tempered and developed. His days were subject to a strict routine: rising with the first rays of the sun, a morning training session at his improvised training ground, and then joint practice with Bell. But with each passing day, the awareness that this was not enough grew stronger in his soul. He was part of a family, the son of simple and hardworking people, and the thought of remaining a freeloader, even a small one, was repugnant to his adult worldview.
One summer evening, as the family gathered for dinner, Raine made his decision.
"Father, Mother," he began, setting aside his wooden spoon. His voice sounded unexpectedly serious for an eight-year-old child. "I want to help you. Truly."
Arthur, his father, looked up from his plate and stared at his son in surprise. He was a sturdy man, his face weathered and covered in a network of wrinkles despite his not-so-advanced age. The forest took much from its servants.
"Help?" he repeated, a chuckle in his voice. "You already help, Raine. You feed the chickens, carry water from the well. For your age, that is more than enough."
"No," Raine answered firmly, meeting his father's gaze. "I want to work with you in the forest. And help Mother with the garden and the homestead. Training strengthens the body, but labor is also training. I must become stronger not only for myself, but for the family."
Livia, his mother, looked at her son with anxiety. Her gentle hand rested on his shoulder.
"Raine, dear, the forest is a dangerous place. Even for adult men. You are still too small."
"I will be careful," he persisted. "I'm not asking you to give me an axe. I can carry your tools, Father. Help drag branches, learn about the trees. I won't be a burden. I promise."
Such determination burned in his amber eyes that his parents exchanged a look. They saw before them not a capricious boy, but a small man making a considered decision. Arthur was silent for a long time, studying his son, and then slowly nodded.
"Alright," he pronounced. "Tomorrow, you will come with me. But if I tell you to stand still—you will stand still. If I tell you to run—you will run without looking back. The forest does not forgive mistakes. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Raine exhaled in relief.
That conversation became a turning point. Childhood, filled only with games and training, was over. Life had begun.
Arthur proved to be a harsh but fair teacher. He made no allowances for his son, but he also didn't give him impossible tasks. At first, Raine simply carried his bag with wedges, a whetstone, and a waterskin. He observed. His mind, honed by decades of teaching martial arts, absorbed everything like a sponge. He watched how his father selected a tree, how he determined the direction of its fall, how he made the first undercut with his huge axe. Every one of Arthur's movements was precise and economical, with nothing superfluous—just pure, effective strength.
Over time, Raine began to apply his own knowledge. He noticed that his father, when dragging small logs to where they could be loaded onto the cart, relied solely on his physical strength.
"Father," he said one day, as Arthur was once again grunting and hauling a thick trunk. "What if we use a lever?"
Arthur stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"A lever? What kind of word is that?"
Raine, without a word, found a strong, long branch and a large stone. He deftly slid the branch under the log, resting it on the stone.
"Now, if you press here," he pointed to the long end of the branch, "it will be much easier to lift."
Arthur grunted skeptically but tried it. The log, which moments ago he had struggled to drag, lifted easily. The man's eyes widened in astonishment.
"Where did you learn that, boy?" he asked, looking at his son with new respect.
"I read it in one of Bell's books," Raine lied.
Such moments became more frequent. Raine suggested how to better distribute weight when carrying, how to stack a woodshed more effectively so it was more stable and dried better. His veteran's perceptiveness was also useful. He noticed animal tracks before his father, learned to read the forest like an open book. He learned to distinguish trees by their bark and leaves, edible mushrooms and berries from poisonous ones. The forest, which at first had seemed to him just a chaotic jumble of trees, gradually revealed its secrets to him, its internal logic and order.
Arthur never ceased to be amazed. He saw that his son was not just a child. There was a maturity in him, a wisdom, and some innate understanding of things that he couldn't explain. But he was a simple man and didn't probe. He was simply proud of his son, and this silent, masculine pride was the best reward for Raine.
Work at home was completely different. If the forest was ruled by strength and endurance, here it was patience and care. His mother, Livia, happily accepted his help. She taught him to weed the garden beds, care for the goats, and collect eggs from the chicken coop.
And here, too, Raine found an application for his knowledge. He noticed that his mother hauled water for the garden in buckets all the way from the well, which was quite far. It cost her a lot of time and energy. Rummaging in his father's shed, he found several old wooden gutters. He tinkered for a few days, fitting them together, and eventually constructed a simple but effective system. Now, water from a small stream flowing nearby ran by gravity into a large barrel at the edge of the garden.
When Livia saw it, she gasped.
"Raine, you're a real inventor!" she exclaimed, sweeping him up into her arms and spinning him around, showering him with kisses.
Raine smiled in embarrassment. In moments like these, he felt just like a child loved by his mother. And that feeling was incredibly warm and right.
He learned to fix the leaky roof of the coop, to build new feeding troughs for the goats. His hands, accustomed in his past life to holding only a sword and a bokken, now confidently handled a hammer and saw. This was a different form of creation, and it brought him deep satisfaction.
Years went by. When the boys turned ten, their friendship had only grown stronger. They were inseparable. Their training reached a new level. Raine no longer taught Bell basic stances and strikes. Now he taught him tactics, the ability to predict an opponent's movements, to use the environment to his advantage. Their spars became longer and more complex. Bell, thanks to his prodigious talent, grew at an incredible speed. He still lost, but now Raine had to exert more and more effort to win.
But their friendship was not limited to the training ground. They explored the forest together, venturing further and further from the village. Raine, thanks to his father's lessons and his own cautious habits, was the perfect guide. He taught Bell how to step silently on the forest floor, how to tell direction by the moss on the trees, how to build a fire with just flint and dry grass.
"Never turn your back to the thicket," he told Bell, as they sat by a small fire, roasting fish caught in the river on sticks. "Always watch what's happening around you. The forest isn't an enemy, but it's not a friend, either. It just is. And the one who survives in it is the one who respects and understands it."
Bell listened with wide-open eyes, absorbing every word. For him, Raine was not just a friend. He was a mentor, an older brother, someone he wanted to be like.
Their frequent visits to Bell's house continued. And the older Raine became, the more clearly he understood that his friend's grandfather was the biggest mystery in this quiet village. The old man, whom everyone just called "Gramps," behaved as befitted a village eccentric. He loved to joke with the neighboring women, tell bawdy anecdotes, and pretend to be weak and feeble when help was needed with chores.
But Raine saw what others did not.
One evening, as he and Bell sat in the living room reading, the old man dozed off in his rocking chair. Suddenly, one of the books slipped from a shelf and fell toward the floor with a dull thud. Raine was sure the old man was asleep. But in that same instant, the old man's hand, which had been resting limply on the armrest, shot down with inhuman speed and caught the book an inch from the floor. Then, just as smoothly, he placed it on his lap and continued to snore softly, as if nothing had happened. His eyes never opened.
Bell hadn't even noticed, engrossed in his story of heroes. But Raine froze, and a chill ran down his spine. It was the movement of a master. Instinctive, honed to perfection, one that the body of a normal old man was incapable of.
Another time, Raine found him alone, looking at the starry sky. The smiling, foolish mask had fallen from his face. The old man's gaze was fixed upward, and in it was such a bottomless sorrow, such an ancient grief, as if he were looking not at the stars, but at a long-lost home. Noticing Raine, he immediately started, and his face resumed its usual good-naturedly foolish expression.
"Ah, Raine!" he exclaimed cheerfully, the former sorrow in his eyes instantly replaced by the familiar sly squint. "Admiring the stars? Beautiful, aren't they, the little devils! Just like young elf maidens in a bathhouse! Heh heh heh!"
Raine said nothing, just nodded politely, already used to such jokes. He understood that this was part of the role the old man was playing for some reason.
"Don't stand in the cold," the old man continued, rising from his spot with an exaggerated groan. "Let's go inside. Bell is waiting, I promised him a new story about heroes. And listening to such things dozens of times alone is deadly boring! Your company won't hurt."
The offer was tempting. Bell's grandfather's stories, despite their fantastical nature, always contained grains of information about this world that couldn't be found in books. Raine followed the old man into their modest but cozy home.
Inside, in the small living room, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls, which were completely covered with bookshelves. Bell was already sitting on the floor on a soft fur, his ruby eyes burning with impatience. Seeing Raine, he beamed.
"Raine! You're going to listen too! Great!"
Raine sat next to his friend, and Bell's grandfather settled into his favorite rocking chair, which immediately began to creak rhythmically. The old man packed his pipe, lit it, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling, and began his story.
His voice, usually creaky and mocking, was transformed. It became deep and resonant, like that of a true storyteller. Tonight's story was about a hero who alone challenged a monster born in the darkest depths of the earth—a giant, one-eyed cyclops that could crush rocks with its bare hands.
Bell listened with bated breath. His small fists clenched when the hero was in trouble, and he let out a barely audible sigh of relief when the hero found the strength to get up and continue the fight. He wasn't just listening—he was there, next to the hero, fighting shoulder to shoulder.
Raine also listened, but differently. He analyzed. He noted details in the hero's tactics, observed his strengths and weaknesses, assessed the cunning and power of the monster. But most of all, he watched the storyteller. The old man spoke not like a person retelling a legend. He spoke as if he himself had seen that battle. His voice carried notes of pride, bitterness, and immense respect for those who had fallen in that fight.
The story drew to a close. The hero, gathering his last strength, delivered the decisive blow, and the monster fell. The old man's voice faded, and silence hung in the room, broken only by the crackling of wood in the hearth. Bell, overwhelmed with emotion and tired from the long day, couldn't hold on. His head slowly lolled to the side, and he began to snore softly, having fallen asleep right on the floor, leaning against the warm fur.
Raine was looking at his sleeping friend when the silence was broken by the old man's quiet, changed voice.
"He's always like that," the old man said. His voice had lost its elderly rasp, becoming deeper and more serious. "He gives all of himself, with nothing held back. Whether it's a game or a story."
Raine looked up at him. Bell's grandfather was not looking at him, but at his sleeping grandson, and there was no longer a trace of mirth in his eyes. Only boundless tenderness and the shadow of a deep, hidden anxiety.
"Raine," he continued, without turning his head. "Promise me something."
The sudden change in tone put Raine on guard.
"When I'm gone... look after him."
The words fell into the silence of the room, heavy as stones. Raine was momentarily stunned. It was so unexpected, so serious, that his first reaction was to try to lighten the mood.
"What are you saying, Gramps," he tried to smile. "You'll outlive both me and Bell. You'll live another hundred years, at least, scaring the local widows."
He expected the old man to laugh, to return to his usual role. But that didn't happen.
Bell's grandfather slowly turned his head and looked directly at him. And in that moment, Raine felt an icy chill run down his spine. This was not the gaze of an old man. From the depths of those eyes, which a second ago had been merely the eyes of a village eccentric, something else was looking at him. Something ancient, powerful, and filled with such authority that it took his breath away. All the cheerfulness, all the elderly frailty, fell away from him like a husk. Before Raine sat a being whose gaze seemed to pierce right through him, read his every thought, weigh his very soul. The atmosphere in the room became thick, oppressive. His instincts, honed in a past life, screamed of danger—not physical, but something far more fundamental. It was the gaze of one who stood immeasurably higher.
All his prepared jokes and excuses died in his throat. He understood that this was not a request. It was something akin to a sacred oath being demanded of him. The old man's mind within him instantly assessed the full gravity of the moment. The being before him was not what he seemed, and he was demanding an answer.
Raine slowly, deliberately, nodded. His childish voice sounded firm and confident.
"I promise."
The heavy pressure vanished instantly. The incredible power in the old man's gaze faded, replaced by a deep, almost human relief. He was once again just Bell's grandfather—a tired old man, worrying about his grandson's future.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and in that simple word was sincere gratitude.
He carefully rose, walked over to the sleeping Bell, and covered him with a warm blanket.
"It's time for you to go home, Raine. It's late, your parents will be worried."
Raine stood silently, bowed, and left the house. The night greeted him with its coolness and the bright light of myriad stars. He walked down the deserted village street, but he felt neither fatigue nor drowsiness. In his head, the recent conversation replayed over and over.
He didn't know who Bell's grandfather really was. A spirit? A powerful mage? A god? But whoever he was, tonight he had placed a heavy burden on his childish shoulders.
Raine stopped and looked at his hands. They were still small, childish. But tonight, he felt their weight differently. He was bound to Bell not only by friendship, but by his given word. Their paths, which already ran parallel, were now woven together by an unbreakable oath, sworn under the silent gaze of the stars.