Thirteen days later as the new tactical leadership role in the army.
That was all it took for a life built on soil and seasons to quietly fracture into something unrecognizable.
Morning light slid through tall windows framed with polished stone and warm wood, curtains swaying gently as fresh air drifted inside carrying the faint scent of bread, tea, and ink, a combination so distant from damp earth and hay that Rylan lay still for several breaths, staring at the ceiling while his thoughts slowly aligned with reality.
This place was far too refined.
No creaking beams threatening collapse, no uneven floor biting at bare feet, no cold morning air sneaking through cracks like an uninvited guest, and certainly no rooster declaring ownership of the sunrise.
The new mansion was a gift from the king as a reward for his unexpected mindset, A garden like the small elf land style, a bathroom like the warmness of the volcano and a ice region mix with it, a rather complicated kitchen but still looks like a battle field... Somehow, a bed like rabbits fluffyness and the strength of a humans hair. At last the living room with a fireplace added in with a big sitting area for future stuff of the tactical leadership role purposes only.
"…So this is how people with plans wake up," Rylan murmured quietly.
The ceiling above him was carved with subtle patterns meant to ease the mind, light crystals embedded carefully so the glow never hurt the eyes, and the bed beneath him felt dangerously forgiving, the kind designed to make ambition hesitate.
Memories surfaced without permission.
A small hut. A narrow field. Hands stained with soil. An old man's calm voice.
Life had been simple then.
Hard, honest, and predictable.
Now?
A tactical leader of an army, a residence assigned by royal decree, schedules written by messengers instead of weather, and decisions that affected thousands rather than crops.
Rylan exhaled slowly.
Maybe things would settle down.
Maybe after the chaos, life would become more normal.
More peaceful.
The door slammed open.
"WAKE UP, SLEEPING HEAD! TIME TO GET TO WORK, GENIUS!"
The illusion shattered instantly.
Rylan didn't panic. He barely moved.
"I'm awake already," he said calmly, rolling onto his side, "you don't need to scream at the top of your lungs… your voice might break, you know."
Lyra stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes bright with mischief and absolutely no regret written anywhere on her face.
"Oh?" she replied, leaning slightly forward, voice dripping with playful accusation, "you're being sooo caring now? I see how this is~"
Rylan sat up, rubbing his face. "Yeah, sure. Clearly that's what's happening. Let me just get ready now."
She grinned, snapping a lazy salute.
"Understood, Captain," Lyra said cheerfully, already turning away, "I'll be downstairs then. Bye bye~"
The door closed.
Silence returned, thinner than before.
Rylan moved quickly, washing up, changing into clean clothes prepared ahead of time, practical, comfortable, and designed for long hours rather than ceremony, noticing how easily routine had wrapped itself around him.
This wasn't luxury.
It was expectation.
As he walked through the manor, the building revealed its purpose, wide corridors laid out logically, walls decorated with maps and reports rather than paintings, furniture placed where thought flowed best, a residence designed not to impress, but to endure.
A life meant for responsibility.
Downstairs, warmth greeted him.
The dining room glowed softly with morning light, a long table set with simple but nourishing food, steam rising gently, and Lyra already there, adjusting plates with focus that contradicted her usual chaos.
She looked up and smiled.
"Good to see you here already," she said, gesturing to a seat, "sit down and start eating. You'll need it for your tactical leadership role, mister."
Rylan sat.
The meal unfolded easily.
Light conversation mixed with teasing, remarks about early mornings, quiet jokes about titles neither of them fully accepted yet, laughter slipping between bites, and for a brief moment, responsibility stayed outside the room.
It felt… human.
Far above.
Far beyond mortal sky and stars.
The God of Everything watched.
The smile on the god's face softened, then sharpened.
"So," the god muttered thoughtfully, "he's settling in."
The gaze shifted, peering deeper than walls, deeper than fate itself.
"But comfort," the god continued calmly, "is always the soil where hardship takes root."
Images formed.
Political resistance. Nobles who smiled while sharpening knives. Commanders who followed orders but not intent. Enemies that learned. Monsters that adapted. Wars that refused to behave. Bandits getting ready to attack villeges. Friends and family betraying they're most hated person. And even a simple kid thinking of dirty, sexual, wrong stuff about woman.
"And then there's you," the god added quietly, sensing another presence, ancient, calculating, and deeply curious, "a witch who notices patterns instead of power."
The god tapped invisible fingers together.
"Challenges will come in layers," the god mused, voice no longer playful, "misinformation, morale collapse, authority without obedience, victories that cost too much, and failures that teach nothing."
Power stirred.
"Should I give him clarity?" the god wondered aloud. "A perception that cuts through deception?"
Another idea surfaced.
"Adaptation beyond reason? The ability to reshape strategy instantly?"
Then another.
"Influence? A presence that bends belief itself?"
"instantly learn everything he reads? Mind reading for always knowing the next move of his opponents"
The god paused.
Silence stretched.
A slow smirk formed.
"…No," the god said, amused. "Too honest."
The divine gaze narrowed, laughter curling softly through unseen realms.
"He doesn't need more power," the god decided. "He needs confusion. Doubt. Twisted truth."
One word slipped gently into the weave of fate.
"Gaslighting."
The god laughed, delighted.
"Ah.... First time in billion of years I have laugh like that.... So then pleasure me more Rylan"