《Spark of a Nation [Litrpg]》 Prologue Darkness It was the first thing I knew. An endless formless void, where my thoughts drifted like dying embers swallowed by an abyss. There were no sensations, no awareness just an overwhelming sense that something had existed before this nothingness. A pressure coiled around me, neither warm nor cold, simply there. I could not see, could not hear¡ªonly drift. Time lost meaning. Seconds, hours, years? I could not tell. Then¡ªsound. At first, it was a distant vibration, a dull hum pressing against the edges of my consciousness. It pulsed, faint and rhythmic, like something alive. Slowly, it grew sharper¡ªvoices. Muffled, blurred, wrapped in a haze of something thick and unyielding. I strained to understand, but the words slipped away, tangled in a foreign cadence. Something tugged at me. Not a physical pull, but something deeper, an instinct beyond thought. A command to wake. I tried to move. My body¡ªif I had one it felt wrong. My limbs, my fingers, and even my breath felt alien as if I had been pressed into a shape that did not fit. Then¡ªpain. A sharp, stinging burn erupted across my back. It tore through the suffocating haze in my mind, snapping me into awareness with the viciousness of a blade. My muscles tensed to an unfamiliar sensation, then released in a violent jolt. And before I could stop myself, my mouth opened. A wailing cry escaped me¡ªraw, helpless, infantile. And with it, the world rushed in. I first saw multiple lights blinding me. A burning radiance that stabbed into my eyes, it was too harsh and too sharp. It tore across my vision like fire, forcing me to squeeze them shut. Cool air bit at my damp skin, slipping over me like a phantom¡¯s touch, making me shudder. The scent of blood lingered in the air its scent thick, metallic, and unmistakable. Something earthy followed, damp and musky, like pressed bodies and smouldering embers. I gasped, my breath hitching as I tried to make sense of it all. Then my vision was obscured by a face. I forced my eyes open again, blinking through the burning blur. An older woman loomed over me, her face lined with age, her head wrapped in a richly woven cloth adorned with small cowrie shells. She wore a wrap of deep indigo, layered with beads and charms carved from ivory and copper. Her dark skin gleamed under the glow of flickering oil lamps. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, unreadable. There was no warmth in it¡ªonly observation, as if she were measuring something unseen. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, she turned her head slightly, speaking to someone just beyond my vision. ¡°He is here,¡± she murmured, her voice low and steady. ¡°His first cries are strong.¡± Before I could question her words, before I could understand, the flood hit. Memories. They came all at once. A tidal wave of sights, sounds, and emotions¡ªmemories of another life. I remembered laughter. The warmth of home, the echo of voices¡ªfamiliar, beloved. Sunlit streets. Books lined in neat rows. The scent of old paper and ink. I remembered growing up. The weight of expectation pressing down like an iron brand. The slow loss of innocence traded for knowledge and quiet understanding. And then my final day. The memory snapped into focus, cruelly vivid. I was standing¡ªthe city sprawled below me, a sea of flickering lights. Two figures beside me, their faces blurred, their words just unreachable. What were we talking about? A sharp pain lanced through my skull, sudden and merciless. My thoughts scattered, pieces of the memory slipping from my grasp. I clenched my teeth, desperate to hold on to it. Then I felt there hands on my back. Shoving me forward. My stomach lurched. The wind screamed past my ears as I fell. A black-and-gold coin pressed into my palm, its metal cold, heavy, final. And then¡ª Blue light. Blinding. All-consuming. They killed me. And yet, I was here. A shuddering breath escaped me. My tiny hands clenched into fists. My skin¡ªdark brown, too small, too fragile. This wasn¡¯t a dream. This wasn¡¯t some fevered nightmare. I had been reborn. But why? I swallowed back another cry, my tiny chest heaving with the effort. My mind screamed for logic, for explanation, but none came. The elder did not wait for me to understand. She moved with purpose, wrapping me in a fine bark cloth wrap embroidered with intricate geometric patterns, the scent of herbal ointments clinging to it. She turned. And then, I saw her. The room was dim, the flickering glow of oil lamps casting long, swaying shadows over the smooth, polished clay walls. Woven reed mats covered the floor, their edges curling slightly from wear. The air was thick with the scent of burning resin, of sweat, of the lingering presence of life and death entwined. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. A woman lay motionless on a wooden mat, her body partially veiled in darkness. The light did not reach her fully¡ªit only brushed against the fragile curve of her cheek, the brittle lines of her collarbones, and the deep hollows of her eyes. She was frail. Her skin, a deep, warm brown, looked pale in the lamplight, stretched too tightly over sharp bones. Her limbs, thin as reeds, lay limply at her sides, fingers curled slightly inward as if even in death, she had not fully released the world. Her thick, coiled hair was damp, pressed against her forehead, strands sticking to skin that had long since lost its warmth. She was still silent she was dead. Three women knelt beside her. Their wraps were finer, woven in deep reds and earthy browns, decorated with brass rings and polished beads. Their expressions carried pieces of her own. Were they sisters, daughters, nieces? I did not know. But the way their hands clutched at the fabric of their garments, the way their shoulders shook with barely contained sobs, spoke of a grief so deep it swallowed the air itself. The first one, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, held on to the dead woman¡¯s arm, rocking slightly, whispering prayers beneath her breath. The second pressed her forehead against the wooden table, her fingers digging into the rough surface as if trying to anchor herself to something solid. The third silent, staring was the worst. Her gaze was hollow, her face streaked with dried tears, lips trembling but refusing to open. She had already broken. I knew without being told. She was my mother. A strange, hollow ache blossomed in my chest. It was not grief. Not yet I had not known her. The old woman did not linger. She turned toward the doorway, stepping past ornately carved wooden pillars that bore strange symbols, she cradled me close to her chest as we exited the house. I clung to the warmth of the old woman¡¯s chest, but it did nothing to chase away the bone-deep displacement. I did not belong here. Memories of my old life still clashed violently with the reality of this one, disjointed, impossible. The echoes of a past self warred with the fragile instincts of an infant body. Then¡ªlight. Not the flickering glow of surrounding lanterns, but something sharper, impossible. A screen. It appeared without warning, floating in my vision like a phantom. Its glow pulsed¡ªcrisp, surreal, undeniable. Then, the words appeared. --- STATUS SCREEN [Name]: ??? [Title]: None [Class]: Technomancer (Lv. 1) [Age]: 0 [Condition]: Infant (Weak, Helpless) --- [Core Stats] Fame: 0 (Unknown) Body: 1 (Feeble) Reputation: 0 (Nonexistent) Grit: 3 (Resilient Soul) Mental: 6 (Reincarnated Mind) Charisma: 2 (Subtle Presence) Dexterity: 1 (Clumsy Newborn) Perception: 4 (Unfocused Awareness) Affinity: 10 (Innate Connection to Machines) Wealth: (None) --- [Technomancer Abilities] (Locked ¨C Requires Interaction with Technology) Passive Awareness ¨C Instinctively senses electric currents and magnetic fields. Machine Sensitivity ¨C Can perceive active machines nearby (radios, lightbulbs, mechanical clocks). Minor Electrostatic Influence ¨C Emotional surges may cause small electrical discharges (static sparks, flickering lights). Pattern Recognition (Dormant) ¨C Subconsciously detects efficiency patterns in machinery, circuitry, and coding structures. Digital Echo (Locked) ¨C Residual fragments of past technologies may appear in visions or thoughts. --- [Skills] (Limited due to age and physical condition) [???] ¨C Unlocked by reaching developmental milestones. [Basic Memory Recall] ¨C Retains fragmented knowledge from a past life. [Survival Instinct] ¨C Innate ability to recognize danger and discomfort. [Sensory Adaptation] ¨C Enhanced reaction to light, sound, and vibrations due to Technomancer heritage. [Lingual Absorption (Dormant)] ¨C Passively absorbs and deciphers spoken languages. --- [Status Effects] [Reincarnated Mind] ¨C Retains knowledge from a past life, granting intelligence beyond normal limits. [Helpless Infant] ¨C Cannot move, speak, or control surroundings. Survival depends entirely on others. [Spark of the Machine] ¨C Bound to the world of technology. [Underdeveloped Form] ¨C Strength, speed, and endurance are limited due to infancy. [Unstable Circuit] ¨C Early Technomancer abilities may cause sporadic, uncontrolled electrical reactions. --- > Welcome to your new life! Mission Assigned Objective: Create a Nation and Survive. Good Luck! ?? --- A sharp chill crawled down my spine. My breath hitched, the world narrowing to that single, impossible message. Create a Nation? Chapter 1 A Child Among Giants As we stepped out of the hut, the night unfolded before us, a vast sea of faces illuminated by the wavering glow of lanterns. Shadows stretched long and uncertain, flickering against the clay walls and wooden beams of the village. Above, the heavens were veiled in thick clouds, shrouding the stars and moons in oppressive darkness. I fixed my gaze on the two moons hanging in the sky, their pale light casting a glow over the land. A strange unease settled in my chest at the realization this wasn''t Earth. Where was I? Then I felt my body rise. Strong hands lifted me high above the crowd, and suddenly, all eyes were on me. A hush rippled through the gathering, a stillness that sent a chill down my spine. They were waiting. The elder woman raised her voice to the night. ¡°My people! The mother of this child is no more!¡± At first, there was silence, as if the weight of her words had not yet settled. A few cheers and jubilation died in their throats. The crowd swayed, a wave of grief passing through them, washing away whatever joy had momentarily taken hold. Women covered their mouths, men clenched their fists, and children buried their faces in their parents'' robes. The atmosphere thickened with mourning, a suffocating heaviness pressing against my chest. Behind me, the three girls who had remained at my mother¡¯s side stepped out of the hut, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. They followed in solemn procession as we moved through the crowd, parting them like water. Then, the first beat of a drum. A single, deep boom. Then another. A steady rhythm, slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. I turned my head, scanning the crowd, but my thoughts were tangled, overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. Create a nation, that was the sentence that refused to leave my mind. It was ridiculous. What did I know about ruling a nation? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Reading about history and playing video games don¡¯t translate to real life. Neither did my IT degree at this moment. I wasn¡¯t a leader. I was just¡­ me. And yet, they carried me forward as if I were something more. We passed through the village, the flickering lanterns revealing homes sculpted from clay, their surfaces carved with intricate designs. The wooden beams bore elaborate markings, I could only guess at their meaning, were they telling stories of ancestors, victories of battle or legacies to be remembered I did not know. The air smelled of earth and wood smoke, of sweat and incense. The people surrounding me were dressed differently from each other, some in simple cloth wraps, others adorned in fine beads and dyed fabrics. Every step took us higher, ascending the sloping paths of the village. I strained my eyes, noticing how the carvings on the walls changed as we moved. The art became grander. The symbols were more complex. I guessed the wealthier the household, the more elaborate the craftsmanship. The drumbeats grew louder. My pulse quickened with them. At last, we reached a great hut, larger than any we had passed. It stood like a fortress, a monument to authority, its central chamber connected to several smaller structures, woven together like a spider¡¯s web. The crowd had gathered again, waiting at the entrance. The entrance was obscured by a heavy tarp, draped in what I could only guess was the fur of a lion, its deep, tawny hue shimmering faintly in the low light. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was supposed to happen. A procession of elder men and women slowly emerged from the crowd, they wore simple yet dignified garments. The men had tunics adorned with bead work, while the women wore long skirts with intricate patterns, cinched at the waist with braided ropes. Their feet were bare, their hands adorned with rings and bracelets made of bone or stone. Over their shoulders, they were draped with furs and shawls, and their heads were crowned with headdresses of woven grasses or feathers. Their movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic. They carried a large basin between them, its surface gleaming with water that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly quality. As they approached, I felt a pang of dread in my stomach, and my heart began to pound against my chest. The old woman who had been carrying me gently laid me down beside the basin, her weathered hands never leaving my body, their touch firm but kind. She stripped me of the cloth that clung to me, her actions quick and efficient, as though she had performed this task countless times before. The crowd held its breath. Another woman, older than the first, stepped forward. Her hands were surprisingly steady for someone so ancient, but there was an unsettling weight to her gaze. Without a word, she began to bathe me. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The water was warm, almost comforting at first, but it carried an unfamiliar scent¡ªsomething pungent of a herb I couldn''t remember. I couldn¡¯t place it, but I knew the sharp sting of oil mixed with water as it soaked into my skin. The elders crowded around me, their eyes intense as they examined me. I felt their gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, but I was unable to bring myself to look away. Their whispers filled the air, hushed and urgent, like a secret being passed between them. ¡°He doesn''t react like the others,¡± one of them muttered, his voice low but laced with a strange kind of wonder. Nearby, an elder with deep-set eyes and silver hair whispered, ¡°All children, they react in their own ways, but this one¡­ he watches with eyes that see deeper than the others.¡± Another, her skin marked by years of the sun, leaned forward, her voice almost a whisper. ¡°He does not fidget nor laugh like the rest. His gaze is quiet.¡± Their murmurs spread like ripples in the water, each elder noticing something in me that made them pause, what was different, did they have the same status menu as me? I was rendered mute and uncertain as we proceeded, watching the elders pass the fur-draped entrance and stepped into the grand hut. Flickering oil lamps cast shifting shadows on the carved wooden pillars, At the far end, seated upon a raised platform, the chief loomed with an aura of quiet power. He looked as old as the elders. His robe, a flowing mantle of deep red and black, was embroidered with fine beads and cowrie shells that glimmered in the lamplight. Across his chest lay a sash dyed in different red hues, while heavy copper bracelets clinked softly against his wrists. Upon his head, a grand headdress of eagle feathers and antelope hide crowned him, its height making him seem larger than life. Around him, the elders sat in a solemn arc, their weathered faces unreadable, while warriors stood like statues along the edges, spears in hand, their eyes keen and unwavering. The room was thick with silence, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. Every eye was fixed upon me, some filled with curiosity, others with caution. A few flickered back to the chief, awaiting his words. ¡°Bring him forward,¡± he commanded, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion, as though burdened by an unseen weight. I was placed in the chief¡¯s lap. Our gazes locked, neither of us daring to look away, as if searching for some unspoken truth in the other¡¯s eyes. ¡°What do the elders, the spirits, and the ancestors of our land say about this child?¡± the chief asked, his tone heavy with expectation. One elder, his face lined with age and wisdom, stepped forward. ¡°He is watchful. Calm. He cried only once when struck and has since been silent, studying those around him.¡± A murmur rippled through the gathering, but it was quickly silenced as another elder, her presence commanding, spoke next. ¡°The spirits are hesitant. They have offered no guidance. And our ancestors¡­ they have not spoken to us in fourteen days and fourteen nights.¡± A hush fell over the room. The weight of her words pressed down on the assembly like a storm cloud ready to break. The chief''s gaze shifted to the elder woman who carried me. ¡°What do you say about this child, Na¡¯kumbi?¡± he asked, his voice measured. The room turned toward her as she lifted her head, her eyes distant, as if she had glimpsed something beyond mortal sight. ¡°My dreams have been unclear,¡± she admitted, her voice a slow, deliberate whisper. ¡°But one thing is certain¡ªhe will walk a path of blood. And yet, he will bring great change.¡± A wave of hushed voices filled the space, whispers of uncertainty, fear, and awe spreading through the gathered crowd. My thoughts swirled in disbelief. Me? A leader? That seems impossible. A sharp knocking silenced the murmurs, the sound echoing through the chamber. The chief, unshaken, returned his gaze to me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice that carried through the hall, he proclaimed, ¡°He shall be named Shiyani¡ªHe Who Brings Change. The earth itself shall bear witness to what he will become.¡± He rose slowly, still holding me firmly in his grasp, his presence commanding the attention of all. As the murmurs of the crowd quieted, he turned to face them, his voice steady and resolute. ¡°Prepare for the morning rites to lay Namakai to rest. Let the preparations be made, for we shall mourn her passing and celebrate her journey as she joins our ancestors in the spirit realm.¡± Chapter 2 The Price of Understanding The hall was silent, the weight of the annouced mourning pressing down like a heavy fog on everyone. My mother¡¯s passing held everyone''s attention, They all spoke to each other, and others openly wept. Then, as if a dam had broken, emotion surged forward like a ripple of grief, hushed whispers and stifled sobs, spread through the crowd. The mourners multiplied as more entered. At the front, the chief sat motionless, his expression carved from stone. But I saw the weight in his eyes, the quiet exhaustion he concealed beneath his composure. A man who had carried too much for too long. One of the three girls led me away through a side door. The corridor swallowed us in dim light, each step taking me further from the solemn gathering. She was young, probably thirteen if I guessed, likely a servant in the chief¡¯s household. Her face was streaked with silent tears, unhidden and unashamed. I said nothing. What could I say? I was a baby with a man¡¯s mind, trapped in a body too weak to even crawl. The room she brought me to was simple¡ªtwo lamps casting flickering light, a central bed draped in thick animal furs. The air smelled of tallow and earth, warm and enclosed. She stood beside me, quiet as I was watching her cry silently. When sleep finally took me, I didn¡¯t dream. Instead, I hovered between waking and dreaming, I became aware of the presence of the system, its words floating in a black void. I mentally studied and prodded at the text, reading every line. I wasn¡¯t even sure what a Technomancer could do with the current technological gap I''ve witnessed today, the only thing that had changed in my status was my new name. But then, something caught my attention a line of text flashing. [???] ¨C Unlocked by reaching developmental milestones. Then, the screen flickered. Lines of glowing text blurred past, too fast to read, until they settled on a single message. ¡ª¡ª¡ª > Boon detected: One patron coin. Please select a patron. The Flayed Librarian The Sea of Fractured Reflections The Labyrinth of Echoes The Forest of Knowing ¡ª¡ª¡ª The blue light pulsed, waiting for my choice. This is new. I remember the coin. It was in my hand when I was shoved through the portal¡ªblack, with a thin gold lining around the edge. But¡­ had I always had it? Or did it appear after I spoke to those two? Or was it three? Their faces blur in my memory, their features slipping away like sand through my fingers. I can¡¯t even recall what we talked about before they shoved me off the ledge into the portal. I turn my focus back to the screen. Four choices. Four unknown paths. I push against the glowing text with my mind, searching for hidden details, for any clue that might reveal more. Nothing. The screen remains stubbornly silent. What does a Patron do? What do they get in return? What will they teach me? And what exactly does this coin cover? No answers. Just the four names, waiting. I stare at them, unmoving. Thinking. Calculating. Waiting. Then, without warning¡ª A countdown appears. [Time Remaining: 5:00] What the fuck?! Panic stirs in my gut, but I force myself to stay calm. Think this through. I scan the options again. The Flayed Librarian is out immediately. The name alone is enough. I¡¯m not interested in whatever horrors that entails. Three choices left. For the next two minutes, I debate, analysing the names, and weighing what little I know. The Labyrinth of Echoes? Sounds like riddles and mind games. Risky. The Forest of Knowing? Knowledge is power, but what kind of knowledge? The Sea of Fractured Reflections? That could mean insight¡­ or madness. I hesitate. [0:30] Two choices now. The Forest of Knowing or The Sea of Fractured Reflections. Both sound useful. Both sound¡­ safe. But are they? I don¡¯t know. I can¡¯t know. [0:10] My heartbeat quickens. No time left. No more second-guessing. [0:05] [0:04] The Forest of Knowing. I made my choice. The screen flares to life, the text twisting and shifting before my eyes. Something stirs. Something awakens. And then¡ª Everything changes. ¡ª¡ª¡ª Status Changes: New Passive: [Whispering Growth] ¨C Knowledge lingers in the mind longer, but failure to share learned wisdom causes mental strain. New Mutation: [Verdant Markings] ¨C Faint vine-like patterns appear beneath the skin, only visible under certain light. Mental +1 (Expanded Cognitive Retention) Reputation +1 (Subtle Aura of Wisdom) Hidden Drawback: A growing compulsion to share knowledge. Secrets weigh heavily, and silence feels suffocating. ¡ª¡ª¡ª Huh. That doesn¡¯t sound too ominous. But there had to be a drawback. If I was bound to share knowledge, what did I get in return? How did I gain from this? The screen flashed. And the void burned. Like paper set alight, the surrounding blackness curled and crumbled, revealing something beyond¡ªa forest that should not exist. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Its trees were not wood but writhing black flesh, twisting bones, and gnarled roots that pulsed as if breathing. Their bark shifted, porous and alive, while their branches stretched into a sky without stars¡ªonly sigils of unknown constellations, shifting and reforming with each passing second. A thousand whispers filled the air, not speaking, but thinking. Fuck. I should have chosen the Flayed Librarian. The voices pressed in from all directions, an unbearable chorus burrowing into my skull. My breath hitched as I clamped my hands over my ears, but the voices didn¡¯t stop¡ªthey weren¡¯t heard; they were felt. I ran. The forest moved with me, not resisting but guiding, twisting its paths in ways that shouldn¡¯t be possible. And then¡ªI entered the clearing. It waited there. The Forest. Not just a being, not just a place¡ªboth. Its form was an amalgamation of all things living and dead, its presence stretched through every gnarled root, every whispering leaf, every watching eye blooming like fungi from its many limbs. The earth beneath me exhaled. The creatures that scuttled between the roots¡ªshapeless, shifting, hungry¡ªwere not separate from it. They were its thoughts made flesh. I exhaled too, not in relief but in sheer, primal wrongness. Then¡ªI felt something inside me move. I shuddered as it slipped free. A coin, black as the void between stars, emerged from my chest and fell, soundless, onto the pulsing ground. The Forest stirred. A limb¡ªif it could even be called that¡ªunfurled from the trunk of a distant tree. It reached, stretching impossibly far, its fingers segmented like the legs of an insect. It plucked the coin and traced its surface with careful precision. Then, without hesitation, it crumbled to dust. The Forest approved. From a nearby tree, something hung¡ªa single seed, dark and glistening like coagulated ink. It plucked the seed and flicked it toward me. I had no time to react. The seed burrowed into my skin. And then¡ª Agony. Understanding. Madness. The whispers surged, no longer distant, no longer voices, but truths. Vast, unbearable, all-consuming truths that shattered my mind and rebuilt it instantly. I burned with knowing. I felt my bones stretch as if they might take root. For a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªI was the Forest. I was every whisper. I was every unseen thing lurking between the roots. I was watching. And then¡ªthe storm passed. Reality snapped back into focus. The world became solid once more, and I was myself again. Except I wasn¡¯t. The seed remained, nestled somewhere within me. A connection anchoring me to something beyond myself. It pulsed¡ªnot with knowledge, but with limits. It would not give freely. I swallowed hard, my breath shaking. Okay. I just had my mind cracked and stitched back together by something beyond human understanding. Couldn¡¯t I have just had a normal, mundane reincarnation? The Forest hummed. It was pleased. ¡°Were you really that bored?¡± My voice was hoarse, my thoughts raw. ¡°To carve into my mind like that? I liked those parts¡ªeven if they were illogical.¡± The response came not in words, but in a flood of emotions¡ªdetached amusement, patient understanding, and an overwhelming certainty. A chorus of thoughts wove together, shaping a single, undeniable truth: There was value in losing. My mind would be sharper. More efficient. A sculpted tool, free of unnecessary clutter. I exhaled slowly. ¡°Yeah¡­ I see your point. But you had millions of options.¡± The Forest¡¯s answer was a swirl of emotions¡ªjoy, curiosity, and something close to satisfaction. It had chosen me. ¡°Fine.¡± My voice was barely above a whisper. ¡°I''ll hold up my end of the bargain.¡± --- When I awoke the next day, I was not the same. My mind was different. Not just altered¡ªpruned. Pieces of me were missing, yet their echoes remained, faint and ghostly, like whispers from a past I could no longer fully grasp. I lay there, still, as awareness settled over me. I was helpless and powerless. Trapped in a body that had no strength, no control. A fate worse than death¡ªto be conscious yet unable to act. I forced myself to think beyond the despair. To plan. The girl beside me was fast asleep ¡ªwho was she? I needed her name. I needed to understand my surroundings. The passing of my mother would cast a long shadow over everyone here, a burden that would linger. And so, as she slept, I began. I pieced together strategies, pulling from the vast wealth of knowledge in my mind. Theory without practice. A ruler with no experience. A mind full of power, trapped in a body too weak to act. And then¡ª I felt it. The Forest. It peered into my thoughts, watching, judging. Weighing every choice I would make. And it mocked some of my choices. Chapter 3 A Helpless Tyrant As time passed, I simply lay there, staring up at the thatched ceiling, lost in thought. My mind drifted through plans and possibilities, weighing the challenges ahead. It was clear to me that the nation I was forced to create would shape this land where survival was my only certainty, would be fundamentally different from anything I had ever known. I lived under a democracy, a system built on compromise, institutions, and collective governance. But here, in a world of shifting loyalties, tribal power struggles, and an absence of structured governance, democracy was not a viable option. There were no guiding principles dictating how I should survive, no predetermined conditions for how my nation should endure. The only rule was that I had to impose my own. Yet, absolute rule by a single leader was a precarious prospect. History has proven time and again that lone rulers, no matter how brilliant or ruthless, were vulnerable to internal collapse. I needed to craft an image of singular authority¡ªan unchallenged ruler, yes, but one supported by a foundation strong enough to carry the weight of a growing state. That meant establishing a functional, loyal class of administrators who could handle the bulk of governance and execution. Each of them needed to be competent, disciplined, and entirely aware of their roles in the machine I was building. Blood ties and familial dynasties would not be the foundation of my regime. That path led to nepotism, stagnation, and the inevitable decay of effective rule. Instead, I had to construct a system where individuals rose through knowledge, efficiency, and demonstrated ability. A government ruled by the educated¡ªtechnocrats, scholars, and specialists¡ªwould be the most effective means of maintaining control and ensuring progress. If they were to understand my vision, I had to shape them from the ground up. The next generation had to be groomed to carry my ideology forward. I was already positioned for rulership, but fate was unpredictable. Even if I secured my place now, what of the years ahead? If I were to be removed by treachery, disease, or unforeseen disaster, my work would collapse unless I embedded my ideology so deeply into the fabric of society that it became self-sustaining. A cult of personality was essential, but more than that, I needed a literal cult. Religion has shaped civilizations for millennia, influencing every aspect of culture, governance, and warfare. If I were to explain the unnatural abilities granted to me¡ªthe so-called ¡°technomancer¡± powers¡ªI required divine justification. Faith had a way of bending reality for those who believed, and if I could position myself as the harbinger of a new order, my rule would be beyond mere politics. It would be destiny. But indoctrination required time, effort, and above all, efficiency. If I could reduce the burden of survival¡ªfreeing my people from the endless grind of subsistence¡ªthen I could redirect their energy toward ideological devotion. Mass indoctrination was only possible if my subjects were not preoccupied with mere existence. That meant restructuring the entire tribe, improving resource distribution, and securing stability. Yet, all of this was contingent on my understanding of the land¡¯s resources, its local power dynamics, and the foreign entities that would inevitably take an interest in my growing nation. The world beyond my borders could be an opportunity or a threat, and I needed to be prepared for either. So many pieces had yet to be placed on the board. The next ten years would determine everything. How would my people perceive me? How much of their traditions could I alter or outright abolish to serve my vision? Every aspect of their culture needed to be scrutinized, restructured, and, if necessary, erased. One way or another, I would shape this land into something that could handle my dreams and maybe complete this mission. I had no sense of how much time had passed, so busy lost in planning, learning, and dreaming of the future, until the bed shifted beneath me. My thoughts scattered as I became aware of the soft light of morning filtering in, and then, suddenly, I was lifted. I was in the steady grip of a woman who I did not recognize. My limbs still, weak and uncoordinated, barely responded as I was carried through the dim light of the hut. The woman hummed softly, her voice soothing, but I found no comfort in it. So lost in my thoughts and plans, it was only now did I realize that the pressure in my gut had already lessened, and the sticky warmth between my legs and smell confirmed the humiliating truth. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. A grown man trapped in the body of a helpless infant, forced to endure the most degrading necessities of life. I wanted to scream at the embarrassment, but my infant body could do nothing but squirm as I was unwrapped from my soiled cloth. The air hit my skin, cool against the dampness. My caretaker barely reacted, only making a quiet sound of disapproval before she set about cleaning me with practised ease. My shame burned. This is my life now. Once I was clean, she swaddled me in fresh cloth, binding me tightly, leaving only my small hands free. She settled into a seated position, cradling me with ease, and then guided me toward her bare breast. Revulsion rolled through me. This was necessary, I reminded myself. My body needed sustenance. There was no alternative. I latched on, my body knowing what to do even as my mind recoiled. The warm milk filled my mouth, and despite myself, I drank. I drank because I had no choice my survival demanded it. But at that moment, as I nursed in silence, I was more aware than ever of how small and powerless I had become. ¡ª¡ª¡ª Hours passed before I was carried outside, the sun high above, the gathered crowd whispering in low tones. I had known this was coming. My mother¡¯s body, wrapped in rich fabrics, lay atop a wooden bier adorned with offerings. It did nothing to ease the hollowness in my chest. The women of the tribe stood in dark wraps, their hair braided and adorned with beads, their faces solemn as they sang in rhythmic sorrow. The men had their bodies painted in red and ash, they carried spears bound with strips of brown cloth, their heads bowed in reverence. The body was laid to rest within an earthen tomb, surrounded by other remains resting on stone beds¡ªmere skeletons now, their flesh long claimed by time. I couldn¡¯t help but wonder how their decay had unfolded, how long it had taken for them to become nothing but bone. Offerings of food, cloth, and copper were carefully placed beside the deceased, tributes meant to accompany them beyond this life. Nearby, servants stood in quiet mourning, some weeping softly. Among them, I spotted the three girls who had been with her when I first arrived in this world. A question lingered in my mind¡ªwhat would become of them now? The chief stood at the forefront. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed forward. He showed no visible signs of grief, his face Stoic. But I focused on his left hand, noticing the small tremors, but it could mean anything. I shed no tears. There was no space for them. The changes wrought by the forest had left their mark on my mind, dulling emotions I might have once felt. I was alone in a world I barely understood, a world that would not bend for me¡ªI would have to shape myself to survive within it. As the burial chants rose in intensity, I let the weight of it settle over me. This was my first question in this new life: how had she died? Was it sickness, betrayal, or something woven into her very blood? I needed to know. ¡ª¡ª¡ª As time passed, my life settled into a monotonous rhythm¡ªeat, sleep, soil myself, observe, and repeat. Attempts at crawling were futile; my body was still too weak to support even that small act of independence. The constant weight of the debuff lingered in my mind, dulling my thoughts, yet I still found myself speaking of advanced concepts, though, to those around me, it was nothing but incomprehensible babble. If they couldn''t understand, that was their problem, not mine. I found rare moments of enjoyment when travellers arrived. Their conversations were a window into the wider world, allowing me to absorb snippets of language and fragmented knowledge about the lands beyond. Yet one piece of information troubled me deeply¡ªour village was a tributary to a larger kingdom in the North. That single fact carried implications I couldn¡¯t ignore. It was a concern that would need to be addressed when I rose to power. This information helped me understand the vastness of the region. To the north, dense forests stretched endlessly, with descriptions of humid climates, large rivers, and heavy rainfall shaping the land. The east, in contrast, was rugged and drier, dominated by savanna and scattered woodlands. The west featured rolling hills and valleys, with a mix of woodlands and open grasslands. Meanwhile, the south became increasingly sparse, with vast savannahs and only occasional patches of woodlands. Chapter 4 A Shadow Too Long for a Child In the grand scheme of things, my accelerated growth was an anomaly that many, including myself could not ignore. Yet, without a calendar to mark the passing days, I could only rely on my observations and the reactions of those around me to measure my growth. And it was anything but normal. My nanny, Ma¡¯khanda, a woman of sharp intuition, had seen many children grow, yet my progress left her in stunned silence. The whispers of others followed, murmures of astonishment creeping into every corner of the palace and beyond. By my rough estimation, four or five months had passed before I began crawling. My height and weight increased. Yet, nothing compared to the torment of teething. The relentless pain gnawed at me, forcing me to adapt. I always had a bone within reach, it became my only salvation. When another month passed, and I started walking the rumours spread. The faster I grew, the greater the rumours spread I could use that to cultivate my legend. But for now, despite my ability to move freely, I remained limited in my pursuits. The world was still too vast, my reach too small. Yet, I had found something that set my mind ablaze. The first time my fingers brushed against a lock while being carried, a strange sensation flooded through me. A tingling, like an electric current, coursed through my skin. Instantly, I understood it. Not just its function but its essence. Its very composition laid bare before me, down to the minerals within the metal. It was as if I had uncovered a sense I had never known I possessed. A secret language spoken only in the dance of electrons. The world of metal whispered to me, and I was desperate to listen. Yet, I restrained myself. Even as the hunger for understanding clawed at me, I knew that exposing my abilities too soon would be reckless. So, I masked my knowledge, biding my time. My mind however never rested. Ideas took shape growing sharper, and more refined. One such idea led me to create a language¡ªa cypher to help with my unfortunate compulsion to share knowledge. I spoke it aloud, weaving meaning into syllables foreign to all who heard them. But the consequences were unforeseen. The people called it a curse. Elder Na¡¯kumbi, confronted me one evening. Her voice was steady, but I saw the wariness in her eyes. ¡°What is this tongue you speak? Where did you learn it?¡± I met her gaze, the seriousness of my expression comically at odds with my toddler¡¯s form. ¡°The spirits speak to me,¡± I answered. ¡°It would be rude to address them in any other tongue.¡± Curiosity spread like wildfire. The elders gathered, some eager, some sceptical. They sought to learn and unravel my mystery. But I would not make it easy. The pronunciations twisted, the syntax warped¡ªI wove layers of confusion into the very fabric of the language. Some elders grew frustrated, abandoning their pursuit. Yet, a few persevered, determined to decipher my speech. To them, I fed nonsense, watching with amusement as they strained to grasp meaning where none existed. I was already an enigma in their eyes. There was no need to pretend to be a child when I was so clearly something else. A child who does not act like a child is an unsettling thing. And I had no intention of making them comfortable. The palace attendants avoided my gaze. Their hands trembled as they dressed me, their voices wavered when they spoke. I saw the way they whispered among themselves, always glancing at me as if I were a spirit wearing the skin of a child. None dared to speak their fears aloud. I gave them no reason to doubt their suspicions. I did not reach for affection, did not seek comfort, and did not cry out for attention as other children did. Instead, I watched listened and learned. When I spoke, my words were few but absolute. I gave simple commands and they obeyed unquestionably. Some believed it was respect others simply feared me. The elders who had spent their lives advising the chief were the first to sense the unnatural weight of my presence. Some whispered that I was a spirit reborn, an ancestor returned to guide the people. Others feared I was a curse, an aberration that disrupted the natural order. They studied me with guarded expressions, unwilling to voice their concerns when I was present, yet too wary to speak to me. I met their stares with silence. They were an obstacle one I would either subvert or remove. The tribe¡¯s council was an established power, a relic of tradition that would resist any change. And I would bring change. The warriors were different. To them, strength dictated worth. A child, even one who spoke like a man, was still just a child. They did not fear me, nor did some respect me. I knew they saw their advantage towering over me, laughing at the absurdity of my presence. But they were the true power of the tribe. If I were to shape my people¡¯s future, I would need them under my command. Most of them would be sent north to the Kingdom of Luth¡¯kanda as tribute, swelling the ranks of their raiding parties. Slavery remained an economy of blood and bone, and our warriors were the currency. They were expendable. That would need to change. Still, the greatest threat did not lie within my people but beyond them. Word of me had spread past the village borders. Merchants, traders, and emissaries came not only to conduct business but to see the spirit child the one who spoke in strange tongues and did not act as children should. Some arrived with curiosity. Others with schemes. They saw potential, an anomaly to be studied, manipulated, or sold. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. I entertained their presence, and listened to their words, but gave nothing in return. One emissary from a southern tribe offered gold and cattle in exchange for me. The chief refused after all, why sell your only heir? Slavers, the lowest of merchants in my opinion, lingered in the market square, speaking in hushed tones. To some, I was a cursed thing. To others, an opportunity. I heard their whispers, the way they speculated on my worth. A child of my nature would fetch a price beyond imagination in the distant lands of the coast. They did not realize how closely I listened. How carefully I studied their words. To the common people, I was something between a blessing and an omen. Children feared me, their mothers warning them to stay away from the one who did not play. Some called me divine. Others called me something far worse. But one thing was certain no one ignored me. The few times I moved through the village, attended by silent servants, I cast a shadow too long for a child. Conversations halted when I passed. Eyes followed my every step. I was young, but I was already becoming something they did not understand. And fear of the unknown is a powerful thing. ¡ª¡ª¡ª There were a few moments when I was alone with my father, Chief Nhlazeko. He was a man of iron and loss, a leader whose scars ran deeper than the eye could see. Unlike the others, he did not flinch at my presence. He did not whisper curses or omens when he looked at me. When we spoke, it was as men no matter that I was still a child in body. On these rare nights, when the fires burned low and the sky stretched dark above us, he spoke of his youth. Of the brothers, he had to kill the blood he shed because the elders had decreed that only one could rule. His voice, usually measured like a drumbeat, carried an edge of weariness. ¡°It was no great victory,¡± he admitted one night, his eyes lost in the past. ¡°Blood spilled over a throne is never a true triumph. It only feeds the spirits of the dead.¡± I listened, silently. He needed no response, only ears to bear witness. He spoke of the wives and children he had before. The laughter that once filled his halls. The way his heart had swelled with pride, only for it to be shattered when the Luth¡¯kanda raiders came. They stormed our land with fire and steel, carrying weapons brought by white men from the east and brown men from the west. Their thunder sticks tore through warriors like dry grass, their iron blades cut down even those who begged. ¡°They took everything,¡± he said, his voice now a whisper of barely contained fury. ¡°And I could do nothing.¡± He had fought, but his spears had been useless against their guns. He had led, but his warriors had been crushed beneath foreign power. ¡°Defeat,¡± he spat, ¡°is a taste that never leaves the tongue.¡± I understood then why he seemed indifferent to me. It was not indifference. It was exhaustion. A man who had lost too much had no room left for tenderness. One evening, he led me to the tomb where my mother lay, alongside the ancestors of our line. The stone was cold beneath my fingers. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and memories. We stood there in silence for a long time. Then, at last, he spoke. ¡°Shiyani, your mother was a strong and proud woman. She was loved by all our people.¡± I nodded, my voice quiet. ¡°I know.¡± ¡°And you¡­ you are feared by most.¡± I met his gaze. There was no need to deny it. ¡°I understand why.¡± He exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. ¡°Many believe you are an omen of evil. Others say you are an omen of change.¡± I tilted my head slightly. ¡°Which do you believe?¡± His lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Both,¡± I answered myself. His brow lifted slightly. ¡°Both?¡± ¡°To change things, I must break them first. And those who benefit from the old ways will call me evil for doing so.¡± He studied me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned his eyes to the tomb. ¡°A man alone cannot change the course of a stream,¡± he said at last. ¡°But enough hands, enough will, can carve a new river.¡± I nodded. His voice was quieter now, but it carried weight. ¡°I am old. And bitter. And I have lost too much already. But you¡­ they watch you now. And many wish you dead.¡± I did not need to be told. I could feel their stares even now, even here, in the sacred presence of the dead. He reached into his robe and pulled something out. A dagger. Its hilt was wooden, worn smooth by time, its carvings dyed deep red. The blade was dark iron, heavy enough that I had to hold it with both hands. I did not smile, but my fingers tingled as I felt the metal¡¯s composition, my Technomancer instincts whispering to me in ways no one else could understand. He turned to me fully, his expression solemn. ¡°Before I pass, swear to me¡ªbefore the tomb of your mother, before the spirits of our ancestors¡ªthat you will avenge our blood. That you will bring death to those who shed the blood of the Mahlathi.¡± I looked down at the blade. Vengeance. Change. Blood for blood. I wrapped my fingers tighter around the hilt and met his gaze. ¡°I swear,¡± I said, my voice steady. ¡°I will take blood for blood until my last breath.¡± For the first time, I saw a shadow of a smile cross his face. Small. Almost imperceptible. Then, we stood together in silence once more. As he mourned the past, I prepared for the future. And quietly, I focused on my daily ritual¡ªchecking my stats. Chapter 5 Ash and Omens Staring up at the night sky, I found it strange, almost unsettling to see so many stars. With no light pollution smothering the heavens, they blazed freely above me, raw and brilliant. Back home, that sort of clarity was rare. Only when driving across provinces to visit friends or family would I catch fleeting glimpses like this. Still, it was in moments like these, under starlight and silence, that I found some semblance of peace. Not that I was truly alone. Ma¡¯khanda, my ever-watchful nanny, lingered nearby. She¡¯d moved past her initial fear of me quickly¡ªfar quicker than most. Mostly she observed, quiet as a shadow, reporting everything back to my father. On rare occasions, she¡¯d speak and ask me questions. She acted more calm and composed around me. When we wandered the village, I¡¯d point out oddities testing her reactions out of boredom¡ªa tool, a pattern in the dirt, a dead bird¡ªand she would explain in that same neutral tone. I think she saw me more as a child in those moments. But tonight, while the stars danced and the world slept, my thoughts drifted toward something far greater: the future of this nation. For it to survive¡ªno, to thrive¡ªit would need change. Real change gunpowder and muskets were just the start of my plans, I¡¯d have to forge them myself. But before I could build weapons, I had to reforge minds. A new class of people was needed: thinkers, listeners, visionaries. Administrators who would understand what I teach, who would carry the burden of reform with me. And perhaps, just perhaps, a bit of mysticism¡ªmaybe even a flicker of power¡ªwould help grease the wheels. If I played the part of the mysterious teacher, the divine guide, then perhaps they¡¯d listen. Potentially fifty years from now I¡¯d introduce video games for a laugh. That thought made me chuckle. My moment of levity was short-lived. I felt the forest pressing in, brushing against my thoughts with a thousand whispering voices. It poked and prodded, limiting the knowledge I knew. A quiet reminder that I couldn¡¯t introduce technology freely, not without more of those damned coins. So much for that fantasy. The forest shifted then, its emotions turning smug. Mocking. I¡¯d have a technological edge, sure, but a narrow one. Just enough to stay ahead, not dominate the world. I ignored the jab and returned to planning. Agriculture, health, infrastructure, and education. And above all, the military¡ªmy true instrument of power. I¡¯d need engineers, labourers, researchers, bureaucrats. A machine of people. But it would have to be done carefully. No grand proclamations. No revolutions in a day. I required loyalty¡ªunshakeable loyalty. People who would act in my absence and crush dissent before it ever reached my ears. Drastic reform, delivered slowly. Still, beneath the stars, I felt strangely calm. It was a good night to dream. Shame Bob wasn¡¯t here. Murder mittens and all. Maybe I¡¯d find a new pet, something equally homicidal but with more charm and less hunger for destruction. ¡ª¡ª¡ª The next morning, I descended the palace steps with measured grace, flanked by Ma¡¯khanda and the three girls my mother had bought as servants Tshilidzi, sharp-eyed and quiet, Lerato, who always looked like she was keeping a secret and Nomaswazi, the youngest, ever curious but too timid to meet my gaze for long. Two palace guards, Mosebetsi and Kwanele, walked in our shadow. Both were broad-shouldered, silent, and ever-watchful they were more loyal to the royal line than to me, but that would change. In time, as all things would. As we passed through the outer gates, down the hill toward the heart of the settlement, the path widened, but no one dared walk too close. People parted like reeds in a river. They averted their eyes not out of reverence, but out of unease. Whispers followed me, never loud enough to catch but sharp enough to cut. The market sprawled before me in a swirl of colour and dust, the smell of roasted sorghum and ground nuts was everywhere mixing under the morning sun. Stalls were stacked with woven baskets, leather goods, copper bracelets, salt, beads, and carved wooden icons that bore the marks of spiritual beings. I chuckled at some of they fertility idols. This was a barter economy. It was honest, chaotic, and inefficient. I¡¯d change that. In time, these people would understand the power of a coin, of a ledger, of a fixed value. I passed rows of blackened pots, hand-forged iron tools with flared heads, sharpened blades, with intricate carvings sold by apprentices. This was pride made solid proof that my people already had the fire in their bones. They just needed the forge I would build. Copper, glinting under the sun. Iron, shaped by hand. I lingered near them, fingers trailing just above the surface. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Mahlathi land was generous. Rich in veins and gems, green emeralds, red copper and iron that could feed the fires of industry. We just lacked the machinery¡­ and the order. Imported goods were few, but present. Polished beads, foreign salt in carved bowls, cowries from distant shores, and jewellery with designs not our own. Evidence that they could accept something unfamiliar if it benefited them. Yet, all the land here was communal. That would complicate matters. Agriculture was king, but kings grow fat and dull. I needed to feed minds now, not just bellies and that required fewer farmers and more thinkers, tinkerers, and builders of the future. And I would need to charm the landowners first, those who held sway with the elders and the people. I had to speak carefully when I eventually interacted with them. Even now, eyes follow me with fear or curiosity, some see me as a spirit-touched child, others as an ominous sign. A few, the boldest, called out greetings in forced cheer. My gaze locked on the edge of the settlement, past the market and homesteads to a ring of weather-beaten huts. The sound reached me first¡ªclang¡­ clang¡­ in rhythmic patterns. The air shimmered with heat as I felt it before I saw it. This was the place where stone and fire birthed steel. Where tradition met heat. The forge stank of sweat and smoke. I stood at its edge, cloaked in heat, watching the dance of men and fire as if it were a ritual older than the sun. Bare-chested men, their dark skin glistened under the harsh light of the furnace. They worked in pairs or trios, one stoking the fire with a goatskin bellows, another turning chunks of ironstone with long wooden tongs, and the third waiting, hammer in hand, eyes fixed on the glowing ore. The smelter itself was a clay structure, cracked from use, breathing smoke like a wounded beast. The fire within was alive, white-hot, fed by a mix of charcoal and dried grass. I watched as they piled blackened ore into the furnace, the flames consuming it slowly, forcing impurities to the surface in bubbling slag. One of the smiths pulled out a glowing lump with a hooked rod, laying it across a flat anvil stone. Another brought the hammer down in sharp, timed strikes, shaping the metal while it sang. Sparks sprayed like fireflies as the blade took form. This was the soul of my people, shaped by calloused hands. As I watched them work, I felt a pang of respect. But also seeing what needed to expand for mass production. One of the younger smiths, a boy barely into his manhood with soot smeared across his face and a twisted band of copper around his arm, paused mid-strike. His eyes flicked up from the blade he was helping shape, narrowing slightly. He nudged the man next to him and pointed subtly with his chin. Within moments, the hammering ceased the rhythm breaking. A hush swept through the forge. The elder smith, a broad-shouldered man with a beard gone grey from age and ash, stepped forward. His hands were scarred from decades of labour, and his eyes held the cautious respect of someone who¡¯d seen too many omens in his lifetime. ¡°You honour us, spirit child,¡± the elder said, bowing slightly. ¡°But it¡¯s rare for someone of your standing to walk among the smoke and fire. Why are you here?¡± I gave a soft smile, letting my gaze sweep over the forge¡ªthe orange glow of half-shaped iron, the hiss of water cooling hot metal, the proud, wary faces watching me. ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± I said, ¡°to see what it was like before.¡± The elder blinked, confusion lining his weathered face. ¡°Before what?¡± ¡°Before I flood this region with copper and iron,¡± I answered, turning from him slowly, my tone even, almost amused. ¡°Before this place forgets how quiet it once was.¡± He said nothing. The others shifted uncomfortably, glancing between each other and me. I took a step toward the path, the heat of the forge behind me now. ¡°Change is coming,¡± I called back, not looking over my shoulder. ¡°Start preparing. You¡¯ll either forge the future or be melted down with the past.¡± After leaving the forge, I spent the rest of the day touring the surrounding fields and farms, noting every rut in the roads, every patch of ground where water would clog the roads with mud. Dust clung to my ankles as I walked the narrow paths between homesteads, where goats wandered freely and barefoot children chased one another through patches of dry maize. The land was fertile. I would have to acquire large portions of it to expand the irrigation system, and most tools were still carved from wood or bone. I spotted several merchant wagons creaking under the weight of sacks, dragged by oxen along roads better suited for foot traffic than trade.