Unauthorized Reincarnation — Season 2

  Chapter 4 : A Dream of Another (part 2)

  The hide flap fell shut behind them, sealing Daniel in the dim quiet of the hut. Outside, the world was awash in the pale, clear light of mid-morning.

  The demon camp was a hive of subdued industry. Figures with crimson skin and proud horns moved between rough-hewn structures, mending tools, stretching hides, and tending to small, hardy plots of alien crops that pushed stubbornly through the ashen soil. It was a picture of a people not just surviving, but persisting.

  Solmir let out a long, weary breath, the kind that carried the weight of command. He walked to a large, flat-topped boulder that seemed to serve as his unofficial perch and sat, the stone groaning softly under his weight. He gestured for Kyrrha to join him.

  She did, though her posture remained restless, her gaze flicking back towards the hut every few seconds.

  For a time, there was only the sound of the camp. Then, Solmir spoke, his voice low and ruminative.

  "The bird," he began, not looking at her. "It wasn't pleasant. The smell was off. I doubt it tasted of anything but cinder and regret." He finally turned his head, his crimson eyes sharp with a curiosity that went beyond mere gossip. "Knowing that… why do you think he cried?"

  Kyrrha’s tail gave a single, thoughtful flick. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice softer than usual. "I'll ask him… when it feels right."

  Solmir grunted, a non-committal sound. Then he leaned forward, a familiar, teasing glint returning to his eyes, though it didn't quite reach the seriousness of his tone. "And another thing. Why are you clinging to him like a second skin? You experienced it. He has no face to look upon, and, by your own assessment, a thing you find… unimpressive." He chuckled, a dry, rumbling sound. "So, why?"

  Kyrrha was silent for a long moment, her four arms folding and unfolding as she searched for the words. "Uncle… in the pit, during the fight with him… something… awakened inside of me." She pressed a hand to her chest. "It's not about his face. Or… or that. Whenever I'm close to him, I… how should I explain it?" She looked out over the camp, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I feel like I'm at home. Surrounded by everything I know. It's a feeling. Deep in my bones."

  The casual term 'Uncle' hung in the air, revealing a layer of their relationship she kept hidden from most. Solmir’s teasing demeanor vanished, replaced by the stern focus of the commander and the protective instinct of the uncle.

  He gestured for her to come closer. She leaned in, and he dipped his head, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for her ears alone.

  "Then listen closely, Kyrrha. And understand this not as a suggestion, but as an order from both your uncle and your commander." His eyes were hard, deadly serious. "Whenever you are outside that hut with him, you will act the part. You are the owner. He is the slave. You must be sharp with him, dismissive even. Do you understand?"

  Her eyes widened slightly, a protest forming on her lips, but he cut her off with a look.

  "If you want him to live long enough to keep that 'home' feeling alive for you," he hissed, the words laced with a cold, pragmatic truth, "then you must make him seem worthless to everyone else. A pet. A toy. A piece of human trash not worth a second glance. The moment the clan, or any other kin, suspects he is anything more—that he becomes a target. They will take him from you, or they will put him in the ground, just to silence him."

  He held her gaze, ensuring the severity of the situation was etched into her mind. "Your public disdain is the only armor he has. His survival depends on your performance."

  Kyrrha stared at him, the reality of their world crashing down upon her newfound, fragile feeling. The fire in her eyes banked, replaced by a grim, dawning understanding. After a long, tense silence, she gave a single, sharp nod.

  "Good," Solmir said, leaning back. The mask of the lazy uncle slipped back into place, but the intensity of the moment lingered in the air between them, a silent pact now forged in the bright, unforgiving light of day.

  The hide flap stirred, and Daniel emerged, blinking against the daylight. His eyes found Solmir and Kyrrha near the boulder. For a moment, he simply stood, disoriented, the memory of the dream and the taste of burnt bird still clinging to him.

  Then a voice, sharp and venomous, cut through the morning air.

  “Dog Shit! Get over here!”

  It was Kyrrha. Daniel froze, bewildered. The voice was nothing like the one that had whispered “sweet one” in the dim hut. It was laced with a public cruelty that felt like a physical blow.

  He stood still, processing the whiplash.

  “Are you deaf?” she snarled, stomping over to him. The demons in the field had paused their work, hoes and rakes in hand, watching the scene with mild interest. They saw Kyrrha, the chief’s fiery daughter, publicly demeaning the new human slave. It was a familiar, expected spectacle.

  She grabbed his arm, her grip unnecessarily tight, and dragged him toward the tilled fields at the edge of the camp. “You think you get to stand around all day? You work. Today, you farm.”

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  Daniel accepted the order silently, his head bowed. The performance was for the audience, he understood that now. But understanding didn’t make the humiliation sting less.

  For hours, he worked. The ashen soil was stubborn, the tools unfamiliar and heavy. His muscles, still aching from the pit fight, burned with a fresh fire. Sweat traced paths through the grime on his neck. As he worked, his mind drifted, the repetitive motion unlocking a memory long buried beneath violence and grief.

  “See, Daniel? The soil tells you everything. You just have to listen.”

  Sophie’s hands, small and confident, sifted through the dark earth in the prison garden. Her voice was a calm beacon in the chaos of his youth. “It’s not just throwing seeds in the ground. It’s a conversation.”

  A profound, aching sorrow washed over him, followed by a strange, rising warmth. Sophie would have loved this, he thought. The simplicity. The purpose. His love for her, and for the peace she found in cultivation, began to merge with the task at hand. He wasn’t just moving dirt anymore; he was listening to it.

  And the soil was telling him something was wrong.

  He stopped, straightening up and looking critically at the field. The demons were planting seeds too deep, in soil that was too densely packed, without proper irrigation channels. It was a recipe for starvation.

  He approached the nearest demon worker. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

  The demon, a broad-shouldered male with a chipped horn, glared down at him. “What did you say, human?”

  “The method you’re using,” Daniel repeated, more firmly now. “At this rate, you’ll only get ten percent of what you planted to sprout. If that.”

  The demon’s face contorted with offense. “You think you’re smarter than us?!” With a grunt, he shoved Daniel hard, sending him stumbling back into the loose dirt.

  Daniel picked himself up, wiping his mouth. The love for the craft, the ghost of Sophie at his shoulder, made him defiant. “I have the knowledge to cultivate this land efficiently. I can show you.”

  A commotion drew the attention of Valerius, the elder shaman, who had been observing from a distance. He moved toward the argument, his pace measured, his expression unreadable.

  “What is the disturbance?” Valerius asked, his calm voice cutting through the tension.

  “This human trash thinks he can tell us how to farm our own land!” the demon worker spat.

  Valerius’s wise, old eyes shifted from the furious demon to Daniel, who stood his ground, covered in dust but with a steady, determined light in his eyes. The shaman saw past the insult, to the core of the issue: survival.

  “Let him speak,” Valerius commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  All eyes turned to Daniel. He took a deep breath, the knowledge rising in him not as a memory, but as a truth.

  “The soil is too compacted,” he began, pointing to the field. “The seeds are suffocating. You need to aerate it, mix in compost to add nutrients. You’re planting at the wrong depth for these seeds—they need light to germinate, not a burial.” He gestured toward the sun, then the distant water source. “And you need channels, here and here, to guide the water. Not just flood the field and hope. It’s a system. A partnership with the land, not a battle.”

  He spoke not with arrogance, but with the quiet authority of someone who understood a fundamental language they did not. He explained crop rotation, companion planting, and irrigation with the simple, profound logic Sophie had once gifted him.

  When he finished, the field was silent. The demons who had been ready to beat him were now staring at the ground, seeing it for the first time. Valerius watched Daniel, a new, deep respect glimmering in his ancient eyes.

  The slave, the "Dog Shit," had just offered them the one thing they needed most: a future.

  The sun bled out on the horizon, staining the ashen sky in shades of orange and purple. The day's work was done. The demon farmers, after a long day of listening to and cautiously applying Daniel's methods, trudged back toward their huts, casting occasional, unreadable glances his way. Daniel walked alone, the weight of the tools replaced by the weight of their silent scrutiny.

  As soon as he pushed through the hide flap of the hut, he was engulfed.

  Four arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a fierce, almost desperate embrace. Kyrrha buried her face in his shoulder, her voice a muffled, rushed torrent of words.

  "Daniel, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you have to understand, I didn't mean any of it, my uncle—Solmir—he said—"

  "I know," Daniel interrupted, his voice calm and steady. He didn't pull away, but he didn't return the embrace either. He simply stood within it. "It was an act. I understand."

  Kyrrha pulled back slightly, her purple eyes searching his face behind the mask, relief and residual guilt warring in her expression. She gestured to a small, roughly carved plate where another roasted bird, slightly less charred but still unmistakably humble, sat waiting.

  "For you," she said, her tone hopeful.

  Daniel looked at the offering. "I pass," he said quietly.

  Her face fell. "Is it... because of what I said? Out there? I told you, I didn't—"

  "It's not that," he cut her off again, his tone not unkind, but final. "I'm just not hungry. Not yet."

  He could feel the ghost of the last meal, the memory of tears and taste, and knew his body and spirit needed more time to process it all.

  Seemingly eager to move past the awkwardness, Kyrrha straightened up, her commander's demeanor returning. "Fine. Then you can make yourself useful another way. We are assembling a hunting party. We need to refill the rations. You will come with us."

  Daniel gave a single nod. "I accept."

  When they stepped outside, the scene was different from the morning's industry. The air was now charged with a low thrum of anticipation. Dozens of demons, including Solmir, were checking weapons, tightening armor, and speaking in low, focused tones. This was not farming; this was a military operation.

  And then he saw them.

  Seven.

  Seven demon children, girls and boys, their small horns just beginning to curve, their eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and fear. They clung to the edges of the group, mimicking the adults with small, wooden practice spears.

  Daniel's breath hitched. The image from his dream—the seven little girls in the woods—flashed before his eyes. The parallel was too exact, too cruel.

  Kyrrha followed his gaze. "You," she said, her voice adopting a deliberately casual, commanding tone for the benefit of the others listening. "You will stay with the children. Your role is observation and protection. Consider it a test. Maybe on the next hunt, if you prove you can follow orders, you will actually join the action."

  She said it loud enough for nearby warriors to hear, reinforcing his place as a subordinate. But her eyes, when they met his for a fleeting second, held a different message—a silent plea, an unspoken understanding of the weight she was placing on him.

  Daniel looked from her to the seven young, vulnerable faces, then out toward the darkening tree line. The "wolves" of his dream were out there. And he had just been ordered to stand with the lambs.

  He gave another silent nod, his entire being shifting into a state of hyper-aware calm. The hunt had begun, but his mission was clear long before they even stepped into the woods.