The cold of the hovel seeped into my tiny bones, a stark contrast to the perfectly regulated warmth of the System's illusion. I was swaddled tightly, but the thin cloth offered little comfort against the biting chill that crept through the gaps in the mud-caked walls. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, stale cooking fires, and unwashed bodies. This was my new reality. A day had passed since my violent re-entry, and the overwhelming vulnerability of this infant form was a constant, humiliating burden. My mind, still sharp and calculating, screamed against the confines of my helplessness.
Mara, my new mother, stirred beside me on the straw pallet, her ragged breathing shallow. I could hear the faint groans of others in the hovel, stirring into the pre-dawn gloom. The sounds of their waking were devoid of hope, just the creak of old bones, the rustle of straw, the resigned sighs of those who knew another day of toil awaited.
I watched Mara as she rose, her movements stiff and slow. She moved like a phantom, her gaunt frame silhouetted against the single, small, grimy window as the first sliver of grey light pierced the darkness outside. She coughed, a dry, hacking sound that seemed to tear at her lungs. She was already old before her time, hollowed out by the relentless grind of existence here. My contempt for my own vulnerability warred with a cold, detached pity for her. She was just another victim of this place.
The morning passed in a monotonous cycle of hunger and discomfort. Mara tried to feed me a thin gruel, which my adult mind instinctively recoiled from, but my infant body craved. I swallowed, the taste bland and gritty, a reminder of the scarcity that defined this existence. I heard snippets of hushed conversation from the other adults in the hovel, talk of overdue quotas, harsh punishments, and the ever-present shadow of "the Prince." He was a name whispered with fear, a force of arbitrary cruelty that loomed over their meager lives.
Mid-morning, the whispers outside intensified, becoming frantic. A sudden, sharp rap on the door, not a knock, but a heavy thud that vibrated through the hovel's fragile frame. Mara flinched, her eyes wide with a terror I could sense even through my infant fog.
The door creaked open, admitting a blast of cold air and a figure that seemed to suck all warmth from the room. He was tall, clad in dark, polished leather and gleaming steel, his face a hard, unyielding mask beneath a feathered helmet. Two equally stern guards flanked him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. This was not the Prince himself, I quickly deduced, but one of his inner circle, an enforcer. But the air of oppressive authority, of unquestionable power, was palpable.
"Mara," the man's voice was a flat, chilling pronouncement. "The Prince demands to know why your latest textile quota is not met. He is... displeased." The last word was drawn out, heavy with implied threat.
Mara stammered, clutching me closer to her chest, as if I could offer her some protection. "My Lord... the fever... my hands shake... I couldn't..."
The man cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Excuses. The Prince does not tolerate excuses. He believes you are holding back. Perhaps you need a reminder of what happens to those who defy the Crown."
My tiny fists clenched. My body felt useless, a prison. I could do nothing but observe the cold, calculated terror in Mara's eyes, the palpable fear radiating from every person in the hovel. This was not the false, abstract threat of a system trying to reset me. This was physical, immediate, and utterly brutal. The Prince's anger, though manifested through his subordinate, hung in the air like a storm cloud, a suffocating weight of despotic power.
I felt a surge of rage, cold and sharp. I had no Arcana here, no system to trick. Only this small, helpless body and a mind already scarred by illusion. But the deception of the System had taught me one thing: truth was elusive, but survival depended on understanding the rules, however cruel, and playing the game. The Prince was the embodiment of this new world's oppressive nature, its dogmatic, uncaring authority. I would need to survive him, and everything he represented. My journey of cynical pragmatism had just truly begun.