THE BRAND NEW WORLD
Warm sunlight streamed through the small wooden window as an elderly woman pushed it open, letting the dawn breeze fill the room.
On the bed, a young boy stirred and groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. "Come on, Grandma… just five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
But the old woman wasn't having it. She glanced at him with a mischievous smile and said, "I'm only opening the window for now. But if you're still in bed when I come back, I'll throw all your toys outside."
That got his attention immediately. The boy shot upright like lightning struck him, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He knew this 'crazy old hag' wasn't bluffing. Even Grandpa straightened up when Grandma spoke with that tone.
This boy was none other than Atharva—once Samuel, a scientist on Earth, now reborn as Milo in this strange, dangerous world. Nearly two years had passed since that bloody dawn when fate delivered him into this new family's arms. Soon, he would be four years old.
Despite the tragedies that had brought him here, Milo had never once felt out of place. Grandma and Grandpa had poured all their love into him. This warmth, this genuine care… it was something he had never truly known in either life.
Stretching, he sat on the bed, his mind already drifting to the strange world he now called home. Two years of careful observation—and a few secret experiments—had given him his first understanding of this land, its mysteries, and its terrifying rules…
One day, curiosity got the better of Milo. He had seen Grandpa working for hours without rest, lifting heavy iron beams that would crush an ordinary man. So, during dinner, he asked bluntly, "Grandpa, how can you carry so much weight and not get tired?"
Grandpa's chest puffed up immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Because I'm at the peak of the Manav Realm, that's why!" he declared proudly, as if expecting applause.
Milo tilted his head. "And what does that mean?"
Before Grandpa could explain further, he just waved his hand with a smug look and said, "You'll understand when you grow up, boy." And that was that.
Later, Grandma spilled the details while kneading dough, rolling her eyes at her husband's antics. Apparently, Grandpa wasn't just a blacksmith—he was also a novice Artifactor. In this world, an Artifactor wasn't just someone who made swords and armor. They could enhance weapons, granting them improved sharpness, resilience, or even elemental power—lightning, flame, wind, and more.
Powerful Artifacts, as Grandma described, could split seas and cut mountains. Milo almost laughed out loud at that part, silently chalking it up as "grandma's fantasy tales." But the concept itself fascinated him. A world where science and craftsmanship could literally bend the elements.
"What about Grandpa?" Milo asked with genuine curiosity.
Grandma glanced toward the forge, where Grandpa was working with an overly proud look on his face, then leaned closer to whisper, "Don't let that old fool fool you. He's only barely a novice. He can strengthen a weapon's performance by fifty percent, maybe a hundred on a good day. But create a true Artifact? Hah! Not in this lifetime."
Grandpa must have sensed the betrayal. He looked over from the forge with pleading eyes, silently begging for mercy. Grandma ignored him.
Milo, wide-eyed, asked innocently, "So if someone stole Grandpa's hammer, would he go back to being an ordinary blacksmith?"
Grandma burst out laughing, holding her stomach. Grandpa, however, roared from across the room, "Stinking brat! This is a 10th-grade Artifact bound to me by blood! Even if someone stole it, I could sense it anywhere and take it back!"
Milo's scientist brain immediately started whirring. A blood-binding mechanism with tracking ability? Is it genetic recognition? Some form of energy-based link? He wanted to dissect the hammer right then and there, but his tiny body and the lack of equipment made it impossible for now.
Meanwhile, Grandma waved her hand dismissively. "That so-called 10th grade doesn't even exist in real cities. The proper scale runs from 9th, the lowest, to 0th, the highest. Your grandpa and others only made up 10th grade to protect his fragile ego."
Grandpa froze mid-hammer swing, visibly wounded, muttering under his breath, "At least I'm not ordinary anymore…"
The scene was absurd, hilarious, and warm all at once. Milo quietly watched the bickering couple, feeling a soft ache in his chest. This… this was the kind of family warmth he had been denied in both lives. And he swore he would protect it no matter what.
Over the next two years, Milo had pieced together what little information he could about the world beyond Driftmoor. Most of it came from Grandpa's tales told by the forge or from hushed village gossip carried on the evening breeze.
From what he gathered, the continent was called Thalorath, a land so vast that no human had ever mapped it completely. Grandpa swore it was bigger than all the landmasses of Milo's old world combined. Milo privately thought the old man was exaggerating—he had the storytelling tendencies of a fisherman—but even so, this place was unimaginably large.
Humans only controlled ten percent of Thalorath. The rest belonged to other intelligent races or to the wilds. There were the Drakhenai, lizard-like warriors said to have skin harder than steel. The Dragon Kin, descendants of dragons themselves, proud and fearsome. The Jalantara, fish-like beings who ruled the deep waters.
And then there were the monsters—vast stretches of wilderness teeming with creatures powerful enough to level villages.
Not all of these beasts were mindless. Some were cunning, territorial predators that hunted like seasoned generals. Grandpa claimed that deeper in the nearby forest lived a ruler-class monster that no one dared to provoke. The forest itself stretched for miles, larger than an entire county, and only its fringes were safe enough for villagers to hunt game.
There was even a legend, whispered from generation to generation in Driftmoor, describing that unseen sovereign of the woods:
"When the Silent Wood no longer sleeps,
And from its heart the Shadows creep…
The dead shall hum, the wind shall sing,
To hail the rise of the Night King."
Whenever Milo heard it, a chill ran down his spine. "How in the world did I survive that forest the night Falcon brought me here?" he thought more than once. It felt less like luck and more like some higher power had turned a blind eye for just one night.
Travel between villages was equally dangerous. The only true lifeline was the inland sea nearby, vast and shimmering like an endless mirror. Boats ferried goods and people to the nearest towns, including the territory where the once-proud House Ignis resided. But sea travel was costly, and pirates and aquatic monsters made it perilous.
Even so, the villagers preferred braving the water over the suicidal thought of marching through the forest again. After all, a ninety-nine percent fatality rate was not something anyone could ignore.
The more Milo learned about human civilization here, the more frustrated he became.
According to Grandpa, humans occupied only a small fraction of Thalorath, yet even that land was divided and ruled by three great empires. Each empire controlled countless kingdoms, provinces, counties, and towns—a sprawling hierarchy where power trickled down like droplets from a leaky roof.
Driftmoor belonged to the Great Agnitar Empire, specifically the Kingdom of Aetheron, Province of Emberhall, and County of Cinderfall. "So many names just for a patch of land," Milo muttered once, earning a laugh from Grandpa and a stern look from Grandma.
On paper, kings and emperors ruled these lands. But Grandpa whispered of shadow organizations that truly held power—five great sects said to follow five different fire gods, each with their own cultivation system. Some claimed these sects were descendants of divine beings, others called them demons. Ordinary folk never dared question it; most would live and die in their villages, never seeing beyond their county borders.
Driftmoor itself was an oddity, born from five smaller villages merging over generations around the inland port. Trade brought a touch of prosperity, but it also drew the attention of the Red Citadel, the royal authority that claimed fifty percent of all earnings while offering little protection in return. With the forbidden forest at their backs and the sea at their front, the people of Driftmoor survived on grit and luck, largely ignored by distant rulers.That is why only fifty percent, otherwise the whole port would have been under their control.
What infuriated Milo the most wasn't the politics, though. It was the stranglehold on cultivation knowledge. In a world where humanity was not even the apex predator, where monsters lurked in every shadow, the strong hoarded power instead of sharing it. The methods to strengthen the body and mind, to harness energy the way Grandpa did, were locked behind lineage, wealth, or allegiance to these shadow sects.
"If this world has five gods, five cultivation systems, five paths to power, why are they not given to everyone?" he thought bitterly one night, staring at the stars. "Humanity should be uniting, advancing together… instead, we let monsters and other races keep us on the brink of extinction."
Yet beneath his frustration, a spark burned. This world's laws of physics—the gravity, the elements, even the structure of matter—remained the same as Earth's. The plants still followed patterns he understood, poisons had antidotes, and energy had measurable effects. The rules of science still worked here… and that meant he had a weapon none of these so-called sects possessed.
The real question lingered in his mind: why had the world stagnated, tethered to a medieval existence instead of advancing into the vibrant modern era he envisioned?
He pondered the possibilities. "If a man can run as fast as a bullet train, soar through the skies like a jet, and tame beasts as formidable as dragons, what need is there for transportation? If a single finger can pierce like a bullet, why would anyone require a gun? And if a sword can cleave mountains while magic can scorch the earth, what purpose do bombs serve?"
He realized that this peculiar world, with its limitations, was also his greatest advantage.
Suddenly, the voice of his grandmother echoed through the room. "I suppose you want to sleep a little longer," she said playfully.
Startled, he leaped out of bed and dashed toward his toys waiting for him outside.
Watching him with a tender smile, Grandma thought to herself, Sometimes it feels as if his toys mean more to him than we do.
Those toys were unlike any others—crafted in unique shapes and sizes. They were born from Milo's imagination, and Grandpa was delighted to see the spark of blacksmithing ignite in his grandson from such a young age.
Despite their unconventional designs, often dismissed by Grandma as odd and impractical, Grandpa encouraged Milo's creativity. He would often say, "To a blacksmith, the first imaginings of a creation are as cherished as first love; it's difficult to part with them."
And on more than one occasion, Grandma would grumble that his enthusiasm had left both of them hungry, as Grandpa lost track of time in his workshop.
Indeed, he had indulged Milo in every way possible, even crafting a small mold for his favorite toys, allowing Milo to forge them himself and nurture his budding interest in smithing.
It was a simple contraption—a small hollow cylinder culminating in a conical point. Milo adored making these toys and would create many, each adorned with a whimsical name and a number.
Grandma struggled to recall those peculiar titles, for they were as unique as the toys themselves.
Finally, a memory sparked in her mind. She mumbled to herself, "Ah, yes! I think he likes to call them… BULLETS."