Chapter 2 – Ritual And Reckoning

Joseph's head throbbed as he returned to consciousness. A heavy scent of burning herbs and earth filled his nose. The first thing he registered was the rhythmic drumming—a deep, pulsing sound that vibrated through his very bones. The villagers surrounded him in a loose circle, their voices raised in a strange, hypnotic chant. Shadows flickered wildly across their faces, cast by the massive bonfire in the center.

He lay on a thin mat, the woven fibers pressing against his back. His breath quickened as confusion clouded his thoughts. Then, the memories surged back.

Goat blood.

His stomach twisted violently.

Joseph's eyes darted around. He was trapped, surrounded by people caught up in their ritual. He couldn't run. Even if he did, where would he go? He had no idea where he was—no idea how to survive in this world.

The crowd parted as the old woman approached, her silhouette towering over him. She clutched a small wooden bowl, and the thick, metallic scent of blood wafted into his nostrils. The villagers' movements grew more fevered, their feet kicking up dust as they danced in frantic ecstasy.

Joseph swallowed hard. The air itself felt heavier with every step she took. His throat clenched, his breaths came fast and shallow, and his heart slammed against his ribs.

I can't do this. I can't do this.

The old woman reached him. Without hesitation, she smeared a thick, pungent paste across his forehead. Her rough fingers gripped his chin, tilting his face up as she muttered her incantations. The moment stretched endlessly, her voice wrapping around him like an invisible force.

Then she pressed the bowl into his hands.

Joseph hesitated. His fingers trembled as he looked inside.

Dark red liquid. Thick. Almost black in the firelight.

His stomach churned. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to refuse. He wasn't supposed to be here—he wasn't meant for this life.

But what choice did he have?

He shut his eyes, forced his mind blank, and tilted the bowl to his lips.

The thick, warm liquid coated his tongue, sliding down his throat with a coppery tang. He fought back a gag, swallowing it in one forced gulp.

The villagers erupted in cheers. Someone—his "mother," Nanjala—rushed forward and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

This woman will break my ribs.

Through the haze of the ritual, the old woman's voice rang clear.

"Khisa has been forgiven. With the rising of the sun, his mind will be returned to him, and he will be as he was before."

Joseph barely registered the rest. The weight of everything settled upon him like a boulder.

Later that night, when the celebrations finally lulled, he snuck back into the hut. He lay awake on the straw mat, staring at the ceiling.

1542.

He closed his eyes. He knew sleep wouldn't come easily.

The next morning, the world was painfully real.

Joseph—no, Khisa—stirred on the straw mat as the first golden rays of sunlight seeped into the hut. The earthy scent of damp soil and lingering smoke from last night's fire filled the air. A dull headache throbbed at the base of his skull, and his limbs felt strangely heavy, as if the ritual itself had drained something from him. His stomach churned at the memory of the blood, and he forced himself to take slow, steady breaths.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the dampness of sweat. Sleep had barely come. His mind had been plagued by relentless thoughts—questions without answers, and a deep, unfamiliar mourning. Mourning for his old life. For the parents he would never see again. And for the boy whose place he had taken.

He was alone. Utterly and completely alone in a world that shouldn't even exist.

He exhaled, slow and controlled. There was no point in wallowing. He had to do something. But what?

"System, are you still there?"

The familiar mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[Yes. What can I do for you today?]

He hesitated before asking, "Am I… the only one? Has anyone else ever been brought here like this?"

[Not to my knowledge. Your circumstances are unique.]

A lump formed in his throat. Unique. That meant no guidebooks, no explanations—just him, thrown into the unknown with nothing but this disembodied voice.

Khisa sat up, rubbing his temples. "And… what exactly are you?"

[I am the guide assigned to your soul. My purpose is to assist you as you navigate this world.]

His brow furrowed. "Assigned by who? Why me?"

[Unknown.]

Of course. He sighed, flopping back down onto the mat. The system answered his questions with frustrating neutrality, yet somehow, its presence was oddly reassuring.

"…What would have happened if I had refused the ritual?"

[You would have been considered cursed. In time, the village may have abandoned you. Or worse.]

A shudder crawled down his spine. Worse? He didn't need to ask for clarification. Even in his time, stories of ostracized individuals in traditional villages rarely had happy endings.

His fingers curled into the mat beneath him.

"…So, drinking the blood was the right choice," he muttered, his voice hollow.

[Correct.]

Silence settled between them. The morning light grew brighter, filtering through the gaps in the hut's walls. Somewhere outside, children's laughter mixed with the sounds of adults starting their daily tasks.

Khisa closed his eyes. His old life was gone. His name, his job, the world he understood—all of it had been stripped away.

But he was still alive. And as long as he was alive, he had choices to make.

He took a deep breath. "…What do you know about my new life?"

[This is the Abakhore clan. You are Khisa Lusweti, the son of the village chief. Your parents are Chief Khayo Lusweti and his wife, Nanjala. You are ten years old and expected to one day take your father's place as leader.]

Khisa blinked. "Wait. I'm the chief's son?"

[Yes.]

That… changed things. He wasn't just some random kid in a random village—he was being groomed for leadership. A thousand people depended on his father's rule, and by extension, they would one day depend on him.

His stomach twisted.

"I don't know the first thing about running a village," he admitted.

[You have time to learn.]

Khisa huffed, shaking his head. Time. Maybe. But not much. If history had taught him anything, it was that stability was fragile—one bad harvest, one rival clan, one wrong decision could shatter everything.

He pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the thatched roof above him.

"So, my options are… learn to survive, or die trying."

[Survive. Adapt. Thrive.]

A humorless chuckle escaped him. "You make it sound so easy."

[It is not. But you are not powerless.]

Khisa exhaled through his nose. The system was right. If he wanted to live—if he wanted to do more than just exist—he had to learn. He had to understand this world, its people, its rules. He had to become more than just a lost soul in the wrong century.

"…Alright then." He sat up properly, a new determination settling in his chest. "First things first—if I'm the son of a chief, I need to start acting like one."

His mind was still heavy with uncertainty, but for the first time since waking up in this strange new world… he felt something else, too.

Purpose.