29. Chains of tradition

The village was silent, its people standing in uneasy clusters, their gazes shifting between the bloodied ground and the lone figure who had led them to this victory. The air was thick with the scent of burned wood and flesh, a bitter reminder that though their oppressors were dead, the battle was far from over.

Harsh could feel their hesitation. The weight of generations of submission still clung to them, even in the face of their newfound freedom.

And then, slowly, one by one, they began to kneel.

Harsh stiffened.

It wasn't reverence. It wasn't gratitude.

It was instinct.

For their entire lives, they had bowed to those with power. First to the nobles, now to him. It was not defiance they feared—but the absence of authority. They did not know how to exist without it.

"No." His voice cut through the air like a blade.

The kneeling figures hesitated, but none of them rose.

Harsh's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, grasped the arm of an elderly man in the front, and pulled him up. The old man resisted at first, his knees trembling as though standing before someone above him was unnatural.

"Stand," Harsh commanded.

The old man wavered, but did not straighten fully.

Harsh turned his sharp gaze to the others. "All of you—stand."

Some looked at each other, uncertain. A few hesitantly obeyed, but their heads remained lowered, their shoulders slightly hunched as if expecting punishment for their defiance. Others, more stubborn, stayed on their knees, their fear and hesitation outweighing their ability to question.

Harsh clenched his fists. He had expected resistance, but seeing it so deeply ingrained unsettled him.

"You have spent your lives believing that your place is beneath others," he said, voice steady but firm. "That some men are born to rule and others to serve. That is why you kneel." He let the words sink in, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "But I will not accept it."

A few exchanged nervous glances.

Harsh exhaled, then did something that sent ripples of shock through them.

He dropped to his knees.

A murmur spread through the crowd. Even Vira raised a skeptical brow.

"This," he said, pressing his hands against the ground, "is for the ones who gave you life. For the Divine. For your parents." He stood again, his voice hardening. "But for men? Do they deserve this?"

Silence.

Then, finally, the old man he had pulled up shook his head.

"No," the elder murmured, though there was uncertainty in his voice.

Harsh nodded. "Then do not kneel."

Still, the change did not come easily. Some shuffled uneasily, a few standing fully, but many still hovered between obedience and hesitation. It was as though they wanted to believe him—but could not shed the fear that had been drilled into them since birth.

He had planted the idea. That was enough—for now.

But it would take time.

Later that evening, as Harsh sat near a dim fire, tending to the wounds of the injured, Vira settled beside him, watching the villagers from afar.

"They don't fully believe you yet," she observed.

Harsh smirked dryly. "They won't. Not for a while."

Vira tilted her head, intrigued. "Then why try?"

He exhaled. "Because someone has to."

She studied him for a long moment, then chuckled. "I wonder. Would you have been this stubborn if you were born here?"

Harsh didn't answer.

Because he knew the truth.

Had he been raised in this world, he might have been like them. Bound by the same invisible chains, unable to even question the things he now saw so clearly.

That was what made it terrifying.

How many others never even thought to fight?

The Attack in the Night

The answer came sooner than expected.

Two nights later, when the first assassin came.

Harsh had anticipated retaliation, but not this quickly. The enemy did not send soldiers. Soldiers could be traced.

They sent shadows.

The first assassin moved with the grace of a serpent, silent and deadly. His blade was aimed at Harsh's throat, but Harsh's body had changed. His instincts screamed before his mind could even register the attack.

He twisted sharply, catching the assassin's wrist mid-strike.

A flicker of shock crossed the man's face.

Harsh did not give him time to recover. He tightened his grip, bones snapping under his fingers, and the assassin barely choked out a gasp before a dagger was buried in his throat.

The second assassin came at Vira, their movements swift and precise. Steel clashed against steel as she met them head-on, her blade dancing in the moonlight.

The third assassin was smarter—waiting until Harsh had turned his back. The poisoned needle gleamed in the darkness, a whisper of death meant for his neck.

But Harsh was twice as strong. Twice as fast.

His fingers closed around the assassin's wrist before the needle even made contact.

The man's eyes widened in horror.

"You're—"

Harsh crushed his windpipe with a single strike.

The body crumpled.

Vira exhaled, shaking blood from her sword. "Well. That was interesting."

Harsh rolled his shoulders. The assassins had been quick. But to him, they had been slow. Weak.

Something inside him was still changing.

And he welcomed it.

The First Spark of Loyalty

The commotion had woken the villagers, their faces pale as they gathered around the corpses.

Harsh turned to them. "What did you see tonight?"

No one answered.

Then, he spoke the words that would shift everything.

"They fear me."

Not because he had taken power. Not because he had killed.

But because he had survived.

Because he had refused to kneel.

One by one, the villagers looked at him differently. Not with awe. Not with blind obedience.

But with something far more valuable.

Respect.

It was slow.

It was uncertain.

But it had begun.

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