Amron_15

He was once Earth’s brightest mind—a visionary billionaire who reshaped industries with a single idea and believed the future could be built from scratch. But even empires built on genius cannot defy death. Taken too early by illness, Arion Drayke thought his story had ended in a quiet hospital room.

He was wrong.

Reborn in a primitive world where strength reigns and the weak are left to die, Arion awakens in the body of a powerless child in a nameless village on the edge of nowhere. No spirit roots. No talent. No chance. But while others cultivate with brute force, Arion applies logic, memory, and invention. With no divine blessing, he studies fire and rhythm. With no backing, he builds his own path—one trap, one tool, one strategy at a time.

From forgotten dirt, he sparks a rebellion—not of swords, but of ideas.
From ashes, he builds a clan.
From silence, he creates a name feared across continents.

This is not a tale of prodigies or chosen ones. This is the rise of a leader who refuses to bow.
A mind against miracles.
A flame against fate.
A sovereign born not from bloodline, but from brilliance.

“If I cannot cultivate power... then I will cultivate change.”

Eternal Flame: Rise of the Spark Sovereign

The clatter of wooden bowls echoed like hollow drums across the dirt square.

Arion sat cross-legged beside his younger sister, Lira, watching her eyes flicker with disappointment as she licked the last trace of boiled grass from her fingers.

The "stew" had no meat, no salt, no real nourishment. Just bitterroot, a few dried leaves, and the hope it would feel like more than it was.

Around them, the village moved slower now. Men walked with shoulders lower. Children cried more easily. Mothers wrapped thin cloaks tighter, not against cold—but against hunger's bite.

Even the old mutt near the well had stopped barking.

Not just days, but mouths, rations, fields left fallow. His modern mind, sharpened by a past life of statistics and survival models, saw it all like a balance sheet written in dirt and dust.

They were bleeding resources from the bottom up. A slow death—one no one else seemed willing to admit.

"If there are 81 mouths and only 7 sacks of dried grain left," he whispered under his breath, "then we run out in… twelve days. Sooner if the beasts come."

No one noticed a child whispering numbers. They only noticed full bowls. Or the lack of them.

The hunger gnawed deeper at night.

He dreamed of warm kitchens—his past life's penthouse pantry, stocked to bursting. But each morning, he woke to cold air and a growling stomach.

Because the old beggar's words still echoed:

"Power is not always in the fist. Sometimes, it is in the fire you light when everyone else gives up."

So Arion started observing more closely.

He watched how long the elders boiled roots. Noticed which foragers came back empty, and which always found something—anything.

Not with ink, but with stones and scratched sticks. Which corners of the forest were untouched. Where birds still gathered. Where animal droppings meant small game might still linger.

One evening, when the children were sent to bed early to forget their stomachs, Arion snuck to the village's edge.

In one hand, he held a string of bark fiber twisted tight.

In the other—a crooked stick and a memory.

A memory of his grandfather's hunting snare. The one he'd seen once, long ago, in his other life.

He knelt, fingers trembling, stomach aching.

"If the adults won't feed us," he muttered, "then I'll trap something myself."

And as he tied the knot and hid it beneath loose earth and leaves, he felt something settle inside him—not hope, not yet. But purpose.

The kind that only comes when you've known what it means to starve.

Tomorrow, he would check the trap.

Tomorrow, he might catch something.

And if he did… the first bite wouldn't go to him.

Ch 12: Old Bowls and Empty Bellies