The rhythmic thwack… thwack… thwack of the ax bit through the quiet morning air, a beacon of human activity in the vast, indifferent wilderness. Pain, a dull, throbbing drumbeat in my shattered arms, was a constant companion, but the sound of that ax was a stronger pull. Civilization. Help. Ignoring the agony that flared with every careful, shuffling step, I began to hobble towards it, guided by the sound echoing through the pines.

  Each awkward movement sent jarring reminders of the damage radiating up my limbs, but the true torture festered in my thoughts during the ten-minute trek. What kind of help could they even offer? My arms weren't just broken; they were mangled, pulverized by a surge of uncontrolled energy from within me – something beyond simple physical trauma. Would crude splints even hold the fragments together? Did they have healers in this world, capable of more than just bone-setting? And showing up like this – a kid emerging from the Wildlands, impossibly injured – would they meet me with suspicion? Or worse, fear?

  Then, the language barrier. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over me, cold and sharp. What tongue did they speak? My mind raced through the languages I knew from my past life – the clipped sounds of English, the guttural flow of German, the precise tones of Japanese. Anything familiar would be a lifeline. Or would it be some entirely foreign dialect, another wall isolating me in my vulnerable state? The thought of being unable to articulate my need, my situation, was chilling. I silently rehearsed basic pleas for aid, hoping one might land.

  The trees began to thin, the dense canopy yielding to sparser growth, then bushes, finally opening onto a clearing bathed in the soft morning light. And there it was. Not a city, not even a bustling town, but a small, rustic village nestled against the forest's edge. Simple wooden houses with weathered thatched roofs clustered together, a faint wisp of smoke curling lazily from one chimney. Near the edge of the clearing, his back to me, stood the source of the sound – a lumberjack, a thick-set man in roughspun clothes, rhythmically swinging a heavy ax into a fallen log.

  Relief, so potent it nearly buckled my shaky knees, surged through me. People. Real people. Pushing aside the lingering pain and the gnawing fear of rejection, I moved towards him, my hobbling steps unsteady on the uneven ground. My simple wool trousers were torn and stained dark with dirt and dried blood, my shattered arms held uselessly against my chest.

  The lumberjack's rhythmic chopping continued for a few more swings. Then he paused, perhaps sensing my presence, a subtle shift in the air or the quiet crunch of pine needles beneath my feet. He turned, ax resting momentarily on his shoulder, and his eyes fell upon me.

  His initial expression was mild curiosity, aimed at the small, solitary figure emerging hesitantly from the woods. But as his gaze swept over my appearance – my small size, the tattered state of my clothes, the horrifying, unnatural angles of my arms – his eyes widened, his jaw slackening. The rough-hewn face, weathered by years of sun and labor, contorted into stark disbelief, quickly followed by shock and visceral alarm. The heavy ax slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly onto the packed earth.

  "Are my eyes seein' right?" His voice was rough, laced with astonishment, but the language… English! Relief, dizzying and profound, washed over me. "Nikolai Nordhil? Is that you?"

  He took a stumbling step towards me, his gaze fixed on my mangled limbs, his voice thick with genuine concern and confusion. "By the Five Gods, what happened? Your parents… Gunnar and Freya… they've been worried sick! Said you wandered off weeks ago!" He gestured vaguely towards the cluster of houses, his brow furrowed deeper. "What in blazes happened to you out there? And… and those arms?" The questions tumbled out, a torrent of shocked inquiry, the reaction of a man who clearly knew the child whose body I inhabited, seeing him return from the dreaded Wildlands in this horrifying state. The stark realism of his shock grounded me, pulling me back from the impossible into the immediate, desperate need for help.

  Before I could even attempt to stammer out a response, the lumberjack was already in motion, his initial shock giving way to urgent, decisive action. "Right, inside! You need to get inside!" he exclaimed, his voice still thick with astonishment but now underpinned by practical concern. He moved towards me carefully, gently guiding my trembling steps towards the nearest small house, his large hand supporting my back.

  The door was open, revealing a simple, clean interior. He ushered me inside. "Stay put," he instructed, his eyes still wide with horrified disbelief as he glanced again at my broken arms. "I'll fetch Gunnar and Freya. They're going to be… well, they need to see this."

  He sprinted back out before I could manage a nod, his heavy boots pounding recedingly on the dirt path as he ran towards the heart of the village. Left alone in the sudden quiet, I took a moment to scan the small room. A single space served multiple functions. Rough-hewn table and chairs, a cold hearth, a few pots hanging. A straw mattress in the corner. No complex machines, no running water evident – just a bucket by the door. No electric lights, only simple oil lamps. It was a stark, utilitarian existence, a world away from the life I remembered, yet possessing a quiet, settled order.

  My injured arms throbbed, a dull, constant agony, but the physical discomfort was overshadowed by the churning anxiety in my gut. He'd gone to get my "parents." Gunnar and Freya. The man and woman who had given life to this body. How would they react? How would I react, faced with the raw emotion of people who believed me to be their lost son?

  Heavy footsteps pounded outside, growing rapidly louder, accompanied by excited, distressed shouts. Then, the door burst open with a force that rattled the frame, slamming against the inner wall. A man rushed in, his face a mask of frantic worry and overwhelming, raw emotion. He was followed closely by a woman, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth, her wide brown eyes filled with a desperate, fragile hope so intense it looked physically painful.

  They stopped just inside the doorway, their gazes sweeping the small room until they landed squarely on me. The man – lean, about five-foot-nine, with disheveled blond hair framing a weary but kind face, his green eyes startlingly vivid even through the tears welling in them – stared for a long, breathless moment. He looked perhaps thirty, worn by work and worry. A choked sob escaped his lips, and tears began to stream freely down his face, carving clean paths through the dust on his cheeks. He stumbled slightly, one hand reaching out towards me as if needing to touch to believe.

  The woman beside him – slightly shorter, maybe five-foot-five, with practical brown hair pulled back severely, her simple dress unable to hide a certain underlying fitness – let out a soft, choked cry. Her brown eyes, wide and expressive, overflowed instantly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She, too, appeared around thirty.

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  They weren't tears of sorrow, I realized with a jolt that tightened my chest. They were tears of overwhelming, profound joy. Joy laced with disbelief, with fear at my state, but undeniably, radiantly happy. Gunnar's relief was that of a protector who had feared the worst and found the impossible; Freya's was the raw, aching joy of a mother seeing her lost child returned from the dead. They were happy to see their son again.

  "Nikolai!" Freya whispered, her voice thick, choked with emotion.

  They moved then, rushing towards me, their steps faltering slightly as they took in the full, horrifying extent of my injuries. They reached me together, their faces wet canvases of tears and relief, their eyes locked on mine with an intensity that was both overwhelming and strangely, deeply comforting.

  Ignoring the blood, the dirt, the unnatural state of my arms, they enveloped me in a fierce, trembling embrace. Gunnar's arms, strong and calloused from years of work, wrapped around me from one side, impossibly gentle as he avoided my mangled limbs. His chin rested lightly on my head, a trembling weight that felt solid, protective, grounding me in the reality of the moment. Freya's hug was softer, a nurturing warmth pressing against my small frame, her face buried in my hair as if to shield me, her embrace a desperate, trembling solace. They murmured my name over and over – "Nikolai," "Nikolai, you're safe," – their voices thick with a raw, powerful love that resonated deep within my core, a frequency I hadn't known existed. They held me tightly, desperately, as if terrified that letting go would make me vanish again.

  These must be my parents? The thought echoed, a disorienting observation from the adult trapped within. They look… so young. In my previous life, I'd been older than they were now. The generational reversal was another layer of surreal absurdity. Yet, beneath the confusion, a primal part of me responded to the pure, unconditional love radiating from these two strangers. His embrace felt like a desperate grip on reality, hers like a soft anchor. After a lifetime of achieving everything alone, this overwhelming display of warmth, of belonging, was… terrifying. And yet… after so long… it felt impossibly, wonderfully real.

  Their embrace was a tidal wave of fierce, protective love, warmer and more real than anything I'd known. I leaned into it, the instinct for connection momentarily silencing the calculating mind. They smelled of woodsmoke, clean earth, and dried herbs. Their whispered murmurs of my name, "Nikolai, Nikolai, you're safe," were a litany of profound relief.

  Then, the cold reality sliced through the emotional haze. Shit. They called me Nikolai. The lumberjack called me Nikolai Nordhil. They believed I was their son, returned. Did I… reincarnate into their child's body? Had there been another Nikolai Nordhil, now lost? Did I kill their son?

  The thought was a physical blow, stealing my breath. The warmth of their embrace felt suddenly tainted, heavy with a potential tragedy I might have caused. How do I play this? My fighter's mind clicked back online, racing through scenarios. Pretend to be him? Impossible. I knew nothing. The only viable option, the only path that explained the injuries, the disorientation, the inevitable lack of recognition, was amnesia.

  Taking a shaky breath, I gently pulled back, careful not to jostle my broken arms. Their tear-streaked faces, alight with desperate joy, looked down at me. The lumberjack watched from the doorway, his expression mirroring their relief.

  I met their eyes, then deliberately shifted my gaze to the lumberjack, letting confusion cloud my face. "Hi Mom… hi Dad…" My voice was thin, the child's voice. I paused, pointed a finger from my undamaged hand towards the lumberjack. "...but who are you?"

  Their smiles faltered. Confusion flickered in their eyes. They exchanged a quick, worried glance. The lumberjack frowned, puzzled.

  Gunnar knelt before me, his green eyes searching mine, desperate hope warring with rising fear. His voice was gentle, careful. "Nikolai," he said softly. "Do you… do you remember? Do you remember our house? The one we live in? Can you describe it to me?"

  The test. Logical. Direct. I lowered my gaze, pretending to dredge up memories. I pictured the simple house I was currently in, knew instinctively it wasn't their house. I searched the blank slate of this child's mind. Nothing. I remained silent, letting the silence stretch, conveying the struggle. Finally, I shook my head slowly, hesitantly. "I… I don't remember," I whispered, my voice small, uncertain. "Nothing… it's all… fuzzy."

  Sadness washed over their faces, eclipsing the joy. My answer confirmed their fear. But the love didn't waver. Gunnar's arms came around me again, pulling me gently against his chest. "It's okay, son," he murmured, his voice thick. "It's okay. You're home now. That's all that matters. We'll figure it out." Freya's hand rested on my back, a silent promise of shared sorrow and unwavering support.

  The lumberjack sighed heavily. "Seems he lost some of his memory," he said quietly to them. "From… whatever happened out there."

  Yeah, I thought, leaning into Gunnar's embrace, the pain in my arms momentarily forgotten. Lost my memory. That's the story.

  My mother, Freya, pulled back slightly, her tear-filled eyes scanning me, lingering on my cradled arms. The overwhelming relief on her face instantly shifted to sharp alarm. "Nikolai, your arms!" she cried, her voice cracking. She reached out, hands hovering inches from the mangled limbs, her expression stricken.

  Then, she acted. Not with bandages or splints, but with something that defied explanation. Holding her hands palms-out before my broken arms, a soft, warm light began to emanate from them. A gentle, golden aura pulsed, casting a comforting glow in the dim house. The air around my arms hummed, tingling.

  I braced for pain, but there was none. Only warmth, deep and penetrating, followed by a strange, reknitting sensation beneath the skin. I watched, utterly mesmerized, as the unnatural angles of my forearms visibly straightened. Swelling subsided. Bruised flesh smoothed, knitting itself back together with impossible speed. Within seconds, it was over. The golden light faded. My mother lowered her hands, her chest heaving slightly, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead despite the cool air.

  Hesitantly, disbelievingly, I flexed my fingers. No pain. None. I straightened one arm, then the other. They were whole. Perfect. The brutal, Ki-inflicted damage was simply… gone.

  Freya chuckled, a shaky, relieved sound. "Seems I'm out of practice!" she said, her voice still thick with emotion, managing a wobbly smile. "Barely used healing magic since before you were born!"

  Gunnar let out a ragged breath, stepping closer, his calloused fingers gently tracing the line of my now-smooth forearm. A deep, relieved smile finally settled on his face. "By the Five Gods," he breathed, looking at Freya with awe. "It worked. You brought him back. All the way back."

  Magic. The word exploded in my mind, echoing with the force of Gunnar's awe. Healing magic. Like the bear's fire, but restorative. Wielded by her. My mother. The realization landed like a physical blow, forcing a shaky breath from my lungs. Magic was real here. Humans could use it. And it was powerful. If healing like this existed… what else was possible? My understanding of this world had just been fundamentally rewritten.