“And thus we see that during the medieval period, several individuals rose to prominence not necessarily as lords, but as part of a servile upper class. Modern interpretations—often warped through hearsay and fiction—paint a binary of ‘lord or peasant,’ but reality was far more nuanced. The stratification of society was complex and varied greatly across regions. The late Byzantines and early Ottomans had vastly different societal structures compared to the Italian peninsula, Iberia, or northern Europe. And let's not forget that during this era, parts of China and India often matched or surpassed Europe technologically and culturally.

  Peasants weren’t just peasants. There were serfs, freemen, tradesmen, officials, clerks—the list goes on, changing with each culture. While lower classes had fewer protections, some might argue the wealthy of today still benefit from similar structures, simply masked in modernity. The days of unpunished executions are gone, sure—but privilege hasn’t disappeared, merely evolved.

  So, with that in mind: how does our current cultural hierarchy compare to the medieval one?”

  RIIIIIIIINNNNNGGGG

  “Ah, saved by the bell. Don’t forget: your final papers are due by the end of the week. No extensions—I’ve said it before. You’ve had a month. Twenty-page minimum, folks. See my office hours if you’ve got questions, otherwise I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  Professor Dougherty exited the room with his usual briskness, leaving Eric staring at the little knight doodled in the corner of his notes.

  Despite his love for history and his master's program, Dougherty’s lectures were like trudging through mud—dense, repetitive, and rarely aligned with the actual assignments. Still, the tiny armored figure on his page proved Eric’s passion hadn’t dulled. He had fifteen pages written so far, but he’d need to make a trip to the library if he wanted to finish before the week’s other classes piled up.

  He packed his things and trailed out of the classroom, a few steps behind the rest. Only ten students shared the class with him—each passionate about history, but not necessarily about each other. He could only hear about the social intricacies and fashion of royal galas so many times before zoning out. His interest leaned more toward knights, battles, and the scientific discoveries of the time.

  The political and cultural side of history had its place, sure. But for Eric, the real intrigue lay in the mechanics of life: agriculture, infrastructure, trade, warfare, law, and resources. Entire nations had risen or fallen because of a single failed harvest, a plague, or a poorly defended trade route. That complexity, that fragility, fascinated him far more than who wore what to a royal wedding.

  Just two more years, he told himself. Two more years, and he could be the one guiding discussions—on his terms, even if still within the bounds of the education board’s standards.

  There were perks to the history department being housed in an older, smaller building. Fewer shared classes meant fewer distractions, and Eric cherished the quiet. He popped in his earbuds, hoping some music would help him focus.

  Unbeknownst to him, an alarm was blaring across the campus. A fire alarm had been triggered, sending a wave of students flooding out of one of the dorm buildings across the quad. Some were shouting—screaming, even. But there was no smoke. No fire.

  Minutes later, Eric’s phone vibrated with a notification. He glanced down.

  Warning: Active Shooter on Campus. Please find shelter and stay safe. Last known location: West Side Dining Commons.

  His heart thudded in his chest. That was on the far side of campus. He was probably safe here... probably. He turned his head down the hallway, debating whether to duck into a classroom, when a young woman stepped out of one.

  “Hey,” he called, “there’s a shooter. We should get back inside.”

  She looked up from her phone with a puzzled expression, just as her face drained of color. She screamed.

  Eric spun around to see what had startled her—and saw him.

  A man, dressed in dark clothing, standing at the end of the hallway. He looked like he was about to turn away but froze at the scream. Their eyes met. The man raised an arm—holding a gun.

  A Glock. No uniform. No hesitation.

  Eric didn’t think. He ran.

  But the girl—she was frozen in place. Still standing in the doorway. Still exposed.

  Without thinking, Eric charged her. He threw his arms forward, pushing her back into the classroom. Her balance gave, and she stumbled inside—just as a thunderous crack tore through the hallway.

  Pain erupted in his torso. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even process it. The impact threw him sideways into the metal doorframe. He struck it hard, his shoulder and head slamming into the corner before he collapsed to the floor, leaving a vivid smear of blood along the wall and frame as he slid down. Blinking through the haze of pain, he caught a glimpse of the girl vanishing into the classroom—just before the metal door swung shut, sealing off his escape.

  Gasping for air, he reached for the handle. Another shot rang out behind him. The shooter was coming closer, muttering to himself—unhinged, terrified, but focused.

  Eric tried to move, to crawl—but every motion sent waves of pain through his body. His limbs felt like wet sandbags. Blood bubbled in his mouth. With a shaky gasp, he sagged onto his backpack, too drained to push it aside. He panted, every breath a ragged, searing effort, and tilted his head just enough to look back down the hall. The shooter was coming. Eric raised a hand—not in defense, but in silent plea. His only hope now was mercy.

  At the grizzled and haggard face that now stood down at him, he hoped to see any glimmer of relief, but there was only madness and apathy.

  “I’m sorry,” the man whispered.

  Bang.

  ***********************************************

  Well, that sucked.

  But at least he wasn’t gasping in pain anymore. In fact, he couldn’t really feel anything. He just... was. Floating in some endless space, weightless and alone, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

  Time felt meaningless here. Maybe hours had passed. Maybe days. Maybe more. Eric had gone over his final moments hundreds—no, thousands—of times. Wondering if the girl had survived. If he was still alive. If the shooter had been caught. If this was a coma, or the afterlife. His mind spiraled endlessly through questions, regrets, possibilities.

  Then, finally—

  “Welcome, Eric Wright. I hope your wait wasn’t too long,” said a soft, warm voice from the emptiness.

  Light bloomed, and the void exploded into color. Clouds of green, blue, and red swirled around him as his body surged forward—not falling, but accelerating through space until he came to a sudden, jarring stop.

  Before him floated a radiant, feminine figure. She was cloaked in robes woven from light itself, her form fluid and shifting, as if any attempt to focus on one part only slipped your gaze to another. Disorienting, yet serene. Her face, though, was clearer—faintly familiar. It reminded him of his mother, and for a moment he wondered if this was all a dream.

  “No, you are not hallucinating, Eric,” she said gently. “I’m afraid you have died. But you’ve earned another chance. That is why we’re meeting now. Here—let me restore some of your self.”

  With a flick of her hand, sensation returned. Eric gasped as he looked down and saw his body—or something like it. Ethereal, ghostlike, but whole. He flexed his fingers and laughed, elated just to feel again. Even floating in nothingness, the simple act of moving made him giddy.

  “Wow, uh, thanks. I… I don’t know how long it’s been, but this? This is already a lot. Thank you, um… God?”

  Eric’s mind raced to match her appearance to familiar figures from mythology. The swirling greens and blues brought to mind Gaia, the Earth Mother, and Demeter, goddess of the harvest. There was a serenity to her that echoed the grace of Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, and perhaps the luminous beauty of Aphrodite or the protective air of Isis. Even the Norse Frigg came to mind for a fleeting second. But none quite fit. This goddess felt like an amalgam of them all, yet wholly unique. Ancient, maternal, powerful—but distinctly otherworldly.

  The woman chuckled. “You certainly love your history, little one. But no—I am not the god of your world. I’m Sylra, a goddess of creation from another realm: Talam.”

  She drifted downward as clouds gathered beneath her like a throne. "You are a rare case," she said, her voice both light and resonant. "Without strong religious ties, your soul fell into the cycle of reincarnation, rather than passing to an afterlife. But your final acts—your selfless sacrifice, your deep yearning for a different life—created a ripple. That ripple, bolstered by your karmic weight and willpower, allowed me to reach through the veil and pluck you free before your reincarnation was determined. In this moment you have a choice. Come to my world and live a life similar to one during your world's medieval era. Do this and I will help you maintain your memories of your last life to help change my world and create boundless new possibilities."

  She extended her hand slightly, palm up. "A new life is possible—one that could change my world and, perhaps, fulfill the potential you never had a chance to realize. Of course, you may decline this offer and return to the wheel. Where that leads, no one can say. But the choice is yours."

  Her words settled in his mind like molasses. It was a lot to process. But above all, one question pushed its way forward.

  “So… does that mean the lady lived?” he asked. Not the most expected first question, but the only one that mattered in that moment.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Yes,” Sylra answered, her smile softening. “Her name was Lianna Kim. She was injured—your push knocked her back hard, and the shooter struck her shoulder through the door’s window. But she survived. The police arrived in time. She’s alive, and healing. She even laid flowers at your funeral. Spoke with your parents. So long as no further deadly complications arise in her life, she should live a long and healthy one. But that is up to the universe now—not to me, or to you.”

  “My parents… oh, goddess. My parents.”

  The weight hit all at once. Until now, he’d kept himself too busy—analyzing, questioning, reflecting. But the mention of his family shattered his composure. The grief surged through him, dragging him downward like a stone through deep water. No tears came, but the ache in his soul was unbearable.

  He floated there, folding inward, overwhelmed by the faces he’d never see again. The friends, the laughter, the small comforts of a life now ended. All gone.

  Sylra didn’t interrupt. She watched quietly, patient and still, as the waves of grief crashed over him. Her presence, warm and constant, wrapped around him like a blanket. Not a cure. But a comfort.

  Eventually, the tide began to ebb. He exhaled a shaky breath, and with it, the need to ask more questions returned.

  “Are my parents okay? My friends?”

  “They are well. Your father remains strong, if grief stricken, and your mother is suffering, but she will recover in time. Whether her grief leaves a lasting scar is no longer your concern.” Sylra’s tone sharpened slightly. “I’ve been patient, but I think questions about your old world should end here. I’m already getting... unpleasant looks for peeking through the veil like this again and again.”

  She folded her hands. “So, do you have questions about my world? Or shall I toss you onto the great wheel and let fate spin your next life?”

  Eric wiped at his face reflexively. “Right. Um... thanks for letting me get that out. About your world—you said it was like medieval Earth. Does that mean magic and swords like in the books I’ve read?” A little excitement creeping in at the possibility of living out a fantasy.

  “No. My world has developed along a similar trajectory to your Earth—both technologically and spiritually. You won’t be casting fireballs or fighting monsters here as there isn’t enough energy or development to support such things. To request for a life in such a world in and incredibly expensive karmic request.”

  Eric blinked. “So no magic?”

  “None for you, no. You’ve earned this opportunity only because your soul called out for a harder life. Most souls ask for ease and comfort, not disease, starvation, and war. You wanted struggle, or at least your soul was filled with a yearning for such a place. That will has opened a path.”

  She plucked a fruit from the clouds around her, biting into it with a smirk as the juices on the skin and her lips seemed to almost glimmer like gold.

  “If you’d asked for a fantasy world like those stories, you would’ve been denied outright. At best, you might’ve been reincarnated as a tree or a slug in such a realm. Being reborn there as a person is about as likely as becoming king in your old world. Count your blessings, Eric. Even they have limits.”

  Eric’s eyes widened. His mind spiraled with the infinite possibilities he’d apparently missed. “But... didn’t you say I earned this chance by saving someone? Doesn’t that mean something? Isn’t that worth more?”

  “It means something,” she said, her voice taking on a divine finality. “But not everything. A single selfless act, even a noble one, doesn’t outweigh a lifetime of mediocrity. You weren’t a bad person, but you didn’t impact your world in a meaningful way. You gathered knowledge, yes, but creation and change are my domain. I’m the goddess of life, not of scholars or memory. I can’t grant you more for things that contribute little to my domain”

  Eric flinched. He’d always thought he was a good person—someone who did his best and tried to help where he could. Apparently, that didn’t matter a lot in the grand scheme of things, at least not enough for some kind of cheat or reward in his next life like all those stories claimed.

  Sylra’s eyes narrowed. “This is the benefit, fool. You retain your memories. Most don’t even remember their childhood, let alone have the wisdom to make the most of such a time. You’ll be born again with the wisdom of an adult—able to make decisions, avoid mistakes, and chart a deliberate path. That alone is more than nearly any soul ever gets.”

  She tilted her head.

  “How many people do you remember from your old world who seemed born talented? Who always made the right choices at the right time? You didn’t meet one in life, but you saw them. The stars that rose from nothing. That’s what I’m offering: the chance to become one of them—though it won’t be easy. And if you fail, well... maybe you’ll have enough karma for another meeting. Or maybe not.”

  Eric considered that. It made sense, in a way. He’d been expecting a reward or some kind of cheat, but maybe that expectation was the problem. Life hadn’t handed him gifts before, and was quite mundane really. Why would a goddess give him the means to completely break her world’s balance for simply saving someone?

  “I’m sorry, Sylra. I didn’t mean offense. I’m just... confused. This karmic scale—it’s hard to understand.”

  “Of course it is. You’re mortal,” she said, more gently. “Even this explanation is dumbed down so your mind can grasp it. You’ll forget most of it once you’re reborn—it will live on only as instinct. A nudge. A voice telling you to do good.”

  She stood straighter.

  “In simplest terms: you earned a minor blessing. But by choosing hardship in your next life, I can magnify it. And I’m doing that only because I want you to shake up my world. But no trading away your memories—without them, the deal simply can’t exist.”

  She waved her hand and an ethereal scale appeared between them.

  “Think of karma as a cosmic balance. Do something that moves the world, and the fulcrum shifts. That can mean luck, chaos, divine gifts, or curses. You can impress the universe—nearly impossible—or impress a god. That’s much easier since there are so many governing their own domains.”

  “Even in your old world, blessings existed. You just couldn’t see them. Maybe it was meeting the right person at the right time. Winning a lottery. Escaping death by coincidence. Chaos rules the universe—but blessings bend probability.”

  She let that sink in.

  “Your retained memories will shift your karma from a cosmic to a mortal scale. A powerful tool—or a dangerous curse depending on how you wish to use it.”

  Eric opened his mouth to speak, but she continued.

  “And as a favor—because I do want you to succeed—I’ll give you a second blessing. You’ll be healthy and shielded from death until you reach adulthood. No disease, no war—unless you go looking for them. Don’t be stupid and charge into battle or roll in plague pits.”

  Her expression made it clear: she didn’t trust him not to.

  Eric nodded, processing it all. “But wouldn’t it help you if I had more time? Like, a lifetime of health?”

  Sylra barked a laugh. “This isn’t a gift, Eric. It’s a loan. Granting you sixteen safe years is already a debt of sizable proportion. To extend that to a lengthy lifespan of eighty? You’d owe karma equivalent to destroying a million lives.”

  He blanched.

  “You were cut short in your world—so you can afford this chance at a new life. Barely. But the cost of an entire lifetime of peace is unfathomable, especially in a world like Talam. No, this is already a high limit to what you’ll get. I believe you can earn enough good karma to repay the debt so far, but to take on more risk your blessings being outweighed by the karmic debt you owe and turning your life for the worse. That’s why I’ll also make you an oracle.”

  “An oracle?”

  “Yes, as an oracle, you’ll be able to contact me again—but only through proper ritual, at a sacred site. Temples dedicated to creator gods, natural springs, lush groves... Talam has many such places. Pray faithfully, offer something of value, and I might answer. If you impress me again, more blessings may follow.”

  She fell silent, the divine light around her dimming. The weight of her gaze pressed into him—no longer angry or indulgent, just watchful.

  Eric felt hollow and overwhelmed, but also... resolved. He thought of the history he loved. Of struggle and greatness. He could try to coast on karma and hope for a gentler next life—but what kind of historian would he be if he turned down a real chance to live history and even make his own stamp on it?

  “I’ll do it,” he said quietly. “I’ll go to your world. I don’t know how much I’ll accomplish, but I’ll try.”

  Sylra smiled, sharp and satisfied. “Good. That took longer than I liked, but I suppose every soul needs its own time.”

  She waved her hand. Eric’s soul felt like it was being squeezed, compacted into something smaller, denser—like stuffing his essence into a jar.

  “Let’s get you started. Reincarnation’s already in motion. You may feel a bit... compressed. Let’s see what we can do for your new life. Let’s keep you male. I know a lot of people like to swap between lives, but let’s not make your new life any harder then it already is. Any preferences for your new life?”

  “Yes, male is good. And I liked Mediterranean history. Maybe something similar in are to that?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Gender’s easy. Geography’s... trickier. Even I’m bound by cosmic limits.”

  Eric’s mind reeled as she warped the space around him, light and clouds folding in unnatural ways.

  “Wait! Am I going to be a noble or something like it? How do I pray to you? Do all temples count?”

  “No nobility. That’s out of your price range. I’ll aim for freeman or farming family. Something stable. As for prayer—any temple to a creator deity will do. If that fails, natural sites like vibrant forest groves or natural springs filled with life and an offering should suffice. But don’t waste my time with frivolous calls.”

  Her motions grew faster, more esoteric. Reality began to blur.

  “I’ll have a family, right?” he asked quickly. “Not an orphan or... monk?”

  She snorted. “No cloisters for you. You’d probably get beaten for trying to touch holy relics or using church coin on something crazy. Just focus on the kind of life you want, not specifics. Strong will shapes fate.”

  Her chuckle echoed like birdsong.

  “Now—get ready.”

  Then came light. Then blackness.

  Eric couldn’t feel much at first—just a suffocating darkness. Then, his body began to feel heavy again. Wet. A creeping pressure squeezed in from all sides, slow at first, then more insistent. Panic welled up. He tried to breathe, but the moment he sucked in air, something slick and warm—mucus?—coated his throat. He coughed violently, spitting it back out in a reflex he didn’t know he had.

  Then, suddenly, he was weightless. His limbs flailed without coordination, and he strained to open his eyes, desperate to see something. Fear bloomed in his chest. Was he blind?

  A sharp smack struck his backside. Pain flared—and from his mouth came not a groan or shout, but a thin, high-pitched wail. It took him a moment to realize the sound had come from him. A baby’s cry.

  So… it worked, he thought, though the thought itself felt fragmented and muffled. I’ve been reborn.

  But his relief was brief. He couldn’t move properly, couldn’t even control his crying. Every attempt to steady himself only led to more tiny whines escaping his lips, his body wracked with the lingering sting of birth.

  “Congratulations, madam,” came a warm, matronly voice. “A healthy little boy. No signs of sickness, and definitely strong lungs. Let’s get him cleaned up.”

  He felt a rough cloth rub across his skin—gritty, almost scratchy—and only then did he realize he hadn’t been floating. He was being held aloft in strong arms. The cloth worked across his body, the friction both uncomfortable and strangely grounding. His eyelids fluttered open, finally coaxed into cooperation.

  The world came into view—but it was dim and fuzzy, smudged in browns and shadows. Shapes shifted like smears on canvas until he focused upward, and caught a clearer glimpse of the woman holding him. She looked older, maybe in her sixties—though to his blurry vision, it was hard to tell. Deep lines carved her face, a mole dotted her chin, and red patches blotched her cheeks. Still, she smiled down at him, beaming as he met her gaze for the first time.

  Before he could take in more, she gently cooed and wrapped him tight in a warm cloth. “Let’s get you to your mamma, little one,” she whispered.

  Colors passed again in a blur as he was carried across the room. He felt the odd weightlessness again, the vague bobbing motion of steps. Then, with care, he was laid down on something soft, the world tilting slightly as he was turned over.

  A hand—trembling but tender—hovered over his face before brushing gently against his tiny body.

  Then he saw her.

  A young woman, barely past her teens. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe younger. Her brown hair clung wetly to her face, strands stuck to her cheeks and brow. Her skin was sun-touched, tanned but paled beneath the flush of labor. Her lips were cracked, her arms thin and trembling, but her eyes—deep green and bright—held the weight of exhausted joy.

  She smiled at him, eyes glassy with tears, and whispered, “Thank the gods above for you, my son. Welcome to the world, little Edran.”

  And so, a new life began.