Re-In-Creation

Chapter 7 - Path of Lower Caste

Three months passed.

The wooden sword made a satisfying thunk as it struck the bark of the old banyan tree. My breath came in a steady rhythm, sweat dripping into the soil beneath my feet.

With each motion, the wooden blade whispered through the air—each swing a prayer, each strike a wish.

The tree bore the proof of my dedication—its bark chipped and scarred by hundreds of blows.

This wasn’t just routine. This was grinding—pure stat farming.

After helping my parents with chores, I trained like clockwork.

Sometimes, I even asked for coins in return. Pocket money plus a Strength bonus? That’s what I called efficiency.

Preparation meant having a precise countermeasure for every obstacle.

“One thousand!” I shouted before collapsing onto my back, the wooden sword slipping from my hand.

My palms were swollen and tinged blue. My shirt clung to me, soaked in sweat. My breath came in ragged gasps as exhaustion washed over me.

My biggest obstacle right now? I desperately needed a proper mentor—but as a Wasiya, I didn’t have that luxury.

So there was only one answer: the Training Stand at the Village Center.

Ironically, I had created it myself.

A feature meant to help casual players rack up a few points without the soul-crushing grind.

And now here I was—its original designer—about to rely on it like any other lost noob.

But being a kid, I had to be at least ten before my parents would let me go there without a fuss.

And even then, the training stand required coins.

Fortunately, I had that covered—my parents had started giving me small payments for helping out.

One preparation completed. For now.

Still, every second mattered when it came to grinding.

Once I saved enough… then…

“Jaka!”

I didn’t need to look to know who that voice belonged to—but exhaustion pinned me to the grass, my body refusing to rise.

“Laksita, what are you doing here?”

“I—I, um… I…”

She stuttered, clearly flustered, clutching a pot and something wrapped in banana leaf.

After a beat of hesitation, she sat down beside me, trying to steady her breath.

“I brought you some water and food, Jaka.”

“Let’s hope your cooking doesn’t kill me this time, Laksita.”

“Hey!” She pouted. “I’ve gotten better, you know…”

I chuckled—then winced as a sharp pain stabbed my stomach. “Ouch… my stomach… it’s cramping… help me, Laksita! Help me!”

“Nope! That’s your karma!” she huffed, crossing her arms in mock indignation.

After a few minutes, I drank and ate what Laksita had brought, grateful and exhausted.

The food replenished my energy—and to my surprise, her cooking didn’t make me question the meaning of existence in my mouth… or punch my consciousness out through my stomach.