Waking up early to watch the sunrise had its charm. I was never a morning person in my old life, but this new body was young, restless, and brimming with energy I hardly needed sleep. Maybe it was youth or something else. Time will tell.

  Yesterday's survey gave me clarity. The path forward was clear. We could produce tools, they were crude but functional. The next step was scaling up production and improving the methods.

  Agriculture required the biggest shift. The dry season would always cripple us, and some of the local rivers dried up completely. We'd need artificial ponds. Possibly stock them with fish.

  Though I’d have to be careful nothing ruins a plan like a crocodile or a territorial hippo claiming a new pond. And speaking of water, what about malaria? Was it endemic here? So many questions, so little time.

  One step at a time. Infrastructure, agriculture, health, mining, and education. That was the foundation. Everything else could adapt and evolve as needed. But first I had to introduce writing.

  Most huts had beautiful carvings, yes, but more decorative than functional. Family lines, and clan stories, are etched into walls and doors. But no consistent script.

  I could work with that. Creating a simple language that could be taught to everyone no matter the age would be the best.

  However, creating something as complex as Mandarin was out of the question. Though I admit, designing a German-style compound word system would be fun to hear.

  Still, before any of that, I required a proper workshop. A space of my own, a place where I could create, experiment, fail, and try again. Over the past few months, I’d spent hours memorizing what I could. The knowledge came in floods, but if I didn’t lock it in, it vanished like a dream.

  As the sun rose fully over the horizon, I bathed quickly in the large basin. The palace grounds were still quiet. But, the hum of daily life would begin soon, and with it, my chance to speak with my father.

  I made my way through the palace, passing servants who quickly stepped aside to give me a wide berth. The three girls tried to follow, but I waved them off with a glance—they needed to stay behind for now.

  I found my father seated outside beneath a shaded awning, enjoying a breakfast of smoked fish, roasted groundnuts, and a millet drink. He looked up at my approach and nodded, gesturing for a servant to bring me a stool.

  He offered me some food, and I accepted. We ate in silence, both of us watching the village come alive below the hill. The morning was growing louder—children running, traders preparing their goods, smoke curling from early fires.

  “The guards tell me you’ve been wandering the trails and farms,” he said at last, not looking away from the view. “Why?”

  “I want to expand the trails,” I replied simply.

  That piqued his interest. “And why would you do that?”

  “The roads are narrow and worn. When the rains come, oxen slip, carts get stuck, and men struggle to walk. It's slowing everything down.”

  He turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow. “And the spirits gave you this idea?”

  “They’ve given me many solutions—for many problems,” I said, returning his gaze. “But only those who can hear them will understand the benefit.”

  He gave me a long, strange look before chuckling. “This will upset the balance. The elders will come, flooding my ears with their warnings and protests.”

  “A patient hunter waits for the right moment,” I said, picking up a piece of fish. “Change is slow—but once the people see the game is easy and plenty, they’ll want more.”

  He grunted thoughtfully. “Hmm. You’ll be chief soon. Show them what this change of yours looks like.”

  “I want land,” I said plainly. “Near the river. Fertile ground. And more hands to help build a new dwelling.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You wish to claim tribal land for yourself? What exactly are these spirits telling you?”

  I smiled. “One must often fail to succeed. I need a place to test their teachings.”

  He turned back to the horizon, silent. Then, he pointed westward—to a vast stretch of land covered in tall grass, the river snaking lazily nearby.

  I followed his gaze and understood. It was perfect. Enough space for farming experiments, testing new crops, and perhaps starting small industries.

  I could even build a school for labourers—men and women raised under my rule taught to think beyond tradition.

  If I could master cement, I could harden the roads, link villages once divided by muddy trails, and open the floodgates for more trade and migration.

  But I would need more people. As word spread, curiosity would turn into movement. And with that, I required something stronger—an organized, loyal, and disciplined force to enforce my law. A military not bound by blood but by oath.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The seeds were there. Now it was time to plant.

  The sun hung high overhead, casting long shadows across the open land as men and women toiled under its weight. Hacking down tall grass, tearing out stubborn roots, and piling the brush into mounds, the air was thick with the earthy scent of disturbed soil and crushed greenery.

  From my vantage point atop a towering termite mound, I observed it all in silence, the height giving me a commanding view of the land below.

  In my hands rested a clay tablet, still a bit damp, etched with my designs. I scratched carefully with a sharpened stick, outlining the foundation of my future.

  My hut would not be simple. It would have to be expansive, capable of housing tools, and materials, and the secure area to try my experiments.

  The land would be divided methodically into multiple zones for farming trials where I’d test crop rotations, irrigation ideas, and soil improvements. An area marked for a future forge, where metal would meet flame and craft and a section dedicated to resource storage and raw materials, waiting to be transformed into something useful.

  Word of my efforts had already spread. Villagers passed along the nearby trail, slowing their pace as they glanced at the workers and the emerging layout.

  Some whispered guesses, others simply stared with furrowed brows, uncertain of what they were seeing. But none dared come too close—not unless they were summoned to work.

  ———

  Beneath the wide crown of a tree, five elders gathered in the shade, their carved stools arranged in a loose circle. The scent of crushed grass hung in the air, and in the distance, workers cleared the land under the sun’s heavy gaze.

  Yet, the elders’ attention lay on a single figure—a boy atop a termite mound, scratching strange markings into a slab of clay.

  Elder Mukeng'a, the most senior and venerated among them, leaned on his gnarled walking staff. His eyes were clouded but sharp with memory. “The child stares into the sun without fear. That is not always a sign of courage. Sometimes, it is the sign of a fool who does not yet understand fire.”

  Elder Chifuné, tall and gaunt with skin like folded bark, gave a quiet grunt. “He speaks with the tongue of spirits and dreams of madness. Children should learn to carry water before they command rivers. He forgets to talk to the elders. He claims land. That is not tradition. That is arrogance.”

  “But tradition is not a mountain,” said Na’kumbi. “It is a path we walk until it no longer leads us to food or safety. Perhaps he sees a new way. His mind is full of ideas—I have heard him whispher of crops that never fail and homes that do not crumble in the rain.”

  Elder Tchamvi, with arms like old tree roots and eyes like still water, shook his head. “Let him build. Let him dig and fail. The earth humbles all in time. I have seen many visionaries buried in the mud they tried to shape. He plays at being chief, but he has yet to bleed for his people.”

  Then Elder Basoki, youngest of the circle and sharp-tongued as a war horn, let out a dry laugh. “He is no longer just a child. He has the gaze of one who listens to something… deeper. Perhaps he does speak to spirits. Perhaps not.”

  Elder Mukeng’a grunted, shifting his weight. “I remember when his father first sat here. He, too, had fire. But this one? He burns hotter… and stranger.”

  “The land listens to him,” Elder Na’kumbi added softly. “So do the people. With fear yes—but also with curiosity. That is more dangerous.”

  Elder Basoki smirked. “Curiosity is how fire spreads.”

  They fell silent, each watching the figure on the mound as the sun crowned his head in golden fire. In that stillness, something unspoken passed between them, a shared sense that the earth itself was shifting beneath their feet.

  Whether it was for good or ill—they did not yet know.

  ———

  In the distance, beneath the broad shade of a tree, I spotted a circle of elders deep in conversation, their gazes fixed on me and the work unfolding on the land. Their presence piqued my curiosity. What were they saying? What judgments passed between them?

  Now and then, I glanced in their direction, wondering if their talk was praise, concern, or quiet disapproval. Either way, I knew their opinions alone wouldn’t shape the future—I needed the youth to carry the fire of change.

  My eyes drifted to a group of children darting along the trails, laughing as they chased each other through the tall grass. Innocent, wild, unburdened.

  They didn’t know it yet, but I was about to introduce the bane of every child’s joy—homework.