Chapter 1

Please be kind to me.

One day, out of the blue, memories of my past life started to surface when I was ten years old.

Suddenly, I recalled vague memories of my past life. I had worked as an ordinary office worker, and I think it was a life without much joy, just going through the motions day by day without any particular attachment.

But those were just the memories. I don’t know what happened afterward or how I died. I just remembered that I had lived a life in vain in my past life.

I was lying on a bed made of withered grass spread on the ground.

(I wish I hadn’t remembered.)

I let out a deep sigh. I don’t want to remember a life lived in vain; it just makes me feel too much of a contrast with my current life, which is at rock bottom.

First, let me sort out my current situation. Who am I? I am a refugee. There are various types of refugees: those who were driven from their homes by war, those who were driven away by rampaging monsters, those who were displaced by disasters, and those who had to leave because they couldn’t pay their taxes. In my case, it was a stampede.

When I became aware of my surroundings, I was already living in a refugee settlement. I might have been born here, but the details are unclear. My parents were driven from their home by a stampede, drifted to this settlement, and settled down here.

Why do I know all this? Because my parents frequently complained to me about it. Moreover, they sometimes hit me to vent their frustrations, making life tough both mentally and physically. I understand why they are pessimistic about their current situation, but I wish they wouldn’t take it out on me... It’s so unfair.

Life in the town that was destroyed by the stampede must have been good. Moving to a place that is even worse than the bottom of the barrel, it’s understandable why their hearts are bitter. But don’t they think about changing their current situation? Even after so many years, the situation in my household hasn’t improved.

From now on, things will be different. My life until now was spent in silence, either staying at home to avoid angering my parents or killing time outside. I was too pessimistic to take any action, but with the memories of my past life, I strongly felt that I couldn’t just sit around anymore. It’s simply the stark contrast in my lifestyle that I can’t bear.

I don’t have a clear big goal yet. But I can set a small goal—improving my living conditions.

I sit up from my supine position and observe my body. My body is covered in dirt, and I’m wearing a tattered three-quarter-length shirt and tattered long pants, both of which were distributed. I have brown hair that reaches just past my shoulders and brown eyes. This is what I look like now.

I can only get new clothes when they are distributed, so there’s not much I can do about that. I could try to earn some money, but it’s not a priority, so I’ll put it off for now.

The thin layer of withered grass is my bed, which is no different from the ground but at least it’s something. Looking at the bed next to mine, it’s clear that there’s more withered grass, which is my parents’ bed. I only have enough to cover the ground, and the difference in treatment makes me feel resentful.

Maybe I should try making a wooden bed. No, given my parents... they would probably break it or take it for themselves if I made it. If I want my own bed, I’ll have to make one for my parents first. I don’t want to put in that much effort for them, so just adding more grass to my bed should be enough. I can do that right away.

Finally, food. Meals are distributed twice a day, in the morning and at noon, but I only get one of those. The women in the refugee settlement prepare the food and keep a close eye to make sure no one takes both. If someone tries to take both, they get beaten up by other refugees, so no one does it.

The ingredients are distributed once a month by the lord. Yes, we haven’t been abandoned. The ingredients are brought from a nearby town and stored in the refugee settlement’s warehouse. If you steal, you might not just get beaten up.

But one meal a day isn’t enough. People who are hungry go into the forest to search for food or hunt, or they go to the river, which is a thirty-minute walk away, to find or catch food. I need to go out and look for food too. If I don’t, I’ll end up like my parents, who can’t do anything without strength. I’ll have to act quickly on the food issue.

As I’m thinking about this, my parents return to our 1DK dugout house (our home). They’re holding the distributed soup and a small potato, but only enough for themselves. They look at me with hollow eyes.

“Damn, I thought you were dead.”

“It would be better if you died quickly.”

Yes, that’s how it is. They clicked their tongues and made very unpleasant faces. There’s no affection from my parents; I’m just a nuisance to them.

When I was younger, it wasn’t this bad. My parents, who were deeply affected by their loss, just ignored me, slept, woke up, ate the distributed food, and spaced out.

But a few months ago, they started to curse and hit me. I don’t know what caused the change in their attitude. Something might have happened in the settlement that I don’t know about. My parents, who were my only allies, became my enemies, making my life even harder.

My parents sit in a different room and start slurping their soup. Good, I didn’t get hit today. Probably because they had the food in their hands, so they couldn’t hit me.

As I watch their backs, I stand up. If the noon distribution has started, I need to go quickly to get my share before it’s gone. I take the bowl from the corner of the room and move quietly to the entrance.

“If you’re going, get out quickly, you’re an eyesore!”

“You don’t have to come back, you’re a nuisance.”

Just for moving, I get this treatment. I don’t want to come back either, but this is the only place I have to sleep, so I have no choice. I hold back the urge to retort and go outside.