Chapter 1

James browsed through the books in the library, searching for something to pique his interest. His eyes caught on a spine that looked out of place—old and weathered. Intrigued, he pulled it out and studied the cover, which bore arcane writing he’d never seen before. Frowning, he opened the book and peered inside.

He walked over and sat down and looked through it, some text he could read, some he couldn’t, he read one page and blinked.

The world around him went white.

Suddenly, James found himself transported to a different world, his body reverted to that of a 12-year-old boy while retaining his mature mind. In this new realm, he was part of a large family with three sisters, a mother, and a father.

This world was vastly different from his own. Magic existed here, permeating every aspect of life. Magical beings of all sorts populated the land, from wizards, witches, and mages to dwarves, elves, and dragons. Demons of various types also roamed this realm, ranging from mischievous imps to terrifying archfiends.

He had wondered if he was on an alternate Earth, but that assumption was quickly dashed on his first night in this new world. Stepping outside, James looked up at the night sky and froze, his breath catching in his throat. Two moons hung in orbit, their celestial dance illuminating the landscape in an ethereal glow.

“Oh...”

This wasn’t just a different country or even a different time. He was on an entirely alien world, with rules and physics that might defy everything he thought he knew. The sight of those twin moons served as a stark reminder of just how far from home he truly was.

One day, however, he wondered off and got caught by a group of raiders, who then sent him to a place that would become both his prison and his crucible: the Wheel of Pain.

This imposing structure, while not designed explicitly as a torture device, served as a large grain mill powered by the sweat and toil of slaves.

Upon his arrival, James was thrust into a world of endless labor. The Wheel of Pain loomed before him, a massive wooden contraption that seemed to touch the sky. Its weathered beams groaned under the weight of countless years, bearing silent witness to the suffering of those forced to push it. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, punctuated by the rhythmic creaking of the wheel as it turned, grinding grain for masters unseen.

Despite the harsh conditions, James found an unexpected solace in the routine that quickly became his life. Each day followed the same pattern: at dawn, he would rise from his meager pallet, muscles aching from the previous day’s exertion. He would take his place at the wheel, hands gripping the rough wood, and begin to push. The work was grueling, a constant battle against the wheel’s resistance and his own fatigue. Yet as the days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, James discovered a strange comfort in the predictability of his existence.

From sunrise to sunset, he pushed. The monotony of the task allowed his mind to wander, to escape the confines of his physical reality. He would imagine himself in far-off lands, living adventures he had only heard about in stories. As the wheel turned, so too did the seasons, marking the passage of time in a life stripped of all other indicators.

At dusk, when the day’s labor finally came to an end, James would collapse onto his sleeping mat, body trembling with exhaustion. These brief hours of rest became precious to him, a time to recover and prepare for the next day’s push. In those quiet moments before sleep claimed him, he would sometimes wonder about the world beyond the Wheel of Pain, a world that grew increasingly distant in his memories.

Years passed in this fashion, each indistinguishable from the last. James counted them methodically, using the monotony of his days as a way to maintain some connection to the passage of time. By the age of 17, he had spent a third of his life at the wheel. The boy who had arrived five years earlier was gone, replaced by a young man hardened by constant labor.

James had grown tall, his frame stretched by the demands placed upon it. His once-short hair now hung long and unkempt, a testament to years without the luxury of grooming. Most striking was his physique—lean muscle rippled across his body, sculpted by the relentless pushing of the wheel. Where once a group of slaves had been needed to move the massive contraption, now James alone possessed the strength to keep it turning.

His power did not go unnoticed. As James approached his 17th year, he found himself the subject of increased attention from the overseers. Whispered conversations and appraising glances hinted at a change on the horizon. Sure enough, James was soon sold to a new master, a slaver who dealt in a different kind of commodity: fighters for death matches.

The transition from the Wheel of Pain to the arena was abrupt and jarring. James found himself thrust into a world of violence and spectacle, where his hard-earned strength was put to a new, deadly purpose. The routine he had known for so long was shattered, replaced by the unpredictable rhythms of combat and the constant threat of death.

For reasons James never fully understood—perhaps boredom, a looming mortality, or an unexpected crisis of conscience—his new owner eventually set him free. Suddenly, after years of captivity, James found himself facing an unfamiliar and daunting prospect: freedom. As he stood at the threshold of this new chapter in his life, he realized that the true challenge lay ahead. The world beyond slavery was vast and unknown, a place where the simple, brutal clarity of the Wheel of Pain no longer applied. With nothing but his strength and the lessons learned from years of hardship, James took his first steps into an uncertain future.

James set out for the nearest town, determined to orient himself and find his way back home. The journey ahead was daunting, but he was no stranger to hardship. His years at the Wheel of Pain had instilled in him a resolute endurance that would serve him well in the months to come.

As he traveled, James pieced together his location relative to his childhood memories. The world had changed in his absence, or perhaps it was he who had changed, viewing familiar landscapes through the eyes of a man rather than a boy. Either way, the path home proved to be a long and arduous one.

For nearly a year, James made his way across the countryside. He caught rides where he could, sometimes on the back of a merchant’s cart, other times astride a horse. But more often than not, he relied on his own two feet, each step bringing him closer to a reunion he both longed for and feared.

The journey was not without its challenges. James found himself taking on odd jobs in the towns and villages he passed through, earning just enough to sustain himself and continue his quest. He worked as a laborer, a farmhand, even a bodyguard for a nervous merchant—anything to keep moving forward. These brief interludes of normal life were strange to him, a stark contrast to the repetitive existence he had known for so long.

As winter descended and snow began to blanket the land, James finally found himself on familiar ground. The landscape of his childhood emerged from the mists of memory, each landmark a bittersweet reminder of the life that had been torn from him six long years ago.

At last, he stood before the house he remembered, its sturdy walls a testament to the passing years. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, James raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The sound of approaching footsteps from within sent his heart racing. The door swung open, revealing a mature woman whose features James recognized instantly. Time had etched new lines on her face, but to James, she was unmistakably his mother.

Her eyes, however, held no recognition as she regarded the stranger on her doorstep.

“Yes ... can I help you?” she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

James felt a pang of sadness. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. The last time she had seen him, he had been a mere boy of twelve, not the tall, muscular young man who now stood before her. He smiled, a bittersweet expression that spoke volumes of the years lost between them.

“Hello, mother,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened in shock as the implications of his words sank in. A scream escaped her lips, and she crumpled to the floor in a faint.

The commotion brought James’s father, Defton, running to the scene. He burst into the entryway, a dirk clutched in his hand, ready to defend his home. The sight that greeted him—his wife unconscious on the floor and a formidable stranger at the threshold—brought him up short.

“Who the hell are you?” Defton demanded, his voice a mixture of confusion and barely contained aggression.

James couldn’t help but grin. Despite the years that had passed, his father remained unchanged—the same protective instinct, the same fierce demeanor.

“God, you’ve not changed, father,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The dirk slipped from Defton’s suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. Recognition dawned in his eyes as he took in the familiar features hidden beneath the hardened exterior of the man before him.

In that moment, as snow continued to fall silently outside, the years of separation seemed to collapse. James stood on the precipice of reclaiming the life that had been stolen from him, acutely aware that while he had found his way home, the journey to rebuild what he had lost was only just beginning.

James sat at the familiar table, his presence both a miracle and a shock to his family. He devoured the food before him with an intensity born of years of deprivation. As he cleaned his plate, more was piled on, a silent testament to his mother’s joy at having her lost son returned. His sisters sat around, their eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fascination as they watched their long-lost brother.

“We thought you were dead,” one of his sisters finally ventured, breaking the awed silence. “We searched for weeks.”

James nodded, pausing only briefly in his consumption to tear a chunk from a loaf of bread. “I was captured and taken to the Wheel of Pain,” he explained between mouthfuls, his voice matter-of-fact, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

His mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Gods,” she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “The snake worshippers?”

“Yes,” James confirmed with a nod. Then, surprising them all, he shrugged. “It had its benefits.”

“Oh?” his father, Defton, inquired, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

In response, James raised his arm, flexing to display the impressive swell of his bicep. The room fell silent, save for a few sharp intakes of breath. James couldn’t help but notice the physical reaction his display elicited from some of the women present, their erect nipples visible beneath their clothing. He grinned, a hint of pride coloring his expression. “I also learned how to fight and I can draw a bow,” he added, his tone casual despite the weight of his words.

Defton nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “That will come in handy with hunting,” he mused, already considering the practical applications of his son’s newfound skills.

“I was thinking the same thing,” James agreed, his mind turning to the future and how he might contribute to the family’s welfare.

The moment was broken as his mother, overcome with emotion, wailed and threw her arms around his neck. She sobbed into his shoulder, years of grief and worry pouring out in a torrent of tears. James smiled softly, patting her head with a gentleness that belied his imposing physique. Even as he comforted her, his stomach rumbled insistently, and he resumed his meal, balancing the conflicting needs of his body and his heart.

In the days and weeks that followed, James worked to reintegrate himself into life at the homestead. The transition was not without its challenges. The boy who had left six years ago was gone, replaced by a man hardened by experiences his family could scarcely imagine. Yet, the strength he had gained during his captivity proved invaluable in the daily tasks of rural life.

James threw himself into the work, finding comfort in physical labor that was freely given rather than coerced. He repaired fences, tilled fields, and indeed, his prowess with a bow made him an asset during hunting expeditions. His presence brought a new vitality to the homestead, and slowly, the strangeness of his return gave way to a new normal.

As the seasons turned, James maintained his physical condition, unwilling to let his hard-earned strength diminish. The rigorous routine he set for himself became a source of curiosity and admiration among the locals, many of whom had never seen a physique quite like his.

On the eve of his twentieth birthday, James found himself standing at the edge of the lake near their home. The water’s surface mirrored the sky above, a canvas of deep oranges and purples as the sun dipped below the horizon. He stood there, his powerful frame silhouetted against the fading light, lost in contemplation.

The past few years had been a journey of rediscovery—of his family, his home, and himself. As he gazed out over the tranquil waters, James pondered the strange turns his life had taken. From a carefree boy to a slave, from a gladiator to a prodigal son returned, each chapter had shaped him in ways he was still coming to understand.

The future stretched out before him, as vast and unknowable as the darkening sky. Yet, for the first time since his return, James felt a sense of peace settle over him. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them with the strength of his body and the resilience of his spirit, forged in the crucible of his past and tempered by the love of his family.

He skipped a stone and watched it jump across the water and sighed.

What a fucking transformation it had been. One minute, he was an 83-year-old man in the library, poring over a book with strange, arcane text. The next, he found himself a 12-year-old boy, snatched from the streets and sentenced to a life of hard labor in some shithole part of a world he knew nothing about. The abruptness of the change had left him reeling, struggling to reconcile his adult mind with his newly adolescent body.

Fortunately, James had retained enough of his adult knowledge to recognize the name of the nearby city, which had proven crucial in finding his way back home. Still, the journey had been far from easy. The specter of Thulsa Doom and his fanatical snake worshippers loomed on the edges of civilization, a constant threat to the unwary. Like any well-oiled cult, they excelled at sucking up unsuspecting followers, luring them in with promises of power and enlightenment.

As he skipped another stone across the lake’s placid surface, James found himself pondering the nature of this world’s religious landscape. It was a subject that fascinated him, particularly given his unique perspective as an otherworldly transplant. He made a mental note to conduct some research into it at some point, his academic curiosity piqued despite the trauma of his experiences.

Did gods actually exist here? The question nagged at him, refusing to be dismissed. If they did, did they subsist on the mana of their worshippers, drawing power from faith and devotion? Or was it more like his original world, where grifters used religion as a tool to suck their follower’s dry of money and autonomy? He suspected it might be a bit of both, the line between genuine divine presence and human exploitation blurred in ways he couldn’t yet fathom.

Interestingly, James realized, he’d never actually laid eyes on Thulsa Doom himself. His experience had been limited to the grueling labor at the Wheel of Pain, a fate that had shaped his body but left him ignorant of the wider machinations of the cult.

His family was planning a trip into town, and James felt a mix of anticipation and apprehension at the prospect.

As he contemplated the upcoming excursion, James couldn’t help but reflect on the duality of his existence. In many ways, he was still that 83-year-old scholar, his mind filled with knowledge and experiences from a world that now seemed like a distant dream. Yet his body was that of a young man in his prime, honed by years of punishing labor into a weapon of flesh and bone.

This dichotomy presented both challenges and opportunities. His mature mind allowed him to approach situations with a wisdom beyond his apparent years, while his youthful body gave him the strength and stamina to act on his decisions. It was an advantage he intended to leverage carefully as he navigated this strange new world.

The upcoming trip to town would be his first real test. James knew he would need to be cautious, balancing his curiosity and desire for knowledge against the need for discretion. He couldn’t afford to draw too much attention to himself or his unusual background.

At the same time, he saw the excursion as a chance to gather crucial information. Perhaps he could find books or scrolls that might shed light on the nature of this world’s gods and cults. Maybe he could eavesdrop on conversations in the marketplace, gleaning bits of news and rumors that could help him understand the political landscape.