They say toddlers shouldn't play with fire.
And to be fair, I wasn't trying to start one.
It just kind of… happened.
It started with a hoe.
Not the scandalous kind—the farming kind.
My father's old iron hoe had been cracking for weeks. Every time he went out to till the dry soil, I heard it creak like a dying animal. Our tools were passed down like heirlooms, patched together with wire and prayer. Buying a new one meant using grain money, and no one in the village wanted to explain to the tax collector why they were two sacks short.
So the adults did what adults always do.
They made do.
But that hoe finally broke during the morning labor rounds. Snapped clean in two like dry bark.
"Damn it," my father muttered, holding the broken shaft. He didn't curse often. So when he did, it meant something was very wrong.
I watched him from the doorway, barefoot and pretending to play with a lump of dry clay.
"That's the last one," said one of the other farmhands. "Can't till this week's field like that."
"You think Felmar'll give us a new one?" another asked.
"No. But if we fix it and it breaks again during the harvest... that's worse."
The men argued for a bit. Then it was decided: they'd barter for a new tool from a neighboring village.
That could take days.
I watched them carry the broken iron head and shattered handle into the shed, leaving it there like a broken limb.
That night, after everyone was asleep, I snuck into the shed.
Quiet as a toddler could be.
Which, to be clear, is not very quiet.
I stepped on a rake and nearly died of shame.
But no one woke up, and I finally got to the broken hoe. The iron was rusted, rough, and still smelled faintly of sweat and soil.
I touched the metal.
The system responded.
[Material: Iron – Worn]
[Mana Affinity: Weak – Strength, Stability]
[Absorb? Y/N]
"Yes," I whispered.
The iron vanished into sparks. I winced. My fingers stung.
[Stored Material: Iron (x1)]
[Essence Capacity: 2/20]
[New Option Unlocked: Craft – Simple Tool]
Another flicker.
[Craft?]
[Input: Ashwood (x1) + Iron (x1)]
[Result: Reinforced Hoe – Crude]
[Y/N]
I hesitated.
If I used both of my stored materials… I'd have nothing left. And no idea how long it would take to absorb more.
But if I could fix it…
I pressed "Yes."
The air buzzed faintly. My hands moved, not entirely on their own—but guided, like muscle memory I didn't know I had. Like building from instinct. Or blueprints written on the inside of my skull.
Light shimmered.
The iron reshaped itself—slow, rough, imperfect. The ashwood bent into a handle, fitted to the joint. It didn't look pretty. But it looked usable.
I'd made it.
A real tool.
My first in this world.
The next morning, I left it by the door to the shed and said nothing.
Later that day, I heard my father call out.
"Who fixed this?"
No one answered. I didn't either.
He stared at it for a long time. Then tested the weight. Swung it once. Twice.
"…Good balance," he muttered.
The other men nodded, impressed. They assumed it was someone from the village being generous. A quiet benefactor. A rare thing.
No one suspected the weird toddler chewing on dry oats.
But of course, good fortune never goes unnoticed.
That's when the other problem started.
His name was Rett. Older than me by about two years, which made him ancient in toddler terms. The kind of kid who kicked chickens for fun and threw mud just to watch it stick.
He caught me the next day fiddling with a broken rake handle behind the shed.
"Hey! You're the weirdo who stares at tools."
I blinked.
He squinted.
"You're dumb, right? You didn't talk for a long time. My mom said you probably ate dirt."
"No," I said, blandly.
That didn't deter him.
Rett grabbed the handle from me and tossed it into a pile of manure.
"There. Now it's broken worse."
I didn't hit him.
But its the first time i've ever considered spanking a child.
That night, I crafted again.
If I was going to survive in this world—serf or not—I needed more than hands and sarcasm.
I needed tools.
And I was going to build them myself.
One scrap at a time.