After finishing the last bite, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up, feeling… surprisingly good. No aches that screamed "you're five now, idiot," no dizziness, nothing except a lingering awareness that my body had survived a slaughter yesterday that should have killed me twice over. Honestly, I didn't even register my own miracle. Or maybe I did, deep down, and was just too distracted by everything else to give a shit.
I blinked, slowly taking in Roosevelt. Tall, commanding in a way that reminded me more of a general than a maid. Even with my five-year-old body, I could tell her posture screamed experience, precision, and the kind of calm that makes people pause. And, well… the rest of her screamed everything else. Her chest… my head was right in its line of sight, and I had to fight every impulse not to crane my neck like a complete moron. It was physically impossible to miss, and my brain went "yes, very much inappropriate" before I slapped myself internally.
"Something wrong?" she asked, and I realized I had been staring. Dazed, like a damn idiot. I shook my head and forced a smirk, trying to pretend I wasn't internally calculating angles and physics in a way I'd never admit aloud.
"Ahem," she said, clearing her throat, and I snapped back. "Forgive me, no. Not at all." Her tone was stone-cold, but her eyes flickered—curiosity, maybe surprise. "Now, since you are finished eating your food, may I ask what supplements you might need, so I can properly cater to your… diet?"
I scratched my head. Supplements? Diet? Ah, right. Rules. Limits. Even in this insane world, I couldn't just demand steak and fried chicken like I was at a festival. "You're only here in charge of my food and commodities, right?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied evenly, no hesitation. That was… actually comforting in a weird way. At least someone here had structure, rules, boundaries. Even if I was in the body of a five-year-old.
So I paused. Thought about my needs carefully—well, as carefully as a chaotic brain like mine can when stuck in a child's body. "Hmmm… a lot of meat. Pork, chicken, anything that's roasted or boiled in oil, with spices if you can. Green supplements… juice. Maybe something like… moringa with ginger?"
She tilted her head, her expression unchanged, but her eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean deep-fried meat, roasted, alongside the miracle elixir containing various vegetables?" Her tone was flat, precise. No emotion, but her precision gave away that she knew what she was doing.
I choked on my own surprise. "Yes! Yes, that's it. And chili, give me chili too." My stomach growled just thinking about it, even though I'd just eaten like a champ.
"Understood," she said, finally allowing her gaze to linger for a brief moment—just long enough for me to catch it. Curiosity? Shock? Something else? Hard to tell. She walked away with that smooth, controlled motion that screamed experience and competence, her uniform barely whispering against the polished floor.
I turned back to my training room, muscles twitching from anticipation. My mind kept flicking back to her—ugh, focus, Mike, focus. Did my arms look bigger? Did my legs gain a fraction more endurance? Did the extra protein and miracle elixir already start working its magic? Yeah, probably. Survival instinct doesn't just keep you alive—it upgrades you whenever it can.
---
She paused as she passed a window overlooking the grounds below. The arena? No, not just the arena—the chaos of yesterday lingered in her memory, blood stains still visible through the haze of training smoke and dust. And yet, the child had survived. Thrived. Somehow, even in a body far too small, he'd outmaneuvered men twice his size, wielded weapons with unnatural instinct, and come out alive. That kind of presence… Roosevelt didn't know whether to be impressed or cautious.
Her mind flicked forward to her mistress, the Lady in Veil. The red-gold door looming at the end of the hall called her like an anchor. She knew she was expected, and so she moved with purposeful precision, the servant's grace she'd honed for years, until she found herself in front of the threshold.
A butler awaited, immaculately dressed, bowing with an almost robotic elegance. "Welcome back, Roosevelt. The lady is already waiting for you."
"Thank you," she said simply, sliding past him. Her heels clicked on the marble, a metronome of silent power. Every step was measured, every motion rehearsed yet natural. And then—finally—the door. Crimson, gold, insignia of a dragon clutching a crown and a blood-soaked sword, the kind of emblem that screamed wealth, danger, and history all at once. She pressed her palm to the door, fingers tracing the intricate carvings.
---
Inside, the Lady in Veil sat, a mystery draped in fabric and shadow. Her body—revealing, provocative, impossibly poised—was only partially obscured by the thin veil over her face. Every movement was deliberate, precise. Every motion screamed authority and intimidation.
"So… how was he, Roosevelt?" the Lady asked, her voice a velvety weapon, soft yet sharp.
Roosevelt bowed slightly, keeping her gaze steady. "He's… quite unique."
The Lady's head tilted, a subtle gesture that demanded more. "How so?"
"Despite being five years old—and small in stature—his choices, his requests… they are ordinary at first glance. But he understands the existence of the miracle elixir, even knowing little about the world beyond. He adapts. He survives. He thinks… differently."
The Lady tilted her head again, and though her face was largely hidden, her smile cut through the veil. "Oh… intriguing," she murmured. It was a slow, deliberate smile, the kind that made Roosevelt's stomach tighten. She had witnessed countless prodigies, warriors, and monsters, yet the fascination was unmistakable.
Roosevelt's mind briefly wandered to the boy's body. Tonality, endurance, and reflexes—already honed. He had survived a slaughter in the arena that would have ended most adults. And he'd done it in a child's body. That was unprecedented, and dangerous. She shivered slightly. Not from fear, but respect, calculation, anticipation.
The Lady's gaze drifted to Roosevelt, piercing beneath her veil. "Continue," she said softly.
"He is precise, disciplined. He respects rules, yet doesn't hesitate to push boundaries when necessary. A battle slave who can think beyond instinct—that is rare, my lady."
The Lady's eyes narrowed just slightly, as if weighing Roosevelt's words, spinning them in her mind like a blade on a whetstone. "Interesting… very interesting. Keep a close eye on him. I want to know every detail. Strengths, weaknesses… potential."
"Yes, my lady." Roosevelt bowed again, her mind a whirlwind of strategy, calculation, and curiosity about the boy.
---
Back in the training quarters, I paced and stretched, muscles humming with energy. The food and elixir had given me more than recovery—they'd sharpened reflexes, improved stamina, and kept the edge of panic manageable. Still, every fiber of me was alert. The training grounds were mine for now, and I would take advantage.
"Focus," I muttered aloud, smacking my forehead. My inner monologue screamed at me: "Seriously, Mike? Five-year-old body, apocalypse arena survivor, and now fancy food? Keep your head straight."
I grabbed a weighted stick and began shadowboxing, every swing precise, every movement calculated. Parkour across the room, leaping onto bars, rolling, flipping, and striking. I could feel the Spartan helmet weighing my head slightly, the shoulder pad digging into my spine—but it was a good kind of weight, one that screamed preparation for battle.
Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time didn't matter. My body adapted, pushed itself, and grew stronger. And as Roosevelt returned silently with new supplements, I barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of training, a predator sharpening claws even in a body that looked five.
She placed the tray down, her eyes flicking once toward me. Curiosity, calculation, and—unexpectedly—something unspoken danced across her gaze. She didn't interfere, just observed, ensuring his rituals, his training, remained uninterrupted.
And somewhere, in the Lady's chambers above, the wheels of intrigue spun faster. Observers, servants, and masters of strategy all noticed the anomaly: a child body, a seasoned mind, and a survivor who would not just endure—but perhaps dominate.
The game had begun in earnest. And I, Mike, was already playing with a hand stacked higher than anyone in that room could know.