His bookshelves were tall and spacious, packed with old tomes and worn manuscripts that lined the walls like the ribs of a great wooden beast. There were no gaps, no dust, no signs of neglect. The man might live like a hermit, but his books were sacred.
Since I had come to this world, I'd sought something anything that could entertain my mind. For almost a year, my days had been a loop of sleep, the market, home, and more sleep. Even with the warmth of my family, the lack of stimulation was dulling. In my previous life, I at least had conversations coworkers, the homeless, strangers with stories to share. Their tales passed the time and colored the gray of my routine.
Here, I was mute. Trapped in a baby's body with an adult's mind, able to understand, to absorb but unable to respond. Listening had grown repetitive. Predictable.
So when I saw those shelves those towering towers of potential stories I wriggled out of the man's arms without hesitation. His grip was warm but loose, far less practiced than Mother's. She held me like someone used to the constant threat of chaos; he held me like an old man trying not to break porcelain.
I slid onto the thick rug with a soft thump and made a beeline for the nearest shelf, crawling with purpose.
"What the how?" he muttered, blinking. "How did you escape that easily?"
Panic or perhaps fascination took hold. He reached for me, stooping down with surprising speed, trying to snag me before I could reach the books. But I was faster. Or maybe just smaller and more unpredictable. He reached again, lunged and tripped.
With a thud, he landed flat on his backside, groaning as the impact rattled through his bones.
I paused and looked back at him with what I imagined was a perfectly neutral baby expression.
He stared at me in disbelief, still sitting on the floor. "You're not normal," he mumbled. "I knew it. You've got a spirit in you… or something else."
I turned back to the shelves, reaching toward the lowest row of books. The leather bindings were cracked, the gold lettering long since faded, but I could smell the age on them the dry musk of paper and ink steeped in time. I couldn't read yet, not in this world's language, but the longing was there.
And maybe… maybe that man would teach me. Or maybe I would steal the knowledge while he wasn't looking.
Either way, I had found something precious.
And I wasn't going to let go of it.
The man, noticing I was struggling, crawled over beside me. His movements were slow and deliberate, each joint clearly aching with age. A faint scent of old dust and metal clung to him a strange contrast to the warm, book-scented air of the room.
Without warning, he plucked the book from my hands. I squirmed immediately, flailing tiny arms toward it in protest, fingers clawing at the air. But in one smooth motion, he lifted the book out of reach, his arm stretching far above my grasp.
A teasing smile danced on his lips as I bounced and twisted in frustration. My breath caught, a cry rising in my throat but no sound came. All I could do was leap in vain, a comical sight of effort and failure.
"You can't read, can you?" he asked, voice laced with curiosity more than judgment. His brow furrowed slightly. "Why would a baby who probably doesn't even know what a book is want to read one?" he muttered to himself.
With a faint chuckle, he reached down and picked me up again, settling me gently into his lap. He held the book open between us.
My eyes blurred briefly, a wave of incomprehension washing over me until I rubbed them, and suddenly, everything clicked. The markings on the page, once scribbles, began to form meaning. Language. Structure. Knowledge. It was like a light switched on in my head.
"This book is about cooking. Do you like cooking?" he asked, watching me closely.
I shook my head emphatically, already reaching toward the higher shelves. My interest lay elsewhere.
Cooking had never been my forte. Not in this life, nor the last.
Still amused, the man stood and approached the taller shelf. With surprising grace for someone of his years, he reached up and plucked a massive tome from the top row. It was heavy thick with worn leather, metal corners, and binding that suggested immense use.
He returned, setting it in front of us with reverence. A small smile curled across his face, the kind that hinted at years of pride and obsession. "This isn't just any book," he said softly. "This is my book of everything."
His voice grew quieter, more intense. "It took two hundred years. Two centuries of traveling to every corner of this world every culture, every creature, every plant, every piece of magic. This is it. My life's work."
I stared in awe, my eyes widening at the sight before me. It truly was a book of everything, its ancient leather binding worn smooth by countless touches, its pages thick with untold histories. He settled onto the plush armchair beside me, the scent of old paper and leather filling the air, then gently placed me between himself and the colossal tome. With a soft rustle, he opened it to the very first chapter, its title stark and commanding: "World…"
"The world we live in is named Almuh," he began, his voice a low rumble, tracing a finger across the page. My gaze followed, noting the curious detail: "with two;" the numeral 'two' was meticulously crossed out, and above it, a 'three' had been neatly inscribed. A faint smile touched his lips as he noticed my curiosity. "I thought there were only two continents when I first started writing the book," he confessed, a sheepish chuckle escaping him as he scratched his head. "It was only after countless hours of research and exploration, both within the realms of my imagination and through ancient texts, that I stumbled upon the undeniable evidence of the third."
He leaned back, his eyes distant, as if reliving those early discoveries. "Almuh is a land of stark contrasts and unending conflict. To the east lie the vast, sprawling grasslands, a verdant expanse tragically under the iron fist of the demon horde. Their armies, a seemingly endless tide of grotesque monstrosities, have swept over these lands, their sheer numbers overwhelming any organized resistance. For centuries, the people of Almuh have lived under this shadow, their hope flickering like a dying ember."
"Yet," he continued, his voice growing more serious, "a flicker of defiance remains. Every hundred years, or in times of dire need when the last hero falls, new champions are summoned into this world. They are not born of Almuh, but plucked from other realities, imbued with extraordinary destinies. These heroes are granted an arsenal of unique abilities: intricate skill trees that unlock devastating attacks, intuitive systems that guide their growth, leveling mechanics that transform them from novices to legends, and proficiencies in a myriad of weapons and magic. All of this is bestowed upon them to equip them for the monumental task of competing against the relentless hordes of demons and, ultimately, the formidable Demon Monarch himself."
He paused, a shadow passing over his face. "The Demon Monarch… his power has remained virtually unchallenged since the forty-fifth summoning. Oh, there have been valiant attempts, moments of fleeting triumph, but none have truly shaken his dominion. Yet, there was one who came close: a man named Damien. He was summoned as a hero during that fateful forty-fifth summoning, and he achieved what no other had before or since. He was able to injure the Demon Monarch, leaving him with that iconic, jagged scar on his forehead a permanent testament to Damien's audacity and strength. Though to date, no hero has successfully killed the Demon Monarch, the prophecies foretell that his reign will not last forever. One day, he will fall, and a new era will dawn upon Almuh."
He continued to ramble, flipping through pages as if lost in a world of his own making. Charts, maps, sketches of beasts, and symbols etched in archaic ink. From what I could tell, this world was one of borrowed wars and foreign champions. A generic fantasy land built on human desperation and otherworldly interference. Where the people who lived here refused to fight their own battles, summoning strangers to die for their salvation.
I was an adult, a man who had lived and loved and lost, now trapped in a baby's body, reincarnated. Not summoned, like some poor soul ripped from their life and forced to fight and die for strangers in a fantastical realm. No, I'd been given time, a full life, a new beginning, to become the man of her dreams. The man she would look at and see not just potential, but destiny.
Her. Always her. The reason I was here, in this impossibly small form, was to navigate a world of giant faces and muffled voices. I refuse to be the man I was. The man who made mistakes, who hesitated, who ultimately failed. That weakness, that vulnerability, would be purged. This new life was a crucible, forging a new self. I wouldn't die in this life, or the next, not until she saw me as the man she desired. The man who could be cool, calm, and collected would be ten times the man Tyler is without a shadow of doubt. My path was set, my purpose clear.