No, this is not fine.
Sharath attempted to scream once more, but all that would escape was an outraged wail that made the nearest midwife almost drop him.
"Strong lungs!" someone shouted. "A fighter already!"
He blinked wildly, attempting to process the world around him. Away were the cluttered hum of machinery and the cold glow of lab lights. In their place, he basked in the golden radiance of firelight and breathed in the rich smell of lavender, soot, and blood. The walls were made of stone. The ceilings vaulted. The voices were all speaking a melodic, almost Sanskrit-like tongue—but not.
Okay, quick recap: lab meltdown, quantum arc explosion, and now I'm a… newborn?
He tried to move his arms, but they felt like wet noodles with arthritis. He flailed. Someone cooed. He flailed harder. Someone nearby cheered.
"I believe he just cast his first hex," said a voice with an exaggerated hush.
"No, that was definitely a poop," someone else replied solemnly.
Oh gods. I've gone from cybersecurity engineer to being the center of a medieval poop joke. Fantastic.
The voice of a woman cut through the chatter—tired, but strong and loving. "Let me hold him," she whispered.
Sharath felt himself lifted, turned gently, and placed into the warm embrace of Lady Ishvari Darsha.
His mother.
His new mother.
She looked exhausted, her long dark hair matted with sweat, her brow shining in the firelight. And yet, she was radiant. Her eyes were shimmering with tears—joy, not pain—as she looked down at him with an expression so full of wonder that Sharath's scientific skepticism briefly short-circuited.
"You're beautiful," she whispered. "My sweet son."
Her fingers brushed his cheek. Her skin was warm, trembling slightly.
This one's different," one of the elder midwives remarked. "He didn't simply cry. He screamed as if he understood something the rest of us did not."
Lady, you don't know the half of it.
A rough male voice came from the corner. "He'll be a warrior, then. Or a general. We Darshas are bred for strength.
The man took a step forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-gray eyes and a beard that seemed as if it would deflect arrows. Lord Varundar Darsha—his father. If genetics were any indicator in this world, Sharath prayed he at least inherited the beard.
"Observe his grasp," Lord Varundar whispered, holding out a finger. Instinctively—or maybe playfully—Sharath clasped it with all the tension his wee fingers could provide.
"Ha!" the lord chuckled. "Already attempting to disarm his foes!"
"Or attempting to pull off your wedding ring," Ishvari quipped dryly. "Apparently he does have a good eye for jewelry."
Sharath, still holding on to the finger, thought through this moment. Okay. Parents lovey. Not nasty. That's a positive sign. No one's demanding 'bring me the demon child' yet. So far, so livable.
The servants went back to cleaning the room, dusting over the leftovers of childbirth and preparing herbs and warm cloths. A young maid came close to his cradle and breathed softly.
"What now?" one of the midwives inquired.
"The cradle," she replied, gesturing.
They all turned. Sharath was carefully placed into the beautifully carved wooden bassinet. It seemed like a luxury heirloom at first glance—a noble family's crib. But then…
The carvings glowed.
Pale blue-white lines pulsed across the surface of the cradle. Symbols danced and wavered like living things—clearly not mere artistic embellishment. The glow beat in time with Sharath's heartbeat. One of the runes even realigned itself when he hiccuped.
There was silence in the room.
"…He powered up the cradle runes," the head midwife spoke slowly. "Alone."
A young maid leaned over and whispered, "My cousin's son never turned his on until he was six weeks old. And even then, it took two shamans and a goat."
Everyone looked to glare at Sharath.
He blinked.
And then produced a beautifully timed, smug-sounding coo.
The following morning, Sharath woke up in a cradle humming gently and with a subtle scent of cinnamon and cedarwood. Sunlight filtered in from a stained-glass window, casting weird geometric patterns on the walls of the nursery. A bird sang musically from a perch outside, but it sounded… autotuned?
Deep breath. You are Sharath Krishnamurthy. Age. um, zero. Former occupation: cyberdefense researcher. Current occupation: magical royal baby. Goals: stay alive, inquire, and definitely not look like a prodigy until you know the local policies on witch-burning.
He squirmed a little and rolled over his head. A girl in robes was cleaning the room and grumbling to herself.
"…too many herbs used in last night's stew… I warned her not to combine lavender with mandrake again… baby began radiating like a lantern…"
Sharath furrowed his brow. Mandrake? Glowing stew? I've been reborn into Hogwarts if they were managed by herbalists.
The maid looked over. "Awake once more, little master?" she asked softly. "Such wide eyes. As if you're observing everything.
Lady, if you had any idea how much I realize, you'd be getting me fitted for chains.
She leaned forward and touched one of the glowing cradle runes. Sharath immediately experienced a rush of warmth flow through him—spiritual comfort equivalent of being hugged into bed.
Okay, that's most definitely magic. Like biometric comfort charms or something. This is… amazing.
As the hours went by, Sharath found himself itemizing everything: phonemes for language (very Sanskrit-like, but with Norse intonations), room structure (stone walls, wooden ceiling with carved beams), and magical triggers (the runes on the cradle reacted to emotional peaks).
He attempted to test things experimentally.
When he screamed, a glowing gem in the corner slightly faded. When he smiled (or tried to), the air in the room slightly warmed.
Environmental reactive magic tied to infant mood? That's either advanced emotional tuning or some seriously paranoid parenting.
During one diaper change—an event that Sharath preferred not to think about—he tried humming the melody he'd heard from Lady Ishvari's lullaby the night before.
The changing table lit up with a pattern of glowing butterflies.
The maid screamed. "He's casting joy-spirits! The baby is blessing the chamber!"
Sharath blinked. Okay, that's a new one. Note to self: babies aren't supposed to have theme music. Dial it down.
The actual mayhem started a couple of days later.
It was time for the official Naming Ceremony, a tradition apparently riddled with ritual, mystery, astrology, and—surprisingly—gambling.
As Sharath rested on a silken pillow, he saw a few nobles and servants exchanging coins behind his mother's back.
"They're wagering on my name," he realized, amazed.
One weathered knight leaned in and whispered, "Twenty gold on 'Varundar Junior.'"
"Nah," growled a steward. "It'll be something flashy. 'Elithran the Radiant' or the like."
"Radiant?" another one said. "The baby sneezed on a rune circle yesterday and it burned itself up."
"I heard it sang back!"
"I heard it made his bathwater float."
"I heard it spoke in tongues."
I let a burp rip. Loudly. But sure, let's say tongues.
An old astrologer stepped out of the dark end of the hallway. His robes glimmered abnormally. A crystal humming on top adorned his staff. His beard was braided.
No way. It's the last boss of grandpas.
The astrologer came before Sharath with ritual seriousness. "Let the stars speak."
He drew out a lens constructed of some kind of opal and held it above Sharath's heart. The instant the light touched him, Sharath experienced as if someone had run his soul through an MRI machine constructed of fireworks.
Symbols exploded into the air—glyphs, colors, patterns that throbbed with memory and significance. One of them looked a lot like a Wi-Fi icon.
"Hmmm," the astrologer said. "This soul… it is not new."
Lady Ishvari gasped. Lord Varundar frowned.
The astrologer grinned. "But it is good. Strong. Full of potential and… riddles."
He swept his arms wide. "This child shall be named—Sharath Virayan Darsha!"
Pause. Then:
"Wait," a voice in the crowd said, "Didn't he say Sharath?"
"Isn't that. already his father's cousin's name?"
"Did we just lose the naming pool to coincidence?"
Sharath was too shocked to care.
My name is Sharath. Again. What are the chances?
The astrologer went on, "Sharath—he who sees beyond illusion. Virayan—carrier of light. Darsha—one who uncovers the hidden."
Oh, you have no idea how true that is.
With nobles clapping and wine pouring, Sharath reclined in his magically vibrating cradle, blinking up at drifting rune patterns.
He perceived something in the distance, beyond the walls of the estate, in the forest.
Something large. Lurking. Watching.
His pendant—freshly bestowed—glowed once with soft blue fire.
So I've got magic, mystery, medieval tech, a suspiciously familiar name, and something large prowling the treeline.
Welcome to your second life, Sharath. No pressure.