James opened his eyes to darkness.
Not the kind that came with fear or confusion, but the muted dimness of a room lit only by a dying candle. Sounds reached him slowly—muffled voices, the crackle of a small hearth, the soft rustle of cloth. His vision was blurred, as though the world had been painted with water and left to dry.
He tried to move, only to realize his limbs were small… weak… uncoordinated.
Again, a voice whispered—but not aloud. It spoke from somewhere deeper, lodged in thought rather than sound.
Initialization complete. Cognitive template restored.
Neural synchronization: 7%. Sensory recalibration ongoing.
James didn't startle. He didn't panic. He simply remembered.
He had died once before—older, sharper, living in a world of screens and circuitry, not swords and titles. His last memory had been cold metal and a blinding impact. And then, silence.
Now he was… here.
Wrapped in cloth. Lying in what felt like a cradle. A child again.
Footsteps approached. A heavy gait, followed by the creak of old hinges.
"Is the child awake?" a gruff voice asked.
A woman answered, tired and uncertain. "Aye, my lord. He hasn't cried once since the birth."
James tilted his head slightly, vision clearing enough to make out shapes. A tall man stood at the foot of the cradle—a figure marked by weariness and calculation. His once-fine clothes were threadbare, and his hair had more grey than youth.
Baron Alistair Reed.
James didn't know how he knew the name—but as the man's features became clearer, the AI in his mind quietly assembled fragments of language and memory from the newborn brain around him.
House Reed. A lesser noble family of Avalon. Landowning but fading. Influence dwindling. Reputation brittle.
The man looked at James with no warmth, no recognition—only obligation.
"And the mother?" the baron asked curtly.
The woman, a maid by her clothing, hesitated. "She won't recover, my lord."
The baron's expression barely shifted. "Deal with it. The boy will be raised in the servants' wing. I'll acknowledge him only if necessary."
He left before James could form even the illusion of expression.
Silence returned.
Observation: paternal acknowledgment nominal, emotional investment: negligible. Socio-political status: illegitimate offspring.
Projected upbringing: low-resource, low-support. Advantage: autonomy potential.
James didn't understand everything the AI relayed—not yet—but he grasped enough.
He had been reborn into nobility, but not privilege.
The maid leaned over him then, her face lined with exhaustion but softened with reluctant empathy.
"You're not the first bastard he's sired," she murmured. "But maybe you'll be luckier than the others."
She didn't sound like she believed it.
James didn't cry. He didn't coo. He only watched her leave, mind steady and unnaturally aware for an infant.
The room quieted again.
Skill acquisition pathways accessible. Neural plasticity: optimal. Directive: adapt early.
Awaiting user intent.
James closed his eyes to the world—and opened them inward.
This life would not be squandered.
Not in a house crumbling under neglect.
Not as a name whispered in scandal.
And certainly not beneath the shadow of a baron who wished him forgotten.