Chapter 76
Written by Bayzo Albion
> System: Reincarnation complete.
> System: Your new body is that of an infant.
> System: Difficulty Level: Maximum / Hardcore.
> Warning: This life will show you no mercy.
> Hint: You have been born into a royal family. You are the youngest heir to an ancient and powerful lineage.
Hidden Parameter: Threat to your existence – High.
Everything exploded in a blinding flash of light, and I tumbled into reality with a piercing wail—the first cry of a newborn life.
A sharp pain seized my chest, my tiny lungs gasping desperately for air. The sound tore through the silence: raw, desperate, the helpless scream of an infant.
I was choking, minuscule, naked, utterly defenseless—just like every soul dragged into this world.
Warm but trembling hands scooped me up. A woman's voice reached me, laced with the metallic tang of sweat and blood. A face I didn't recognize loomed over me, her eyes devoid of warmth, filled instead with a mix of anxiety and outright horror.
"He... he survived?" she whispered, as if the words themselves were a betrayal. "This child... survived? It would have been kinder if he'd died at birth..."
A chill shadow slithered over my fragile form. I cried louder—not out of choice, but because my body demanded it, a primal protest against this unforgiving world. That wail was my only weapon, my sole shield against whatever lay ahead.
But deep inside, my mind remained calm, unyielding. I wasn't truly a child anymore. I remembered who I was. I knew far more than they could ever imagine.
I tried to move—futile. My arms quivered, my legs jerked in feeble spasms, but it was all just instinctual twitching. This body belonged to a newborn, and it refused to obey. Only my consciousness stood as my fortress.
*Maximum difficulty, huh?* I thought bitterly, a wry smile forming in my mind. *Not even a minute in, and they're already wishing me dead. This is going to be one hell of a ride.*
"Maybe we should just... end it," came a man's voice, dull and detached, like he was discussing discarding a broken tool rather than a living being. There was no rage, no pity—just weary indifference. "He won't survive in this world anyway. Too weak. And weakness only breeds suffering."
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the woman's faint, stifled sob.
"Look at him, clinging to life..." she murmured, her voice trembling like a fragile thread on the verge of snapping. "This is my fault. He came out so frail, so helpless... I knew I shouldn't have gone into that battle. I gave too much... and now he's paying the price."
She pulled me close to her chest. Her body shook—with exhaustion, guilt, or fear, I couldn't tell. But her heart thundered against me, fierce and protective, as if it alone could ward off the dangers closing in.
"And yet, he's alive," she said, a spark of defiance creeping into her tone, like steel emerging from beneath soft silk. "That means fate hasn't written him off just yet."
"Fate?" The man snorted, his voice laced with icy skepticism. "Don't fool yourself. This child is a burden. You're only keeping him because guilt is eating you alive."
The woman lifted her head, and her voice transformed. Gone was the vulnerability, the hesitation. It became cold, commanding, honed like a blade forged in fire.
"He will live."
It wasn't a plea—it was a decree. Not just a mother's whisper, but the unyielding command of a queen.
The man hesitated, a flicker of suppressed anger hanging in the air like storm clouds. Finally, he relented.
"Don't regret this choice, Jeanne."
His heavy footsteps receded, the door creaking on its hinges before slamming shut. Silence enveloped us. He was gone. Only she remained.
I couldn't make out their faces—everything blurred, like peering through murky water. But her voice etched itself into my memory, impossible to erase.
She sat there for what felt like an eternity, holding me tight. Her breathing steadied, though her heart still raced. She brushed her palm across my tiny face, as if reassuring herself: *He's real. He's alive. He deserves a chance.*
The door creaked open again. A handful of servants slipped in, their movements cautious, eyes darting nervously. They'd overheard everything, and the weight of that knowledge hung heavy in the room.
"My lady..." the eldest began, his face weathered and gray, etched with lines of quiet fatigue. "What should we do?"
She looked up, a remnant of maternal softness in her eyes, now overlaid with regal steel.
"No one must know he survived," she said softly but firmly. "I'm not asking you to lie for me. I'm asking you to buy him time."
The servants froze. There was no threat in her words—just a plea infused with unbreakable resolve. And that, more than any order, bound them.
"Sooner or later, the truth will come out," she continued. "But while it's hidden, my son has a fighting chance. If he's truly weak... the world will claim him. But if there's strength in him—time will forge it."
She met each of their gazes, sealing an unspoken vow.
"I know your loyalty runs deep. Not to the queen, but to the woman who entrusts you with her most precious treasure."
The elder servant bowed his head, the others following suit. Their silence wasn't submission—it was solidarity. They chose this.
"We'll guard this secret, my lady," he said. "As long as we draw breath."
She nodded, a faint smile ghosting her lips for the first time.
"Thank you. You've given him more than I could ask. You've given him time."
She drew me close again, and in that moment, I sensed an invisible oath forming—not just from her, but from these humble souls: to shield my life until fate decreed otherwise.
Lowering her eyes to me once more, her fingers grazed my cheek. There was no maternal tenderness in the touch—it was cool, calculated, the caress of a woman accustomed to shaping destinies, not indulging in weakness.
"You're so quiet," she whispered, her voice like the whisper of sharpened steel. "Calm, despite your fragile body... as if something burns inside you that I can't quite see."
She held me to her breast with care. I heard her heart—steady, unyielding, not a single tremor. It was the rhythm of a survivor, a queen who pressed on through death itself, refusing to falter.
"You endured where others would have broken," she murmured, almost afraid the walls might overhear her vulnerability. "Maybe that's your true strength..."
Her fingers brushed my lips, and she guided me to nurse. Warm milk touched my mouth, and my body, despite my adult awareness, surrendered to instinct. She watched from above, and for the first time, a glimmer of pride flickered in her eyes.
"I'll give you a name," she declared. "One heavy as fate itself."
She paused, as if testing whether I could bear its weight.
"You shall be Balthazar."
The name rang out like both a sentence and a benediction. It carried more than mere sound—it sealed a foreign will within me, yet granted power in return.
"Balthazar..." she repeated, her lips trembling slightly. "Let this name be your shield and your trial."
I lay still in her arms, absorbing the whisper. Deep down, I understood: from this instant, my life was no longer random chance. It had become a saga I must endure to its bitter end—no matter the cost.
– – –
Being an infant wasn't boring. Far from it—in this peculiar state of utter helplessness and serenity, I discovered an odd, almost addictive pleasure. The soft cradle enveloped me like eternal clouds, warm and lulling. Nourishment arrived without effort, precisely when needed. Days blurred into a slow, viscous haze, like one endless, comforting dream free from fear or obligation.
I spent most of my time asleep. When I awoke, care awaited me. The world simplified to its essence: sleep, feed, sleep. In this cycle, devoid of pain, I sometimes caught myself thinking that infancy wasn't a curse, but a rare respite from the chaos of existence.
A young woman tended to me—a near-ethereal presence. She materialized silently and vanished just as quietly, a shadow that cast no light. Wordless, impassive, she never uttered a sound. She simply sat by my side, as if her mere existence warded off harm. I didn't know her identity, but I felt it: her silence held more weight than a torrent of words.
When I turned three months old, my vision finally sharpened. And that was when I truly saw my mother for the first time, as if awakening from a fog.