AN: Its a new Chapter 4. i did not like the Last Chapter much so here is the new one. Some feedback wich one is better would be nice :-)
I woke into humiliation.
Not the fleeting kind. Not the kind soothed by a joke. Not even the kind you could pretend didn't happen. No—this was the deep, sustained, all‑consuming humiliation of being a fully conscious adult mind trapped in a newborn body that absolutely refused to cooperate.
From the moment I opened my eyes on that first day—only to be blasted by a brain‑melting supernova—the world made one thing very clear: I was not in charge.
The soft hands lifted me again, warm and gentle, guiding me toward skin and warmth. Instinct betrayed me instantly, pulling me into that wretchedly embarrassing cycle of feeding. My adult mind screamed, raged, begged reality to stop—but my baby body latched on anyway.
"Fantastic," I thought internally. "Truly the height of dignity."
The soft hands shifted me upright, patting my back until I burped like a malfunctioning pressure valve. Then I was lowered onto soft bedding again, swaddled like an overly pampered burrito.
If humiliation had levels, I had already unlocked prestige mode.
And things only got worse each time I tried to see.
Because the moment my eyelids cracked open—just barely, just enough to let in a sliver—the world erupted into a blinding, violent, white explosion.
Not light. Not brightness. Not even the kind of flash you get from staring at the sun.
It felt like someone had replaced my eyes with industrial‑grade floodlights pointed inward, set to maximum intensity.
A fifty‑thousand‑watt beam aimed directly into the center of my consciousness.
I slammed my eyes shut every time, shaking in my tiny body.
"Why?! Why is seeing illegal now?!" I shouted in my mind, but the universe, rude as always, refused to answer.
So I lived in darkness.
Days blurred. Nights drifted. My world narrowed to warmth, hunger, discomfort, and the constant presence of voices.
People moved around me. Sliding doors whispered. Tatami mats muffled footsteps. The house was always alive with distant motion.
And the language—oh, the language.
Japanese.
The cadence, the familiarity of the vowels, the softness of the consonants—it was unmistakable. Even in my fog‑soaked newborn consciousness, I could pick out fragments.
"Daijoubu." "Koko." "Chotto."
A comforting reminder of my old world—yet utterly useless.
Aside from those tiny islands of comprehension, everything else washed over me in a soothing, unintelligible tide.
Names drifted around me like floating petals.
Hikari. Hizashi. Hinata.
They repeated often, but I couldn't attach them to faces or meanings. Sometimes they came with soft laughter, sometimes with stern murmurs, sometimes with rustling fabric.
I didn't know who was who.
I didn't even know if one of those names belonged to me.
All I knew was that this was a Japanese household, full of life, structure, and routine.
And I was one tiny, helpless cog in its daily rhythm.
By the second month, the attempts to open my eyes had become routine. A grim ritual.
Wake. Brace. Crack eyelids. Be obliterated by unimaginable brightness. Regret my life choices. Sleep.
Each failure was met with the same internal meltdown.
"WHY IS THIS STILL HAPPENING?!" I screamed silently as my vision dissolved into agony. "Can't a baby get two minutes of functional eyeballs?!"
But even as I raged, something gnawed at me.
This wasn't normal newborn weakness.
This was something else.
Something wrong.
Or something different.
Whenever I opened my eyes, I felt—not saw, felt—a surge of something powerful, something impossibly intense, that made my entire system short‑circuit.
It wasn't light. It wasn't color. It was information.
As if the entire world were trying to download itself directly into my undercooked baby neurons.
There was no way my brain could keep up.
So it didn't.
It shut down the moment the overload began.
Then came the third month.
I will never forget the morning everything changed.
I woke groggy but determined. I had slept well. My belly was warm. My limbs didn't feel like damp noodles.
"Okay," I thought inwardly, "let's try again. Slowly this time."
I inhaled. I braced. I opened my eyes—
—and then froze.
Because before the brightness hit, I felt something else.
A warmth. A hum. A subtle current rising from my belly, threading through my entire body.
The moment it reached my eyes, the explosion came.
But this time, I had sensed the precursor.
When the pain faded and exhaustion tugged me under, I clung to the memory of that hum.
And once I noticed it, I couldn't stop noticing it.
It flowed through me constantly. Not like blood. Not like breath. But like… energy.
Always moving. Always circulating.
And my belly—my tiny, useless baby belly—was the reservoir.
Whenever I opened my eyes, that reservoir emptied in seconds.
"Oh my god," I thought internally, "my eyeballs run on fuel. I have premium eyesight. That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard."
But also the most fascinating.
So I focused inward.
I followed the flow. I mapped its paths. I counted its pulses. I felt it drift through my limbs, gentle here, strong there.
Some routes were delicate, like thin threads. Others felt like powerful streams.
And then—one afternoon—I pushed.
Not physically. Mentally.
I pressed against one of the weaker flows.
It slowed.
Very slightly. Barely a nudge. But undeniably.
I froze.
"Wait… did I just…?"
I tried again. The flow slowed once more.
A thrill exploded through me.
"I can control it!" I thought. "I can actually control it!"
Months of boredom evaporated in an instant.
Finally—FINALLY—something I could do.
Naturally, I ruined it almost immediately.
With the desperation of a person starved for stimulation, I dove into experimentation. I nudged flows. I poked at channels. I tried redirecting currents.
Until I made the mistake.
The big one.
I pushed against a strong flow—something I had no business touching.
The energy snapped back violently, flooding my tiny body with raw, white‑hot pain.
I seized. My breath hitched. My limbs locked. My mind shattered under the intensity.
It was the worst pain I had ever experienced. Yes—worse than death.
When I finally collapsed inward, trembling, I thought weakly:
"Okay. Noted. Do not poke the nuclear reactors."
After that, I stuck with the small flows.
I soothed them. I shaped them. I quieted them.
And slowly—oh so painfully slowly—I improved.
By the fifth month, the energy didn't feel foreign anymore.
It felt like a limb. A sense. A part of me.
I could dampen the flow in my arms. Soften it in my legs. Reduce it in my chest.
Each tiny success filled me with absurd pride.
"Yes! Take THAT, physics!" I crowed silently after one particularly smooth adjustment. "Look at me, controlling my weird internal sparkles! I am unstoppable!"
I absolutely was stoppable. Frequently. By naps. But that wasn't the point.
The point was growth.
Real growth.
And then came the sixth month.
For weeks, I worked tirelessly on the flows behind my eyes.
They were fierce currents—tiny but incredibly intense. Even touching them made the energy surge.
But I kept practicing.
Slowing. Nudging. Softening.
Until finally—finally—I could temper the flow. Not stop it. Not redirect it. But soften it.
Just enough.
So one quiet morning, half a year into this absurd new life, I laid still and inhaled.
"Okay," I thought to myself. "One more test. No explosions today, please. I'd like to keep my brain un‑scorched."
I nudged the energy behind my eyes. Soft. Gentle. Precise.
My heart hammered. My tiny fingers curled.
I opened my eyes.
And for the first time since my birth—
I did not face a fifty‑million‑watt cataclysm.