Time softens when you're small.
Days bleed into each other like watercolor on wet paper. Snow begins to melt at the forest's edge, and sunlight lingers longer each morning. My world shifts in subtle ways—light hitting the walls at different angles, birds chirping earlier, villagers' footsteps crunching less as slush replaces frost.
And though I'm still small, my body is no longer as helpless as it once was.
My mother places me on the thick blanket near the fire each morning now. She watches me constantly, but she gives me space—just enough room to explore the limits of my tiny limbs.
I test those limits eagerly.
My arms no longer collapse beneath me immediately. My head stays up more often than not. My legs kick with purpose, not confusion. Something inside me always wants to move—forward, upward, anywhere.
My mother kneels beside me with a smile soft enough to warm the whole house.
"Look at you," she murmurs. "You're getting stronger each day."
She coaxes me gently, patting the blanket just ahead of my reach.
"Come here."
As if I could truly obey. But the impulse to try flickers through me anyway.
I push with my arms, pull with my elbows, wiggle with a determination that feels too large for my small frame. My body lifts—not far, not cleanly, but enough to inch forward.
My mother gasps quietly.
"There you go… yes, there you go…"
Her voice fills me with warmth, a buoyant encouragement the System never offers but that drives me even more. My arm trembles, slips, then steadies.
A faint chime hums in my mind.
Daily Quest Added: Move Forward
Reward: +1 Speed
Of course.
I press harder, dragging my small body another inch. It's clumsy, awkward, slow.
But it's movement.
Daily Quest Completed
Speed +1
Reward: Minor Crawling Coordination Increase
My limbs feel more connected than before. More aligned. More mine.
My mother laughs and lifts me from the blanket, spinning me gently once.
"You're incredible," she whispers. "You really are."
The praise sinks into me deeper than it should. My heart tightens in a way I don't quite understand. This affection—constant, unwavering—is something I never experienced in my old life.
Here… I'm cherished.
It changes everything.
My father returns from outdoor work not long after—carrying the smell of snow, cold iron, and pine. He kicks off his boots at the door, shaking melted droplets from his sleeves.
"How did he do today?" he asks as he walks over.
My mother beams. "He moved on his own."
My father's eyebrows lift. "Already?"
She nods proudly. "He dragged himself forward. Just a little."
My father kneels beside me, eyes bright, grin wide. "That so, little warrior?"
I blink up at him.
He taps the blanket lightly. "Show me."
I try.
I push with my arms again—now more steady thanks to the System's subtle reward. My father watches with the focused intensity of someone witnessing a profound miracle.
When I inch forward even slightly, he laughs, a deep, heartfelt sound.
"Did you see that?" he says to my mother. "He's practically crawling!"
"Practically," she echoes with a soft laugh.
He scoops me up with careful hands and holds me high enough that I can see the rafters of the house. My stomach dips slightly from the motion, a new sensation that makes my eyes widen.
My father smiles at my reaction.
"You like that? You're going to love climbing someday."
My mother shoots him a look. "Not too soon."
My father winks at me conspiratorially. "Soon."
Her sigh is affectionate rather than annoyed.
Later, as the afternoon sun casts soft gold across the floor, my mother sits with me by the window. She holds me on her lap as she softly traces shapes on the frost-glazed glass with her fingertip.
"This is a circle," she whispers, drawing one slowly. "Can you see it?"
Of course I can.
But she doesn't expect understanding—she expects attention. And I give it gladly.
She draws a line through the circle.
"And this is the sun," she continues.
A soft warmth fills her voice when she looks down at me.
"You're growing into my little sun," she murmurs.
I stare up at her, mesmerized by how bright her smile is.
She traces another symbol—a shape like an evergreen tree.
"And this… this is the forest."
The shape sends a ripple of something deeper through me. Curiosity. Unease. Familiarity. I'm not sure.
My mother notices my reaction and runs her fingers gently through my hair.
"The forest is beautiful," she whispers. "But dangerous. You must never go alone."
A faint tremor runs through the ground beneath the house—so slight she doesn't notice. But I do. My senses are tuning more sharply every day. The forest… murmurs. Moves. Breathes.
My mother kisses my forehead, unaware of my thoughts.
"You'll see it more when you're older," she promises. "When you can walk. When your father can carry you further."
Walk.
That word stirs something inside me—an ambition beyond crawling, beyond speech.
Walking is freedom.
Walking means I'm no longer bound to a blanket or arms. Walking means I can explore. Learn. See the forest for myself.
My fingers twitch with anticipation.
My mother smiles.
"So eager," she teases. "You want to run before you stand."
She isn't wrong.
My father returns later with a small cloth bundle under his arm. When he unwraps it, I see a tiny wooden toy—roughly carved, shaped like a miniature wolf.
My mother raises a brow. "You carved him a wolf?"
"It's not sharp," he defends. "And it's just a toy. Something to focus on."
He offers it to me. The wood is smooth in some spots and uneven in others, clearly shaped by hand. My fingers curl around it instinctively.
My father grins.
"See? Good grip."
He sits next to me and gently helps me hold the toy upright.
"Wolves live near the forest," he explains in a voice meant for older children, not infants. "They're clever. Fast. You must respect them."
My mother steps behind him, leaning over his shoulder.
"Respect," she corrects. "Not mimic."
He smirks. "I'm not teaching him to hunt yet."
"Good."
Their banter flows around me like soft music. I study the wolf shape in my hands, memorizing every ridge.
Animals. Forest. Movement.
Pieces of the world begin to form a picture.
That evening, as the sky burns orange through the window, I sit propped against my mother's leg. She's sewing a patch into one of my father's shirts, and her humming vibrates softly beneath her breath.
I test my voice again.
"Ma—…"
Her needle freezes mid-stitch.
She turns to me slowly, eyes already filling with light.
"Yes?" she breathes.
I try another sound.
"Pa."
My father looks up from restringing his bow near the fire.
"Did he say—?"
"He did," my mother whispers.
I push a third sound, more forced.
"Wa…lk."
Both of them go still.
Not because the word was clear—it wasn't. It came out more like "wahk." But it carried intent. Structure.
My father kneels in front of me immediately.
"Say it again," he urges softly. "Go on."
I try. My tongue trembles as I shape the vowel.
"Wah…k."
My mother lifts a hand to her mouth.
"He wants to walk," she whispers, stunned.
My father laughs quietly. "Of course he does. He's been trying to crawl for weeks."
The pride in his eyes is unmistakable. He sits down beside me and braces his hands lightly near my sides.
"You'll walk when your legs are ready," he says. "When they're strong enough."
He taps my tiny knee gently.
"And I'll be right there when you take your first step."
My mother wraps her arms around us both.
"And I'll be crying," she adds with a smile.
He gives her a teasing look. "Crying already?"
"Shut up," she mutters affectionately.
Their laughter fills the room, warm and bright and whole.
I soak in every second, my small body pressed against them, my mind memorizing the feeling of family.
Every fiber of my being wants to grow.
For them.
And for the path waiting ahead.
The next morning brings a quiet stillness to the village. Snow has begun to melt in earnest, turning the paths into wet patches of mud and slush. The sunlight outside is brighter, clearer—an early promise of spring.
My mother spreads the thick blanket across the floor and places me on my stomach as usual. But today, something feels different.
My arms feel steadier.
My spine stronger.
My legs push, not just kick.
A soft hum from the System tells me I'm close to something new. Not yet a prompt, not yet a quest—just anticipation under my skin.
My mother kneels beside me, fingers lightly brushing my back.
"Let's see what you do today," she whispers.
I plant my palms flat against the blanket, trying to lift my upper body. My muscles tremble, but not as much as before. There's control. There's intent.
My father steps in from outside mid-movement, catching sight of me as he closes the door.
"Is he…?" he begins.
My mother nods quickly. "Watch."
I push again. My hips lift too, awkwardly, creating a tiny bridge of shaky limbs. For a moment, I hover—suspended between falling forward and collapsing backward.
My father crouches instantly, hands hovering close but not touching.
"You can do it," he encourages softly. "Come on."
My arms wobble again, then—
—straighten, only slightly, but enough.
I hold myself up for just one second.
Just one.
Then gravity wins, and I collapse gently back onto the blanket. My breath hitches in surprise, though my lungs are too small to pant.
My mother laughs with delight. "He's trying to stand on all fours!"
My father beams. "Soon he'll be climbing furniture."
"No, he will not," she snaps playfully, swatting his arm.
But pride softens her voice.
I push again.
A faint message appears behind my eyes.
Daily Quest Added: Lift Body
Reward: +1 Strength
I attempt the movement once more, this time reaching the peak faster. The system guides subtle micro-movements, aligning joints and adjusting balance.
Daily Quest Completed
Strength +1
Reward: Minor Core Stability Increase
My posture feels different. More capable.
My father laughs, almost incredulous. "He's going to walk before he crawls at this rate."
My mother shakes her head. "No. No walking yet."
Her voice carries the weight of love sharpened by fear.
"Not until he's ready."
That afternoon, my father decides to take me outside again—this time not against his chest, but carried in his arms as he walks slowly through the village. The cold bites only faintly now, softened by approaching spring.
Villagers wave as we pass.
"Look at him," an old woman says with a smile. "Those eyes—blessed child."
"Growing nicely," another villager remarks.
"Already holding his head so steady!"
My father smiles at each comment, puffing up with quiet pride. "He's strong," he repeats often. "Stronger than he looks."
He stops by the fence near the Monster Forest again, angling me so I can see it better.
The massive trees cast deep shadows. Birds circle high above the canopy. A cold breeze slips out from between the trunks, carrying the echo of something distant.
A rumble.
Small, barely there—but real.
I stiffen.
My father does too.
His eyes narrow as he scans the treeline. "There it is again…"
Another sound follows, this one a hollow boom, muted by distance.
My father adjusts his grip on me. "Monsters moving," he mutters. "Deeper than usual."
A few hunters nearby pause their work, glancing toward the trees with unease.
"Did you hear that?" one asks.
"Yeah," another replies. "Haven't heard something that big in weeks."
"Should we report it to the Guild?"
"Already did."
My father looks down at me, voice soft but steady. "Don't worry. We're not going near it."
But there's something else in his eyes.
Something tight.
Something protective.
Something afraid.
He takes a step back from the forest.
A twig snaps deep in the woods.
He steps back again.
Then he turns and carries me home faster than usual.
My mother is waiting by the door when we return, worry etched across her face. She grabs my father's arm the moment he steps inside.
"I heard it," she says. "The trees… something shook."
My father nods grimly. "He felt it too."
Her eyes dart to me. "Are you all right, my little one?"
I blink, reaching toward her. She takes me from my father instantly, clutching me close.
"You shouldn't take him near the forest anymore," she says, voice firm.
My father hesitates. "It's important for him to see the village."
"But not the forest," she insists. "Not with those sounds."
My father folds his arms, jaw tight. "We don't know what it is."
"Exactly," she says, eyes sharp. "And I don't want it anywhere near my son."
Her voice trembles on the last word, just barely.
My father's shoulders soften. He takes her free hand.
"All right," he murmurs. "No more near the forest."
She lets out a breath she'd been holding, pulling me even closer.
"It's too dangerous," she whispers to me. "Too unpredictable."
Her heart beats fast.
I rest my head against her chest.
Her warmth washes away the echo of the forest sound.
But deep inside, something remains.
Curiosity.
Recognition.
A spark.
One day, I will go there.
Not now.
Not soon.
But one day.
Because somewhere in that forest—in the future still far off—Rimuru will arrive.
And my life will shift again.
The next day, the house is filled with the soft rhythms of domestic life. My mother cooking stew. My father repairing a broken window latch. The crackling fire. The quiet hum of early spring rain tapping on the roof.
My mother sets me near her feet as she works, occasionally brushing my hair or letting me squeeze her finger.
"You're safest here," she murmurs. "Where I can see you."
My father glances over from the window. "He'll still grow strong."
"I know," she replies gently. "But strength can wait."
Her voice holds a fearful tenderness I've only heard a few times—when the forest groans, when my father returns late, when she thinks danger might come too close.
She covers my small hand with hers.
"You're my heart," she whispers. "I won't lose you."
Her words hit something deep inside me. In my first life, no one ever spoke to me like this. No one ever held me like this. No one ever worried this way.
This love is foreign.
And overwhelming.
And addicting.
It fuels me more than the System ever could.
Later that evening, while my mother stirs stew and the fire spreads a soft glow across the room, I attempt something new.
I roll onto my stomach.
Then push with my arms.
Then—I pull a knee up beneath me.
My mother gasps. "Vereen! Come look!"
My father drops his tools immediately and rushes over.
"What—?"
He sees me lifting myself higher than ever before—arms straightening, knees tucked, body wobbling precariously.
"He's trying to stand on all fours again," my mother whispers excitedly.
My father kneels, eyes wide. "Go on. Come on, little warrior."
I lift.
Higher.
Higher—
My hand slips.
But my father catches me before I fall, scooping me into his secure arms.
"You almost did it," he laughs. "Almost."
My mother hugs me tightly. "Don't fall," she murmurs. "Please don't fall…"
A soft chime sounds in my mind.
Strength +1
Speed +1
Reward: Minor Balance Coordination Increase
My limbs feel more connected. The next attempt will be easier.
My father kisses my forehead. "You'll crawl soon."
My mother kisses my cheek. "And I'll be right here."
Their warmth presses around me like a cocoon.
Even with danger lurking beyond the village, even with the forest stirring, this small home feels unbreakable.
For now.
That night, as the fire burns low and shadows ripple across the ceiling, I lie awake in my cradle listening to my parents breathe in their sleep.
My mother's hand rests on the cradle's edge.
My father sleeps close with an arm flung protectively toward us both.
Their closeness anchors me.
The System hums faintly.
The forest groans distantly.
The world shifts slowly toward change.
But in this moment, in this tiny house with warmth and love, I feel something I never had before:
A future worth protecting.
I whisper one soft word, practiced many times in daylight.
"Ma…"
A second follows.
"Pa…"
Then I close my eyes.
Tomorrow I will push myself again.
Tomorrow I will grow again.
Tomorrow I will inch closer toward the forest, toward Rimuru, toward destiny.
But tonight…
I sleep in the safety of love.