Location: The Greyrat Manor, Buena Village
Darkness.
Then, a sudden, rude intrusion of light. Cold air against skin that felt far too sensitive. The muffled sounds of screaming—wait, was that me? I tried to stop, to maintain some semblance of dignity, but my lungs were burning, and the scream tore out of me on instinct.
Great, I thought, the fog in my mind clearing with alarming speed. I'm crying. I'm naked. And I'm currently being manhandled by a giant.
My last memory was the subway station. The erratic movement of the gunman's shoulder—a twitch I should have reacted to faster—the distinct pop-hiss of a silenced pistol, and then the sensation of the floor rushing up to meet me. I had died. I was sure of it. I had felt the lights go out.
So, logically, this was the afterlife.
I forced my eyes open. They felt heavy, sticky, and uncoordinated. The world was a blur of brown and gold.
"It's a boy! Paul, it's a boy!"
The voice was high, exhausted, but laced with a warmth that made my chest ache.
"Two of them?" A male voice. Rougher. Deep, like gravel tumbling in a dryer. "Zenith, you… you're incredible."
Two?
My vision finally sharpened. The blur resolved into a wooden ceiling. Beams of rough-hewn timber, smelling of sap and old dust. Not a hospital. Not a morgue.
A face leaned over me.
She was beautiful. That was my first conscious thought in this new world. Blonde hair matted with sweat, blue eyes shimmering with tears, and a smile that could probably stop a war. She looked exhausted, pale, and utterly defeated by the physical act of birth, but there was a resilience in her that I sensed immediately.
Hello, Mother, I thought, trying to nod. My head lolled uselessly to the side. Right. Neck muscles non-existent. Note to self: Do neck bridges immediately.
"Look at him," the woman—Zenith—whispered. "He's so quiet. He's looking right at me."
"He looks grumpy," the man—Paul—said, leaning in.
I shifted my gaze to him.
Immediately, the hair on my tiny arms stood up.
I didn't analyze his posture. I didn't check his feet. I just felt it.
The air around this man tasted like iron. Like adrenaline and dried sweat. He smelled dangerous. Not evil, but volatile. Like a sword that had been sharpened too many times and was itching to cut something.
You, I thought, narrowing my eyes. You're a fighter. A reckless one, but a fighter.
Paul poked my cheek with a calloused finger. "He looks feisty. Look at that scowl. He looks like he wants to bite me."
If I had teeth, old man, I would, I thought. Don't poke the merchandise.
"Here," the midwife said. "Let him meet his brother."
Brother?
I was turned to the side. Lying next to me, wrapped in similar coarse cloth, was another potato-shaped human.
He was quiet, too. He wasn't crying.
Our eyes met.
Usually, babies feel like nothing. Empty vessels. Just noise and poop. But this kid... he felt heavy.
It was a pressure in the air. A density. My instincts, honed from years of underground fighting in my past life, flared up. This wasn't just a baby. This was a rival.
He was staring at me with a startling amount of clarity. His eyes darted from me, to Paul, to Zenith, analyzing. Calculating.
I felt a grin tug at my lips.
Well, well, I thought. Looks like I'm not the only one who skipped the tutorial. You're in there, aren't you?
The baby—Rudeus, they called him—blinked at me, looking slightly terrified.
Don't worry, little brother, I mentally projected, closing my eyes as exhaustion overtook my tiny body. You look like the scholarly type. You handle the reading and the math. I'll handle the punching and the glorious women. It's a fair trade.
Three Months Later
Being an infant was, frankly, a humiliating experience.
My mind was a Ferrari engine—revving, ready to race, processing information at a thousand miles an hour. My body was a tricycle with a missing wheel.
I spent most of my days in a crib, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the nature of this new world.
It was wild. I could feel it through the window. The wind here didn't just blow; it howled. The rain hit the roof like gravel. Everything felt amplified. My senses, which had been sharp in my previous life, were dialled up to eleven here.
I could hear the heartbeat of the maid in the next room. I could smell the ozone before a storm.
"Sol! Rudy! Dinner time!"
Ah, Lilia.
If Zenith was the warm, nurturing campfire, Lilia was the steel trap. She was the maid, but my instincts told me she was something else entirely.
I watched from my crib as she walked into the room.
Silence.
She didn't make a sound. She rolled her feet from heel to toe. She didn't disturb the air.
Now that, I thought, struggling to push myself up on my weak little arms, is a woman of quality.
She leaned over the crib. Her face was stern, unsmiling. She scooped me up with an efficiency that Paul lacked. Paul treated me like a sack of potatoes; Lilia held me like a weapon she was holstering.
"You are heavy," she muttered in the native tongue.
I'm dense, I corrected her in my head. I've been flexing my glutes for three hours straight. It's called isometric training, Lilia. Look it up.
She carried me into the main room. Zenith was there, humming a tune.
While I tolerated the feeding process (protein is protein, after all), I watched Rudeus.
He was... weird.
While I spent my awake time trying to sense the vibrations of footsteps in the hallway to predict who was coming, Rudeus spent his time staring at books. Or staring at nothing.
Sometimes, he would hold his hands out and make a face like he was constipated.
What are you doing, you little weirdo? I wondered.
Then, one afternoon, I saw it.
Rudeus was sitting on the rug. I was doing my daily "try to crawl without falling on my face" routine.
Rudeus held out his hand. The air rippled.
My instincts screamed: Change! Pressure drop!
Water materialized above his palm. A floating ball of liquid, defying gravity.
My jaw dropped.
Magic.
Actual, bona-fide magic.
I watched, mesmerized. He didn't say a word. He just... willed it into existence.
Okay, I admitted, watching the water wobble. That's cool. That is undeniably cool.
The ball of water splashed onto his face. Rudeus yelped silently and wiped his eyes.
I snorted. A laugh bubbled out of me.
Rudeus looked at me, face red. He saw me smirking.
He glared.
I glared back.
So, you have magic, I thought, my competitive streak flaring up hot and bright. You can bend the elements. Fine.
I looked at my own hands. I squeezed them into fists.
I don't need tricks. I have these.
I turned away from him and focused on the coffee table leg. It was five feet away. A massive journey.
Target acquired, I told myself. Objective: Reach the table before the Wizard over there dries his face.
I dug my knees into the carpet. I pushed.
I didn't think about technique. I just threw my desire forward and let my body chase it.
Move. Move. Move.
I scrambled across the floor, a blur of determination and diapers. I reached the table leg. I grabbed it.
I pulled.
My legs shook. The gravity felt oppressive. But I felt the balance point. I felt where my weight needed to be.
I stood up.
I wobbled, holding onto the table for dear life, but I was vertical.
I looked back at Rudeus. He was still sitting on his butt, wiping water off his nose.
I let go of the table for one second—just long enough to flash him a toothless, arrogant grin.
One-zero, brother.
Six Months Later
Location: The Hallway
I was mobile now.
I wasn't graceful—I still looked like a drunk penguin when I walked—but I could get around. And "getting around" meant I could explore the territory.
I was hunting.
Not for food, but for the source of the smell.
Every day, Paul came back inside smelling of oil and cold steel. It was a scent that called to me. It triggered memories of my past life—of the dojo, of the cage matches, of the feeling of impact.
I waddled down the hallway, tracking the scent.
I found it in the study.
Paul's gear was resting against the wall. A leather breastplate. Gauntlets. And... it.
The sword.
It was sheathed, resting in a scabbard of worn leather. It was long—longer than I was tall.
I approached it slowly.
The air around it felt colder. Sharper.
I reached out a chubby hand.
The moment my fingertips brushed the leather, a jolt went through me. It wasn't magic. It was recognition.
It was like hearing a favorite song after years of silence.
Hello, beautiful, I thought.
I tried to grip the handle. My hand was too small to even wrap around it. I pulled.
It didn't budge. It was heavy. Absurdly heavy.
I grunted, putting my back into it. Come on. Just an inch. Let me see the steel.
"Sol?"
I froze.
I turned around. Paul was standing in the doorway. He looked tired, covered in dirt from the fields, but his eyes were sharp.
He looked at me. He looked at the sword.
Most parents would panic. 'Oh no, sharp object!'
Paul didn't panic. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.
"A bit big for you, isn't it, sport?" he asked, walking over.
He didn't pull me away. Instead, he knelt down. He was huge next to me. He smelled of sweat and danger.
He reached out and unsheathed the sword just an inch.
Shinnng.
The sound was pure. The steel glinted in the hallway light.
My eyes widened. My breath hitched.
I reached out and touched the flat of the blade. It was cold. Unforgiving. Perfect.
"You like that?" Paul whispered, watching my reaction closely.
I looked up at him. I didn't smile. This wasn't a joke.
I nodded. One sharp, serious nod.
Paul laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. He slammed the sword back into the sheath with a clack.
"Eat your vegetables, Sol," he said, ruffling my hair with a hand that could crush a skull. "Grow a bit more. Then... we'll see."
He stood up and walked away, whistling.
I stayed there, staring at the sword.
Grow, I repeated to myself.
I looked down at my soft, round body.
Fine. I'll eat the vegetables. I'll drink the milk. But you better keep that blade sharp, old man.
Because I'm coming for it.