I learned quickly that silence was my greatest weapon.
At two years old, no one expected much from me. A few steps without falling. A few sounds that resembled words. Maybe a laugh or two if I was in a good mood.
Anything beyond that was ignored.
So I watched.
From my mother's arms, from the floor, from corners people forgot a child could notice.
This estate wasn't small.
Wide corridors lined with polished stone. Tall windows that let sunlight spill in during the day. Servants moved with discipline, never rushing, never slacking.
This wasn't a poor household.
Nor was it one that flaunted wealth.
Everything was… controlled.
Measured.
My mother often stayed with me in the mornings.
She would sit by the window with a book in her hands, occasionally glancing down at me as I played with wooden blocks or carved animals.
Or pretended to.
Sometimes, her gaze lingered longer than necessary.
As if she were trying to understand something.
"He doesn't behave like other children," I once heard a maid whisper.
"Too quiet," another replied. "And those eyes… they're unsettling."
Unsettling.
I suppose that was fair.
I didn't cry unless it hurt.
I didn't laugh without reason.
And when people spoke, I listened—really listened.
That alone made me different.
One afternoon, the air in the room shifted.
I felt it before I saw him.
Heavy footsteps. Steady. Purposeful.
The door opened.
A man entered.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His presence filled the room without effort. He wore dark clothing trimmed with simple patterns—nothing extravagant, but clearly of high quality.
My father.
He had short black hair, neatly kept, and eyes the color of dark steel. Sharp, but not cold. They were the eyes of someone who had made decisions that carried consequences.
He stopped the moment his gaze landed on me.
"…So this is him," he said.
His voice was calm, low, carrying quiet authority.
My mother stood and smiled softly. "Yes. Our son."
He walked closer.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He crouched in front of me, bringing his eyes level with mine.
And for the first time since coming to this world—
I felt pressure.
Not magic.
Not killing intent.
Expectation.
His eyes searched my face, lingering on my expression, my posture, my stillness.
"…He's watching me," my father said after a moment.
My mother laughed lightly. "You're imagining things. He's just a child."
But my father didn't look convinced.
"Hm."
He reached out and placed a finger in front of me.
Most children would grab it.
I didn't.
I simply looked at him.
Right into his eyes.
For a long second, neither of us moved.
Then—
My father smiled.
Just slightly.
"…Interesting."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
Because of realization.
I had underestimated something.
In my previous life, I was invisible because I was ordinary.
Here?
Being quiet didn't make me invisible.
It made people notice.
And attention—especially from powerful people—was dangerous.
I needed to adjust.
Not by becoming louder.
But by becoming… normal.
Over the next few days, I changed small things.
I stumbled more when I walked.
I laughed a little louder when spoken to.
I acted confused when conversations grew complicated.
Nothing excessive.
Just enough.
People relaxed.
Good.
But some things couldn't be hidden.
Like the pull in my chest.
It returned more often now.
Always faint. Always patient.
When I focused on it, the world felt… sharper.
Sounds clearer.
Movements easier to follow.
My body more responsive.
Magic?
Maybe.
But I didn't chase it.
I remembered my first life.
How desperate I had been for something—anything—to make me special.
That desperation led nowhere.
This time, I would wait.
Grow naturally.
Strong roots before tall branches.
Late one evening, as I lay in bed, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, a thought crossed my mind.
What if this world didn't give systems?
What if it didn't choose heroes?
What if power wasn't handed down—
But earned through patience?
I closed my eyes.
If that was the case…
Then maybe this world suited me better than the last.
A quiet child.
A watchful boy.
A nobody.
Learning how to live again.