By his third century, Arthur had forgotten what it felt like to be confused.
In his previous life, he had been the world's quietest titan. He held doctoral degrees in fields that hadn't existed when he was born—quantum alchemy, hyper-advanced metallurgy, and bio-molecular engineering. He was the "Immortal Polymath," a man who had distilled the secrets of cellular decay into a shimmering blue serum that locked his physical form in a perpetual, thirty-year-old stasis. He had read every book, mastered every tongue, and solved the equations of the stars.
He was a god in a lab coat, and he was bored.
The end had been a matter of simple, violent chemistry. A pressurized containment vessel in his private laboratory—designed to synthesize a new stable isotope—had developed a micro-fracture. It was a one-in-a-billion oversight. Arthur had barely seen the warning light flash red before the room vanished in a white-hot expansion of energy. There was no pain, only the intellectual annoyance of a calculation gone wrong.
Then came the darkness. And then, the noise.
Arthur tried to open his eyes, but the muscles were weak, the lids heavy and coated in a sticky film. Instead of the sterile, climate-controlled silence of his laboratory, he was assaulted by a cacophony of medieval sensory input: the smell of tallow candles, the scratchy texture of coarse linen, and the rhythmic, guttural chanting of a language that sounded like a bastardized dialect of Latin and Germanic.
He tried to reach for his temple to massage a non-existent headache, but his arm moved with the jerky, uncoordinated flailing of a landed fish.
Neurological motor control: 0.1%, his mind automatically cataloged. Conclusion: Infancy.
He turned his head—a monumental effort that left him breathless—and saw a mirrored image. A few inches away, wrapped in identical swaddling of royal purple and gold, was another infant. This one was screaming, a high-pitched, indignant wail that spoke of a very different kind of soul.
"Look at them, Vizimir," a woman's voice whispered, thick with exhaustion and pride. "A miracle. Two princes for the Redanian Eagle."
"Identical," a deeper voice replied, booming and heavy with the weight of a crown. "The North has never seen such a blessing. This one, with the lungs of a lion, shall be Radovid. After my grandfather."
A massive, calloused hand reached down and stroked the screaming babe's head. Then, the hand moved to Arthur. Arthur didn't cry. He stared up at the man—King Vizimir II—with eyes that held too much depth, too much focus for a newborn.
"And this one?" the Queen asked. "He is so quiet. So... observant."
"Arthur," the King decided, his voice echoing in the stone chamber. "He looks as though he is already weighing the worth of my crown. Arthur I of Redania."
Arthur lay back against the linen, the screams of his brother Radovid ringing in his ears. He looked at the flickering torchlight on the vaulted ceiling. He saw the filth in the corners of the room, the crude construction of the stone, and the primitive candles.
He was in a world of mud, superstition, and ignorance. A world that had no idea it was about to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the light of a new age.
Step one, Arthur thought, his tiny heart racing with a thrill he hadn't felt in centuries. Survive the weaning process. Step two: Invent the printing press.
******
Five years had passed, and the royal nursery of Tretogor had split into two distinct worlds.
On the plush rug near the hearth, Radovid was shouting. He led a legion of painted wooden soldiers against a "Nilfgaardian" castle made of blocks, his face flushed with the simple, violent joy of a child. He was every bit the prince the court expected: loud, demanding, and martial.
Across the room, tucked into an alcove that smelled sharply of vinegar and crushed flora, sat Arthur.
Arthur did not play. He worked. At five years old, his hands were still small, but his movements possessed a terrifying, surgical precision. He had bypassed the Royal Library's collection of Grimoires and runic scrolls, dismissing them as "unverifiable poetry." Instead, he had sent the court herbalists into the woods with specific instructions for plants the mages usually ignored as weeds. He had also spent months directing the royal craftsmen to blow strange, coiled glass containers—distillation tubes and flasks that bore no resemblance to the heavy iron cauldrons used by alchemists.
The door creaked open, and King Vizimir II stepped in. He watched Radovid for a moment with a smile, but his eyes quickly drifted to his other son. His brow furrowed.
"Arthur," the King said, his voice echoing. "The Brotherhood's advisors say you have rejected every text on runes and the 'Power.' They also tell me you have no cauldron. They believe you are playing at alchemy without the tools of the trade."
Arthur didn't look up immediately. He was carefully filtering a translucent green liquid through a layer of fine charcoal and linen. "Cauldrons are for soup and superstitions, Father. I am not looking for 'Chaos.' I am looking for chemistry."
Vizimir approached, his heavy boots thumping on the stone. He looked at Arthur's workbench. It was a scholar's sanctuary, but stripped of all the familiar occult clutter. There were no pentagrams, only neatly labeled jars and diagrams of natural anatomy.
"The magic users say healing is a gift of the Power," Vizimir remarked, picking up a small stone jar filled with a thick, pale ointment. "Or a miracle of the Eternal Fire."
"The Brotherhood is an expensive bottleneck," Arthur replied, finally meeting his father's gaze with eyes that held too much depth for a child. "And the priests offer prayers where they should offer hygiene. This world bleeds to death from minor cuts because it waits for magic that never comes for the poor. This," he pointed to the jar, "is a healing cream. It treats the wound directly, sealing it against the rot that kills more men than the sword."
He then pushed a small vial of fine, chalky white powder toward the King.
"And this?" Vizimir asked.
"Stamina Powder," Arthur explained. "It is a refined concentrate of nutrients and stimulants. When a man is failing from fatigue, you mix this into a cup of water or milk. The milk is better—the fats and sugars provide a sustained energy buffer, while the powder stabilizes the heart rate. It doesn't 'grant' strength; it simply allows the body to use what it has more efficiently."
Vizimir looked at the powder, then at the milk jug on Arthur's table. "You speak of the body like a machine, Arthur. Where is the soul in your jars?"
"The soul is the pilot, Father," Arthur said, turning back to his work. "I am merely ensuring the ship doesn't sink because of a rusty nail. If Redania is to survive the 'Black Ones' in the South, we cannot rely on a handful of magic users who may betray us. We need a nation that can heal itself with science."
Vizimir looked at his son—this five-year-old polymath who spoke of "biological catalysts" instead of "divine will"—and felt a sudden, sharp pang of fear.