The weight of sleep finally lifted. Vaelen opened his eyes, feeling a strange sensation buzzing through his limbs. It wasn't the heavy, grounded strength he was used to from his days as a swordsman. This felt lighter. It was like his very blood had been replaced with something carbonated and fresh. He felt energized, even though he was still trapped in a body that could barely lift its own head.
He looked around the room. The light was dim, filtered through thick curtains that looked like they were made of heavy linen. Beside his cradle, his mother was sound asleep. Her silver hair was fanned out across the pillow. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic. She looked exhausted, yet there was a peace on her face that Vaelen found himself staring at for a long time.
In his old life, he never knew a mother's face. He only knew the cold steel of a practice sword. Seeing her like this made a strange knot form in his tiny chest. He pushed the feeling aside. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
He thought back to the green-haired woman. The way the light had danced around her fingers was burned into his mind. It was so effortless. In his previous world, the Seven Great Blades used ki. They spent decades refining their internal energy, condensing it until it could cut through stone or coat a blade in a lethal aura. But that was internal. This was different. This was magic.
Vaelen waited until he was sure his mother wouldn't wake. He took a deep breath, trying to channel that same feeling of the green light. He focused on his throat, trying to mimic the sound the woman had made.
"Euu!" he whispered.
Nothing happened. Only a tiny, wet puff of air left his lips.
'Maybe it's the tone?' he thought.
"Euu!" he tried again, a bit louder this time.
He stared at his hands, expecting them to glow. He waited for the air to hum or for the temperature to change. Silence. The room remained still. The only sound was the soft creaking of the wooden floorboards as the house settled.
'Is it a chant? Or do I need to move my hands a certain way?'
He spent the next hour repeating the word. He tried it softly. He tried it with a sharp, commanding tone. He even tried to visualize the green light flowing from his chest to his palms. Nothing worked. It was frustrating. As one of the strongest men in his previous world, failure was a rare occurrence. Being unable to perform a simple task felt like a slap in the face.
Eventually, he gave up. He slumped back against the soft padding of the cradle. It was clear that magic wasn't just about saying a word. It was a whole new system of power. In his old world, magic was the stuff of legends and children's books. People whispered about ancient beings who could command the elements, but no one had ever seen it.
'This world is fundamentally different,' he realized.
He turned his head to look at the room again. It wasn't a castle, but it wasn't a peasant's hut either. The walls were made of sturdy, polished timber. There were intricate carvings on the bedposts and a heavy wardrobe in the corner that looked expensive. He guessed he might be the son of a nobleman, or perhaps a high-ranking official.
A few days passed in a blur of feeding and sleeping. Vaelen used every waking moment to observe. He was a master of strategy, and the first step of any strategy was gathering intelligence. He listened to the people who came in and out of the room.
His mother spoke to him often. She would lean over the cradle, stroking his cheek with a gentle finger.
*"Oh, my little one. You are so quiet. Why don't you make a sound?"*
Vaelen stared back at her. He could hear the melody of the words, but the meaning was a total mystery. It was a complex language, filled with soft vowels and rolling sounds that felt foreign on his tongue. He tried to memorize the patterns. He repeated the words in his head, over and over, trying to link them to actions.
When she picked him up, she said a specific word. When she fed him, she said another.
'I need to start acting like a normal baby,' he reminded himself.
He didn't want them to think something was wrong with him. If the green-haired lady came back and thought he was "non-responsive" again, she might try more magic. While he loved the feeling of the energy, he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention.
He started to mimic the sounds of a newborn. He made soft gurgles when his mother played with him. He reached out his hands and grabbed at her hair, forcing a toothless grin. It felt ridiculous. A legendary swordsman playing "peek-a-boo" was a humiliating thought, but it was necessary for his survival.
One afternoon, the door creaked open. It wasn't his mother or the green-haired healer. A small girl, no older than three, shuffled into the room. She had the same silver hair as his mother, tied into two messy pigtails. She tiptoed toward the cradle, her eyes wide with curiosity.
She reached the edge and stood on her tiptoes, peering over the side. Vaelen looked up at her. She had a round face and a small, button nose. She looked like a miniature version of the woman who birthed him.
*"Baby?"* she whispered.
Vaelen blinked. That word sounded distinct.
The girl reached out a chubby hand and poked his forehead. It wasn't a gentle poke. Her finger was small, but she had the clumsy strength of a toddler. Vaelen winced slightly but didn't cry.
*"Baby is big,"* she said, giggling to herself.
She began to babble, a stream of nonsense that Vaelen couldn't even begin to parse. She pointed at his eyes, then at her own. She brought a small wooden toy—a carved bird and dropped it into the cradle next to his head.
'So, I have an older sister,' Vaelen thought.
He watched her for a while. She seemed energetic and kind, though a bit rough. She stayed for nearly ten minutes, talking to him as if he could understand every word. Vaelen just stared, absorbing the sounds of her voice. He was building a library in his mind, but he hadn't even learned the alphabet of this world yet.
As the sun began to set, he realized something that had been bothering him for days. No one had called him by a name. Not once. His mother called him "little one" or "sweetheart" or at least, that's what he assumed the tones meant. The sister just called him "baby."
'Did they not name me yet?' he wondered.
In his old world, children were named the moment they drew breath. To go days without a name was a bad omen. It usually meant the parents didn't expect the child to survive.
He looked at his small, weak hands. He remembered the feeling of the dark purple aura on his blade. He remembered the majestic being that had ended his life. He wasn't Vaelen Thorne anymore, but he wasn't anyone else either. He was a blank slate in a world where the impossible was a daily reality.
'I will learn,' he vowed. 'I will learn their tongue, I will learn their magic, and I will find out who I am in this life!'
The effort of thinking so much was starting to drain him. Infancy was a demanding job. His eyes began to feel heavy again. He looked at the wooden bird the girl had left behind. It was a simple thing, but it represented a world that was far larger than this room.