Lan awoke to the soft, muffled sounds of movement beyond the wooden bars of his crib. His first instinct was to take stock of his situation—something he had done many times before in his previous lives, but never quite like this. Everything about his body was different, unrefined. His limbs, his fingers, his very breath—it was as if he was a stranger in his own flesh. He had already begrudgingly come to terms with his helplessness, but now that he was somewhat rested, he had an opportunity to properly assess his surroundings.

  The crib he lay in was made of dark, polished wood, its bars high and imposing—an inescapable prison for an ordinary infant. Soft blankets wrapped around him, cushioning his small frame against the mattress beneath him. Beyond the crib, the room stretched in muted elegance, bathed in the gentle glow of morning light filtering through the tall windows. The air held a crisp freshness, mingled with the faint scent of lavender and something warm, comforting—perhaps a lingering trace of his mother’s presence.

  Before he could make any more observations, the quiet creak of a door opening snapped his focus toward the approaching figure. A woman entered, dressed in the traditional garb of a maid. She moved with effortless grace, her dark hair neatly pinned beneath a modest white cap. Her face was soft, kind, yet carried an air of professionalism. With a warm smile, she stepped closer to the crib and, in a gentle voice, introduced herself.

  “Good morning, young masters,” she cooed, her voice a soft melody as she stepped further into the room. Her eyes, warm and observant, flickered between the two swaddled infants before her. "My name is Isla, and I will be your wet nurse. I shall be taking care of you both for the time being."

  She spoke with a practiced gentleness, her tone carrying the subtle authority of someone who had done this many times before. Though she was young, there was wisdom in her gaze, a quiet confidence that came from years of tending to noble children. Her dark hair was neatly secured beneath a modest cap, and her uniform—pressed and pristine—spoke of meticulous care. Everything about her presence exuded warmth and competence, as if she were built for this very task.

  Isla stepped closer to the cribs, her hands moving with the surety of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. She studied the two newborns before her, noting their delicate features and identical softness. Her lips quirked into a small smile. "You both truly are your mother's children," she murmured, almost to herself. "Strong little things already."

  Lan barely had time to process this information before Isla leaned down and carefully picked up his twin brother, Aerth. The other newborn stirred slightly but made no fuss as he was lifted into her arms. Isla cradled him with practiced ease, adjusting her posture before beginning to nurse him. Lan could only watch, unsure of how to react.

  Aerth latched on without hesitation, drinking eagerly, his tiny hands curling against her as if seeking more warmth. The entire process was seamless, natural, as though he instinctively knew exactly what to do. His breaths came in soft, steady pulls, and with each swallow, he seemed to grow more at ease. Isla smiled at his contentment, gently adjusting him as she hummed a soft lullaby under her breath. Her hands moved with practiced ease, supporting him as he fed, rocking slightly in rhythm with her melody. Time seemed to slow, the moment wrapped in a tranquil quiet. Within minutes, his drinking slowed, his suckling becoming lazier, until his tiny form fully relaxed against her. His eyelids fluttered, then closed completely, his body going limp in the utter serenity of sleep. Isla chuckled softly, brushing a careful hand over his downy hair before shifting him back into the crib, swaddling him snugly once more.

  “There we go,” Isla murmured with satisfaction, adjusting the blanket around Aerth as she settled him back into the crib. Then, turning toward Lan, she beamed. “Now it’s your turn, little master.”

  Lan stiffened.

  No.

  He knew what was coming, and he wanted no part of it. A cold dread settled in his gut, twisting his insides with revulsion. He had the mind of an adult, a man who had faced death more times than he cared to count, and yet, this—this was a horror unlike any he had ever encountered. The very notion of being nursed like a helpless infant made his entire being recoil, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He wanted to scream, to thrash, to do anything that would spare him from the mortifying ordeal ahead. But his body betrayed him, weak and pitiful, leaving him at the mercy of forces beyond his control. The thought of surrendering to such indignity sent waves of helpless terror coursing through him, his tiny limbs trembling with futile resistance.

  His immediate instinct was to resist. He squirmed, his tiny arms flailing weakly, his mouth parting as he tried—desperately—to voice his refusal. But what emerged was not a protest, not a firm denial, but rather a pathetic, wailing cry.

  Embarrassment crashed over him like a tidal wave. This was humiliating beyond words. In his frantic movements, he pushed his fragile body too far—so much so that his control slipped, and to his utter horror, he felt warmth spreading beneath him.

  He had wet himself...

  If he could die of shame a second time, he would have right then and there. His face burned with an indignation that was utterly meaningless in the grand scheme of things, and yet it consumed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if willing himself to disappear.

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  Isla, of course, only responded with fond amusement. “Oh, little master,” she chuckled as she swiftly set about changing him, her movements deft and efficient. “You’re quite the energetic one, aren’t you?”

  Lan, who had no words to defend himself, remained miserably silent.

  By the time he was clean and dry, his attempts at resistance had amounted to nothing. Despite his internal protests, his newborn instincts betrayed him, and before he could process what was happening, his mouth was filled with warm milk. His body reacted instantly, drinking in greedy gulps, as if making up for lost time. It was an entirely foreign experience—strange, yet undeniably comforting. And by the time Isla settled him back down, he felt the kind of full-body satisfaction that only came with infancy.

  Once Isla had left the room, Lan lay still, staring at the ceiling with renewed determination. This was his chance—his only chance—to properly explore his surroundings before exhaustion overtook him again.

  Summoning all the strength his frail body could muster, he began his escape.

  The process was agonizingly slow. Crawling was far more difficult than he had anticipated. His limbs felt like they were made of jelly, his control over them laughably weak. But sheer stubbornness drove him forward. Inch by inch, he maneuvered himself out of the crib, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

  And by some miracle, he succeeded.

  With shaky limbs, he managed to crawl across the plush rug toward the grand window at the far end of the room. Pressing his tiny hands against the cool glass, he gazed outside—and what he saw left him breathless.

  Beyond the window stretched a vast garden, bursting with life. Flowers of every imaginable color swayed gently in the morning breeze, their petals shimmering under the soft sunlight, their delicate forms dancing in time with the wind’s caress. Some blooms bore hues so rich they seemed almost otherworldly—deep indigos, burning crimsons, and ethereal silvers that caught the light like liquid metal. Strange, unfamiliar blossoms twisted in intricate shapes, some spiraling like the horns of a ram, others curling inward as if whispering secrets to the earth below.

  A grand fountain stood at the garden’s heart, its cascading water reflecting the sunlight in glistening arcs. Butterflies flitted between the flowers, their iridescent wings shimmering in blues and violets, carried effortlessly by the breeze. The air held a fragrant melody—fresh greenery mixed with the sweet perfume of nectar, and somewhere in the distance, the faintest rustle of unseen creatures stirred beneath the foliage.

  And then, something even stranger occurred.

  The air around him shifted. A peculiar sensation prickled at his skin, an invisible energy stirring in the space around him. The mana in the air—it was moving. No, more than that—it was reacting to him. Like a ripple in still water, the unseen force wavered toward him, drawn by something deep within his being. He could feel it, a subtle pull toward his small form, as if the very essence of magic itself was acknowledging his presence.

  Excitement sparked within him. Could he use magic already? Was that what this meant?

  Determined, he raised a trembling hand, forcing all his will into the effort. He focused, narrowed his thoughts to a single command.

  “Fireball.”

  Nothing happened.

  Frustration welled up. He tried again, this time clenching his tiny fist, summoning every ounce of energy he could muster.

  “Fireball!, Fireball! Fireball! FIREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL“

  Still, nothing. Not even a flicker of warmth.

  Disappointment settled deep in his chest, heavy and suffocating. A childish part of him had genuinely believed it would work—that he would somehow summon fire with sheer willpower alone. But reality was far less forgiving. He glared at his tiny hands, as if blaming them for their failure, flexing his fingers experimentally. He had felt something—the mana in the air, the way it had responded to him—but it had led to nothing. No warmth, no spark, not even a flicker of light.

  His cheeks burned with shame, the realization hitting him like a cruel joke. He had actually said "Fireball" out loud, like some overeager novice in a cheap adventure tale. If anyone had witnessed it, he might have died of embarrassment right then and there. He groaned internally, lamenting his own foolishness.

  Perhaps it was too early. Perhaps his body was simply incapable of wielding magic yet. But if that was the case, then there had to be another way—another means of learning. If they were a rich family, they surely had a library. And if they had a library, then they had books. And if they had books on magic, then he would find them.

  His tiny form trembled with renewed determination. This would be his goal. No matter what it took—

  The door suddenly creaked open.

  A maid stepped inside, pausing as her gaze landed on him. For a long moment, there was silence. And then—

  “Young master?!”

  She was at his side in an instant, scooping him up with frantic hands. Her breath hitched as she took in the sight of him—tiny, fragile, and so terribly out of place outside the confines of his crib.

  “How did you—? Oh, goodness!” she gasped, her voice shaking slightly as she clutched him closer, pressing him against her chest as if afraid he might slip away again. “You can’t be crawling around like this! What if you’d gotten hurt?”

  Her mind raced with worst-case scenarios—a fall, a cold draft seeping in through the window, some unseen danger lurking just beyond her watchful eye. The thought alone sent shivers down her spine.

  “You’ll give everyone a heart attack!” she scolded, though the concern in her voice far outweighed any true anger. "What a little escape artist you are!" She rocked him gently in her arms, her hands trembling slightly as she ran them over his tiny limbs, checking him for any sign of injury. Only once she was certain he was unharmed did she allow herself a sigh of relief. "You're really going to be trouble, aren't you, young master?"

  Lan, despite himself, only cackled in the privacy of his very own thoughts.

  The maid sighed, cradling him against her shoulder. “You’re trouble already, aren’t you?” she murmured, rubbing small circles against his back. “Come now, let’s get you back to sleep.”

  Curse this infant body. The gentle motion was soothing, and though he tried to resist, his heavy eyelids betrayed him. Within moments, sleep claimed him once more.

  As he drifted off, he vaguely heard the maid whisper, “Rest well, little one. May you have the sweetest of dreams.”

  And with that, the world faded to black.