Two months had passed since that first warm family breakfast, and my days had begun to follow a rhythm—gentle, quiet, almost idyllic. It was… peaceful.
And that was exactly what I wanted.
A normal life, free from violence or disturbance… A life in which I could learn in peace.
That had been my only wish when I died. No betrayals, no regrets, no fights to the death. Just quiet days and curious questions.
In my previous life, I had studied everything I could get my hands on—science, philosophy, literature, history, psychology, you name it. But what truly kept me sane, what quenched my endless thirst for curiosity, were manga, anime, and novels. Those fantasy stories, crafted by minds that dreamed beyond reality—they gave meaning to my mundane existence.
My Mind Palace used to help me remember every single detail, but since it had been turned into a skill and then sealed for "evolution," I couldn't access that mental archive anymore.
Luckily, Forget and Remember Technique still worked—partially. I just needed the right trigger words to resurface lost memories.
Still… it felt like trying to unlock a vault with half the key.
Now reborn as a baby, I knew I needed to act the part. Mimicking infant behavior was essential for survival and future growth. I'd already planned the pace: incomplete syllables by six months, small words at a year, and full rapid language acquisition after that. Children, after all, learned faster than adults. Neurological plasticity was on my side.
But being a baby wasn't without its challenges.
I'd learned from overheard conversations among the maids that my older brother, Aamon, was actually my stepbrother. That explained the contrasting features—golden-brown hair and piercing blue eyes, so unlike my white hair and golden irises. The pieces fit. My father must've remarried after something happened to Aamon's mother. And judging by Father's demeanor—cold on the surface, warm underneath—there were layers to that story I had yet to uncover.
Wait... wasn't there a BL manga about brotherly love…?
I frowned. Ah, never mind. Irrelevant.
I dismissed the thought with a mental wave. My main concern wasn't fictional romance—it was keeping the peace in this family.
Though I tried to play the innocent baby, my body was developing at an abnormal pace. My bones and muscles were maturing faster than expected, and my mind remained sharp. I cried when I needed to, crawled on all fours, and babbled random syllables just to keep appearances.
But I needed less sleep than a normal baby. My brain? Active. Hungry.
Mother rarely left me alone, always doting, always affectionate. When she and Father had to travel—once a month, as I'd discovered—I stayed behind. The household would grow quieter then, the days slower. Still, it gave me time to think. To plan. To observe.
I'd even memorized the names of the staff.
Especially Paola—my personal maid, caregiver, and amateur storyteller.
She often read to me. Most of the stories were cliché fairy tales, but a pattern had emerged—angels. Every story, regardless of plot, somehow included them. Benevolent angels, fallen angels, angels of wrath and protection.
Combined with what I'd overheard about the Constellation Test, it was clear that this world wasn't just magical—it had a divine hierarchy. Higher existences, celestial orders… maybe even gods.
It sounded like a lot. But I was still not even one year old.
Let the big players stay in the sky. I just want to stay grounded.
At that moment, my thoughts were interrupted—Aamon reached over and snatched the toy I'd been playing with. Again.
I stared at him.
"Is he… no, he's not, right?"
A soft babble escaped my lips: "Ba… ba…"
He tilted his head, looked at me for a moment like a little king surveying a rival… and continued playing with the stolen toy.
Heartless as ever, I sighed internally.
Unbothered, I crawled to grab another toy and resumed my silent play. But Aamon's eyes followed the movement. I caught him eyeing my new toy, his expression hard to read.
He's definitely possessive, I thought, side-eying him.
The door opened, and Paola entered, balancing two small bowls. Feeding time again.
She smiled brightly and sat between us, "Alright, time for some delicious pumpkin mash!"
Great. I thought. Pureed vegetables. My daily dose of textureless flavor.
As she fed us, I caught my reflection in the tall mirror beside the window.
White hair. Golden eyes. Porcelain skin. A cold expression, even as a baby.
I looked… beautiful. Regal. Untouchable.
Too much like Father.
I remembered Mother teasing him at the breakfast table once.
"You should smile more," she'd said with a grin, "or you'll be a bad example for our sons."
Father had merely rolled his eyes—but I saw the small twitch in his lips. The warmth in his gaze as he looked at her.
This was my family now.
No system notifications. No monster attacks. No surprise guests.
Just peace.
I wasn't complaining.
But deep down, I could feel something… waiting. Coiling. Dormant.
My Mind Palace still slumbered. My soul still whispered. This world—beautiful, magical, dangerous—wasn't going to stay quiet forever.
Still, for now…
I smiled softly, spoon between my lips, and thought—
Let me enjoy this silence a little longer.