At three years old, Kai finally felt it was time.
His body—though still soft and small—had begun to show early signs of stability. His control over basic movements had improved, and more importantly, he could sit for extended periods without discomfort. That was enough.
He didn't need to push. He had time. Time and patience.
It was deep into the night, and the nursery was still. Cribs lined the walls, dim lamplight casting soft shadows through the room. Most of the other children lay fast asleep, some snoring gently, others curled into tiny bundles.
But one child was awake.
In the far corner, inside the smallest crib, a baby sat upright. Legs folded in a loose lotus position, spine straight, arms resting lightly on his knees.
Kai.
His breathing slowed. In. Out. Controlled. Measured.
This wasn't a combat technique or some ancient forbidden art—just a basic meditation method—something foundational, something safe. One meant to gently nourish the body and increase its natural affinity with mana. He had used it in his past life during recovery training.
But this time, he had to be careful. Extremely careful.
Detection wards lined the walls—thin threads of advanced spells laid by the caretakers to monitor magical fluctuations in the nursery. Anything too strong, anything too focused, and they'd know.
So he didn't gather mana. Not directly.
Instead, he let the natural energy in the air flow to him gently, breathing it in as if it were part of the night itself. He allowed it to brush past his skin, to seep into his pores, and then flow out again. Nothing forced. Nothing violent.
Just circulation.
Subtle shifts began to form around him—too faint to notice unless one looked carefully. A faint glow, golden and soft, shimmered over his skin like morning light seen through closed eyelids. The crib creaked once under the shift, but no alarms rang. No spells triggered.
Good.
Kai's lips parted slightly. A faint, honey-sweet taste lingered on his tongue—mana in its rawest, most nourishing form. His tiny body shivered, then slowly warmed.
"Still good. Still stable," he whispered to himself in a voice barely above a breath.
His eyes flicked down to his little hands resting on his knees. He flexed his fingers slowly.
"Not bad. Doesn't hurt anymore. That's... nice."
He let out a soft sigh, half a breath, half a hum.
"Can't go deep. Not tonight."
He knew the risk of slipping into a trance state. With a soul as powerful as his—one forged through decades of bloodshed and honed to an edge sharper than most would ever know—his very presence could act like a beacon. If he lost control, even for a moment, he could trigger the wards or worse, tear apart his fragile body from within.
So he stayed at the surface. Calm. Balanced.
And when the flow became too steady, too smooth, he stopped.
Just like that.
The energy didn't stop immediately, though. It kept circling for a while on its own, slowly fading as if reluctant to leave. His limbs tingled. His eyelids drooped.
"Heh… guess that's enough for one night."
He yawned, stretching just slightly before letting his body fall back onto the crib's mattress.
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, the softest smile curling at the edge of his lips.
Days passed in warmth and quiet joy.
Kai, wrapped in soft blankets and the doting arms of caretakers, had become something of a sensation. He'd begun to babble, trying to mimic words with the adorable determination only a baby could pull off.
"Ba... ba..." he'd say, cheeks puffed, eyes wide with concentration.
One of the older caretakers, Miriam, nearly dropped the laundry she was carrying. "Did you hear that?" she gasped, rushing over. "He's talking! I swear he's trying to say my name!"
Another woman giggled. "He says that to everyone, Miriam. Don't get your hopes up."
But then Kai would let out a soft giggle, his little fingers gripping her sleeve, and Miriam would melt on the spot. "Oh, stop it. He's too cute. I can't handle it."
It wasn't just the babbling, either. He was the first among the infants to sit up without support. Then, barely weeks later, he stood—wobbly, tiny feet planted on the padded floor, arms stretched forward for balance.
"Look at him go!" someone cried from the nursery doorway.
And then, to everyone's disbelief, he took his first step.
Cheers erupted in the nursery. One of the younger volunteers actually teared up.
"That's it," another caretaker declared, hand over her heart. "He's officially the baby of the year. No, of the decade."
He became the talk of the entire orphanage. The "little miracle," they called him.
Eventually, word of his rapid growth and early milestones reached the higher-ups. Inspectors were called in again, scanning him for the second time with more advanced tools, murmuring among themselves.
The final result came back: F-rank.
One of the younger inspectors looked genuinely confused. "Are we sure this is correct?"
"Double-checked it myself," another replied. "No mana signature beyond the lowest baseline. He's just… a normal baby. There could be a slight chance though , we have several such cases ".
The news spread fast. But surprisingly, no one in the orphanage cared.
"He could be rankless for all I care," Miriam scoffed. "He's still our Kai."
"Exactly," said the head caretaker with a smile. "Potential or not, this child makes everyone here smile. That's worth more than some number on a chart."
From that point on, he wasn't just a child in their care—he was theirs. Everyone's baby.