I was never the type to think about what happens after death.
In fact, I always pushed that subject away. Now, honestly, I wish I could complain to my past self for not even seeking basic knowledge about it. But, well… I can't blame him that much.
After all, no one I ever knew warned me that, after getting hit by a truck, I'd wake up… here.
And "here" was definitely not a hospital.
My first conclusion was the worst possible one: I must have been in captivity. Maybe the person who ran me over had panicked, taken my body, and decided to follow a path far too twisted for any plausible explanation.
I imagined spending the rest of my life being fed by the distorted compassion of someone who didn't want to go to prison. A situation worthy of a crime documentary.
I was almost convinced of that when my body was suddenly lifted. Against my will.
The person holding me was lightly sweating. Their expression shifted between anxiety and a kind of panic so intense that, for a moment, I thought they were looking at someone on the verge of death—me.
They stared at me for a few seconds that felt like minutes. Then the fear disappeared, replaced by relief so visible it only made me more confused.
Up close, I noticed a few details: reddish-brown hair tied back simply, violet eyes impossible to ignore, thin glasses that gave her a serious air… or just a very nervous one. And, of course, she was beautiful. Too beautiful to be holding an injured man who was apparently dying.
After carefully examining me, she placed me back onto the cushioned surface.
Before I could understand anything, another pair of hands entered my field of view. Another woman: blue eyes, blonde hair, a young face. Exhausted. Sweating and breathing like she had just run an emotional marathon.
At that point, I started questioning my sanity. Had I died? Or was I trapped in some absurdly specific hallucination involving beautiful women taking turns staring at me?
Then a young man appeared. Brown hair, green eyes, confident posture. He and the blonde started talking in a language I had never heard before.
Before I could follow the conversation, both of them leaned in and ran their fingers across my face. The touch was light, gentle—and that's exactly why it bothered me. I tried to push them away, but my arms moved like they were made of jelly.
Panic hit immediately. I tried to move, sit up, turn—anything. Nothing. It was as if my muscles had stayed behind on the asphalt along with my last memory.
They kept watching me with unreadable expressions as my eyes grew heavy. I tried to pull back memories of the accident, the truck, the impact… all of it was a distant blur.
Little by little, I blacked out.
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When I woke up again, I had no idea how much time had passed. The same blonde woman was there, speaking in that language that sounded like a mix between Gregorian chanting and someone choking on syllables. The green-eyed guy responded naturally.
I tried to do the obvious: ask where I was, explain I had been run over, ask for water—anything. But my body had other plans.
"Aaa… uhh…"
Excellent. Not only was I confused, now I communicated in the universal dialect of newborns.
I tried to recover a shred of dignity, but my strength simply wouldn't come. And the man picked me up as if I weighed no more than a bag of bread.
Either he was incredibly strong… or I had gotten smaller.
I tried to push that conclusion away. But as I struggled to move, felt my strength fade, and saw how massive the world around me was, it became impossible to deny the obvious:
I had been reborn.
And to top it off, I was a baby.
Perfect. Of course this had to be some kind of joke from fate.
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The days dragged on in identical cycles of feeding, sleeping, and staring at the ceiling until, two months later, I had already accepted a simple and painful truth:
Reincarnation is amazing in theory, but no one mentions the soul-crushing boredom of staring at the ceiling for hours on end.
My new life was a compilation of humiliating tasks. My mobility was stuck on "useless NPC mode," and the best movement I could manage was turning my head a few centimeters—on good days.
My new parents always smiled at me with exaggerated excitement, as if I had just invented the cure for their boredom. I just wanted to raise an eyebrow to make it clear I wasn't participating in the celebration.
Sometimes, I remembered my old life—being able to walk, talk, think out loud… and realized that if this was my second chance, someone up there had a very questionable sense of humor. Not even Nanahoshi or Akito could have imagined I'd end up like this.
In the end, my greatest daily achievement was simply not drooling on my own chest. A modest victory, but apparently the peak of my current career.
But being a baby had one unexpected advantage.
After hearing that strange language every day, I started noticing that some words were beginning to fit together in my head. It wasn't much, but enough to make me suspect I was learning. Or starting to hallucinate. Possibly both.
And since my new body was great at absorbing everything it heard and saw, I took advantage of it the only way possible: by being carried around the house like a luxury sack of flour.
Over time, I built a mental map of the place. Rooms, windows, the hallway that creaked at the same spot… even the furniture was easy to memorize, especially because it all looked like it came out of a museum. A wood stove, water in basins, a toilet without flushing—rustic charm I definitely hadn't asked for.
Nothing resembled modern technology. Candles, oil lamps, wood everywhere. At first, I thought my parents were too poor to afford electricity… until I remembered the maid. People without money don't usually have someone scrubbing the floor for them.
Deep down, I wasn't thrilled with my new existence. But I didn't hate it either. It was… strange. Confusing. Inconvenient.
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The following months passed. Five, to be exact—enough time for me to master the art of rolling over and crawling. Impressive progress, I know.
And, of course… it didn't stop there.
I could finally control my hands… more or less. As for the language, it was starting to reveal itself little by little. It was completely different from my native tongue, but if I listened carefully, there were vaguely familiar tones—or maybe that was just my mind desperately trying to make sense of it.
Much of that was thanks—or blame—on my mother.
She talked to me all the time. Sometimes she'd walk into the room just to comment on something that clearly didn't make sense even to her. And when I responded with a sound containing a recognizable syllable, her eyes would widen as if I had just given her the most valuable advice of her life.
There was one time I just wanted to cough.
She almost cried.
In the end, I was learning more than I cared to admit. It was like my baby brain had turned into an information vacuum that couldn't be turned off.
Before I could get lost in that, familiar voices came from the living room.
"Paul, did you see Lilia earlier today?"
"I did. She gave me that look… the 'don't touch that, Paul' look." He laughed. "I was just trying to help."
"The last time you 'helped,' you knocked over an entire bucket of water in the hallway."
"It was just a bucket."
"A whole bucket. Full of water."
A brief silence followed, broken by the sound of something being handled—probably pots.
"Is he still sleeping?"
"I think so. Haven't heard anything."
"Then… how about we celebrate that the little one is asleep? I promise I'll be quiet…"
A muffled "Paul!" came in response, followed by a light smack and a suppressed laugh.
Hm. Right. These two…
Listening to those two being a lovey-dovey couple had already become routine. Over the months, it didn't take long to notice that the lovebirds always followed the same pattern: Paul would whisper something in her ear, and Zenith would blush immediately.
It was… kind of cute.
Until, minutes later, both of them would be out of breath — and the creaking of the bed made that quite clear.
So that's what a couple in love actually looked like… not that stiff version I was used to seeing.
But, thinking about it… maybe I should start crying every now and then. Just so they don't think they hit the parenting jackpot—and, while I'm at it, give them a subtle warning to stop acting like rabbits in heat. Because if not… when I grow up, I'm going to have a bunch of siblings competing for space with me…
…Nah. Better stay in "zen baby" mode. At least that way I save energy.
Of course, that was exactly when my body decided to betray my plan.
I tried to turn over, just a little—nothing dramatic—and the mattress let out a creak far too loud for something my size.
Silence in the living room. Then, quick footsteps.
Paul appeared in the doorway, carrying that smug smile he thought was irresistible.
"Well, look who woke up for daddy!"
He approached the crib, arms outstretched as if I were a trophy.
But of course, my baby body didn't get a vote. He lifted me with ridiculous ease, and I was left there, dangling in the air like a rag doll.
Zenith appeared right behind him. As soon as she realized I was being mistreated, her softened expression gave way to a firm look.
Finally, someone reasonable.
"Paul, be careful! He just woke up."
"Relax, love. The boy's happy to see his dad. Right, little guy?"
I tried to say "no," but what came out was: "Aa… pa…"
They both froze. Zenith's eyes widened. Paul burst into laughter.
"See? He tried to say 'Papa'."
Tsk… not a chance.
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A few moments later, we were outside. And by "we," I mean me and Paul. He said it was a good time for a father-son walk.
Not that I was against going outside. I had been to the garden a few times with Zenith—and there were occasions when Paul carried me outside just to show off, brandishing his sword while some women in the village tried to flirt with him.
But this was the first time I went beyond the garden.
We were standing on a bridge. Below, the stream murmured softly; the crystal-clear water revealed small fish gliding calmly, as if nothing in that world could reach them.
It was… new.
And, in a strange way, comforting.
"Great day to show you your dad's work, don't you think?" Paul said, full of enthusiasm.
Work…?
He gestured with his free hand, pointing toward the forest.
"There are some monsters out there. But don't worry. Your dad takes care of everything. And when you grow up, maybe you can come with me."
I looked at the forest. Green. Beautiful. Harmless from a distance. Then, almost unconsciously, my gaze slid to my father's waist—the sword still hanging from his belt.
I didn't buy the idea of monsters right away. But I didn't dismiss it either.
In a world without electricity, with old furniture and a man who trained with a sword every day… the existence of monsters stopped sounding absurd way too quickly.
It made sense.
Why else would a grown man walk around armed in a peaceful village? If it were just an act, he was far too committed to the role.
As I got lost in those thoughts, I noticed something:
The sound of the stream had disappeared.
…Why were we no longer near the bridge? My father, of course, didn't answer. But it didn't take long for me to understand.
A stone tower appeared among the trees—discreet, functional, and completely out of place for someone who just wanted to "take a walk with his son."
"Paul! Good morning!"
The voice came from above. A man waved from the top of the tower, calling our attention. But it wasn't the greeting that caught me. It was the bow resting on his back.
Before I realized it, we were already up there.
And the man was… quite attractive. Blond hair, youthful face, soft red eyes. He had that annoyingly lean build of someone who looks fit just by breathing. But there was something else.
The pointed ears—short, but unmistakable—left no room for doubt.
An elf.
I stayed silent, observing. Paul didn't react as if that were strange.
"Laws! Long time, huh!" Paul grinned.
"Sorry, things have been… busy at home lately," he replied with a half-smile.
Paul leaned in, closer than necessary, the crooked grin already giving everything away.
"Busy, huh? I can imagine with what."
Laws held his gaze for a moment, his expression losing a bit of its lightness.
"You haven't changed…"
He let out a short sigh, looking away.
"But this time, that's not it."
A brief pause.
"My daughter got sick a few days ago… high fever." He scratched the back of his neck lightly, as if still organizing his thoughts. "At first, I thought it was something serious. She got really weak…"
He exhaled through his nose, his shoulders relaxing afterward.
"But she's getting better now. Thank the heavens. She hasn't gone back to crawling around the house like before yet, but she's much better."
Paul blinked, his crooked smile fading for a moment.
"Sick?" He frowned slightly. "You should've called me. Zenith could've taken a look. She's good with that stuff."
"No need to worry, she's already better." Laws waved his hand lightly, dismissing the concern.
Then his gaze shifted, finally stopping on me.
"And this one…?"
Finally noticed me, huh. Just now. When the conversation had already passed the remotely interesting part.
"This is Rudeus."
"Ah, I see…" He tilted his head slightly, looking at me with curiosity. "He's quite small."
A small smile formed on his lips.
"…I hope he gets along with Phi."
Hey? Don't put expectations on me!
After that, the two started talking about their daily work, exchanging simple accounts about routine tasks and everyday matters. At some point, the conversation drifted into more domestic topics, but by then, I had already stopped paying attention.
From the top of the tower, my eyes were naturally drawn to the edge of the forest.
The stone structure we stood on wasn't flashy, but from up there it was impossible to ignore its purpose—positioned strategically, as if it had been built precisely to watch over that boundary.
Monsters… huh?
It didn't sound as absurd as it should anymore.
I mean… a world without electricity, swords treated as something common, a watchtower in the middle of nowhere…
If someone had told me this in my previous life, I would've mocked it.
Now?
Now I was here.
And with that came the question I had been pushing away since the moment I woke up in this body: why?
My previous life hadn't been a complete disaster. There were parts of myself I hated, sure. But miserable to that extent? No. Not to the point of getting run over by a truck and waking up as a baby in another world.
In the end, maybe "why" wasn't even the right question. I didn't have an answer. And it seemed I didn't have a choice either.
Monsters… elves… a village without electricity…
That wasn't just strange. It was too consistent to be coincidence. Little by little, everything had already been falling into place in my mind. Only now did I truly accept the obvious.
I was in another world.
If this is a second chance, then I guess all that's left is to figure out how to live here.