When I reached ten months of age, my father began spending significantly more time at home. At first, I assumed he was simply playing with me, but I was only partially correct; he was simultaneously observing and assessing my every move. It wasn't hard to put two and two together: his "playtime" began almost immediately after my mother witnessed me walking for the first time.
I hadn't planned on revealing that I could walk so early—a skill I had mastered in a few days at the start of my ninth month. However, her action of snatching my book that day had genuinely infuriated me. I had been on the verge of a significant breakthrough, and the loss of momentum was galling. To maintain the facade, I also began uttering a few choice words. My first word was "Mama," which predictably sent both of them into a state of joyous excitement.
The day after my "clumsy" reveal, Father took me to the backyard. He began with the typical gestures parents use to encourage a child to walk, and I followed suit. After watching me navigate with intentionally uncoordinated movements, he seemed satisfied. I thought the session was over, but then he moved his hand, and a sudden, sharp gust of wind knocked me flat on my back.
He encouraged me to stand again and again. With each improvement in my balance, the force of the wind grew stronger. After thirty minutes, I was "dead tired."
Mother eventually rescued me for a bath, followed by my first experience with solid food. I had previously "sampled" non-edible items for keeping the appearance of a baby and for a little bit of my curiosity. I think it is a custom of this world to give solid food when they start to walk.
The delicacy was white, mashed to the consistency of cream, and slightly sweet but otherwise bland. It was a welcome change from a purely liquid diet, and I ate until my stomach was as distended as a balloon. Zeni actually had to cook a second portion.
I soon regretted this lack of restraint. As it was my first time processing large quantities of solids, I could perceive my internal biological functions on a microscopic scale. I felt new digestive glands and hormones activate and immediately overwork themselves on their first day on the job. If my organs could have resigned from their assigned duties, they certainly would have. It was my most unpleasant experience to date.
In the following weeks, Father introduced new "games." He applied weights to my limbs that were perfectly calibrated for my developmental stage.
The morning routine became a cycle of wind-resistance walking, a bath, and a moderate breakfast—I had learned my lesson about overeating. In the afternoons, I was introduced to supplemental milk from local beasts; it was delicious, heavy, and nutrient-rich.
"In the evening, he presented a ball filled with a small amount of sand. He would throw it and have me retrieve it, rewarding me with a 'good boy' each time. For the first few rounds, I felt like a dog in training; after that, he encouraged me to throw the ball using both hands. This repeated exercise left my arms exhausted, following the now-familiar pattern of a bath and a meal. My new food was a mixture of beast meat cooked in the blood of another creature, as I overheard in my parents' discussion. It was quite palatable—perhaps because I didn't have many expectations to begin with. The texture was similar to porridge, and the taste was reminiscent of meat seasoned with soy sauce."
"My training continued in this pattern until my birthday. Sometimes it included a single exercise, like walking on a plank; other times, it was a mixture of two. At one point, Father combined wind-resistance walking with throwing balls. He made me run with and without extra weights, taught me to swim in our water storage tanker, and played catch with me. He even bought a heavy walker and placed me in it whenever he wasn't around. I thanked my mother for her rescues by uttering words that ensured I got adequate rest. However, when I tried the same tactic with Father, he simply increased the intensity.
The result of all this hard work was that my physical control increased significantly—whether in terms of proprioception, kinesthesia, statesthesia, interoception, or exteroception. My understanding of my own anatomy grew as well. I still chose to display a bit of clumsiness to manage expectations, though I couldn't tell how Father perceived it, as he rarely expressed his thoughts.
My diet continued to diversify. Each day, I tried something new; almost all ingredients were different from those in my previous life. Salt was the only commodity that shared the same texture, taste, and color. Every other ingredient differed in size, shape, and hue compared to my previous world.
My favorite food is eggs—any type, whether big, small, white, purple, or black. I didn't care which creature laid them. Perhaps this was because I ate many eggs with my father in my past life, as they were easy to prepare.
Among vegetables, my favorite is Nauca, which tastes like a potato but is round, brown with black spots, and grows on trees. For fruit, I prefer Kandia; it tastes like a mango and grows everywhere—in water, underground, and above ground via vines."
As my birthday drew closer, Mother and Father became increasingly busy; my training was even discontinued three days prior to the event. I felt a growing sense of nervousness. I hadn't expected anyone to have high expectations of me, but after seeing the guest list yesterday, I was left with a literal headache. Is a first birthday truly such a grand event in this world, especially at the start of the Month of Ace?
New people arrived constantly—most of them from the military outposts. Guards were busy checking the house's perimeter and assisting with moving heavy crates.
It was during this commotion that I became aware, for the first time, that we possessed an extensive underground basement. From the safety of my mother's arms, I attentively observed the items being hauled up from the depths: vast quantities of grain, barrels of beer, expensive bottles of wine, and high-end cutlery. There were tablecloths of fine silk and massive utensils designed for large-scale catering. But most intriguing were the monster parts.
The collection consisted largely of bones, some of which I recognized from my previous life's lore and local storybooks. I saw the skull of an Orc encased in glass, the head of a massive one-horned wolf, and the remains of a black-scaled serpent, alongside other creatures I couldn't yet identify.
In the local language, these creatures have specific names, yet my Earth-trained mind instinctively labels them with familiar terms. Just as I call the local saurians "Dragons" and "Nagas" for my own convenience, I categorize the rest of this world's biology through the lens of my past life. I am not a true newborn with a blank slate.
They were also hauling up sets of polished armor and shields, each embossed with a distinct crest. Mother immediately pointed toward one and said, "This is our crest, Zae. Remember it.
"A look of pure shock appeared on my face. My first internal reaction was, "What? "We have our own crest? I observed the insignia closely. It was familiar; I had seen it on the wax seals of the letters and legal documents my mother managed, but I had never seen it displayed so prominently.
It featured a heater-style shield in the foreground, with a heavy two-handed broadsword positioned behind it. Interestingly, the sword's crossguard was shaped like a balanced scale, and the center of grip is a shining pentacle. Embossed on the face of the shield itself was a hunter's dagger.
It was a perfect visual metaphor for our family business: the strength of the blade, the precision of the hunt, and the cold, calculated balance of trade.
The most shocking revelations came next: the magic items. When a guard asked where to place them, my small hands instinctively clutched my head in disbelief; the man seemed amused by the gesture. Mother quickly issued her orders, but I was too busy trying to digest this information. A sense of betrayal washed over me—how had they kept so much latent wealth hidden? Regardless, nothing could be done about it now. I made a mental note to inspect those items later.
Before my eyes, our house began to transform. The front was renovated to welcome formal guests, while the rear was expanded for the celebration. With such a crowd present, gossip was inevitable. I spent those two days acting as a silent observer, gathering a wealth of information about my family and the outside world.
Most people ignored my presence, assuming a mere infant couldn't possibly comprehend their conversations. Often, my proximity prompted them to speak openly about our family—though they would quickly fall silent the moment my mother approached. Within two days, I had processed the data. Apparently, I am considered either a "Miracle Baby" or a "Bad Omen," depending on the superstitions of the speaker. Most of this intel came from the cooks, caterers, and cleaning staff, with a few leaks from the younger guards who hadn't yet learned the discipline of silence.
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