Morning sunlight slipped quietly through the small wooden window, landing softly across the floor.
Alias sat there.
Alone.
Silent.
Thinking.
"…This is a problem."
At just over a year old, his body was still small—unsteady, slow, and limited.
But his mind?
Sharp.
Awake.
Very, very awake.
Alias looked around the house.
Simple.
Wooden walls.
Basic furniture.
No weapons.
No armor.
No war.
"…Too peaceful," he muttered internally.
His parents were outside, their voices faint in the distance.
Something about crops.
Or food.
Or… something peaceful.
Alias exhaled.
"…I need information."
In his past life, information meant survival.
Knowing your enemy.
Knowing your terrain.
Knowing your options.
And right now—
He knew nothing.
"This world… its rules… its people…"
He needed answers.
So, like any former war-hardened rebel leader reborn as a toddler—
Alias began his search.
He waddled across the wooden floor with small, careful steps.
Step.
Step.
Step—
Trip.
Thud.
Alias laid face-down on the floor.
Silence.
"…I meant to do that."
He slowly pushed himself back up.
Dignity: gone.
Mission: still active.
He continued walking.
Carefully this time.
Then—
He saw it.
Near the corner of the room.
Something rectangular.
Thin.
Dusty.
Alias narrowed his eyes.
"…A book."
His heart—well, small baby heart—felt a spark of victory.
"Yes."
He walked faster.
Too fast.
Trip.
Thud.
Silence.
"…This body is sabotaging me."
After a few more struggles (and falls that he absolutely planned), Alias finally reached the object.
He grabbed it.
Small hands gripping the worn edges.
He lifted it.
"…Knowledge."
Slowly—
He opened the book.
And then—
He froze.
Silence filled the room.
His eyes scanned the page.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His eyebrow twitched.
"…What."
Strange symbols filled the page.
Curved.
Sharp.
Completely unfamiliar.
Alias blinked.
"…Okay."
He turned the page.
More symbols.
Another page.
Still symbols.
His eye twitched again.
Harder this time.
"…I can't understand it."
Pause.
"…I can't understand a damn thing."
He stared at the book like it had personally betrayed him.
"I survived war."
"I led a rebellion."
"I took down a corrupt lord."
He slowly raised the book closer to his face.
"…And I lost to this?"
The book, of course, offered no response.
Alias squinted harder.
Maybe—
Just maybe—
If he stared long enough—
"…No."
Nothing.
Not even a single word made sense.
His small hand clenched slightly.
"This is… unacceptable."
He flipped pages faster now.
Symbols.
Symbols.
Symbols.
"Is this even a language?!"
His eye twitched again.
"Who designed this?!"
Another page.
"Why does that letter look like a broken sword?!"
Another.
"And this one?! A snake?!"
Another.
"…Is that a chair?!"
He shut the book.
Hard.
Silence.
"…I refuse to lose to paper."
At that exact moment—
The door opened.
"Alias?"
His mother, Emi, stepped inside.
She paused.
There, in the middle of the room—
Her one-year-old son stood.
Holding a book.
With the most serious expression she had ever seen.
"…What are you doing?" she asked softly.
Alias froze.
Slowly—
He looked at her.
Then back at the book.
Then back at her.
"…Nothing."
Of course, what came out was:
"Ba…"
Emi blinked.
Then smiled.
"Oh?"
She walked closer.
"You're reading?"
Alias internally nodded.
"Yes."
Outwardly:
"Ba."
Emi giggled softly.
"You're too young for that."
Alias's eye twitched again.
"Too young?"
"I FOUGHT A WAR."
But all that came out was:
"Ba…"
Emi gently took the book from his hands.
"This is your father's old book," she said.
"You won't understand it yet."
Alias stared at her.
"…Yet?"
She smiled warmly.
"When you're older, I'll teach you."
Alias paused.
"…Teach me."
His expression slowly changed.
From frustration—
To realization.
"…So that's how it works."
This world wasn't his.
Its language wasn't his.
Its rules weren't his.
Which meant—
"I start from zero."
Emi placed the book back on the shelf.
Then gently patted his head.
"Smart boy," she said.
Alias looked up at her.
"…I am."
"Ba."
She laughed softly.
Alias turned his gaze back to the book.
His enemy.
For now.
"…Fine."
His small fists clenched.
"I'll learn your language."
"I'll understand your world."
"And next time—"
His eye twitched one last time.
"I'm reading that book."
The wind brushed softly against the house.
A peaceful world.
A quiet life.
But inside—
The blade was sharpening once again.