-Another week slipped by
I waited until the house was silent, everyone asleep. There was something I needed to try. Deep down, I knew it wouldn't work. But still... I had to.
It was the perfect time for a little experimenting.
I stared at the ceiling, half-expecting it to offer me some cosmic insight. Then, like any self-respecting isekai protagonist in a reality that was starting to feel way too real, I said:
"Status."
Nothing.
I blinked. Tried again.
"Open status window."
Still nothing.
Alright. Maybe it needed a bit more flair.
"System, initiate user interface!"
I half-expected a glowing blue panel to shimmer into existence above my pudgy baby fingers. Instead, I got a bubble of drool and the horrifying realization that my diaper was no longer empty.
Desperate, I gave it one last shot:
"Menu. Stat screen. Guide. Inventory. Magic. God?"
The only response was the soft scuttling of a spider in the rafters above.
I just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling as the weight of an un-gamified reality settled on my chest like a wet wool blanket.
No system.
No quests.
No floating numbers or helpful pop-ups.
Just me, my underdeveloped limbs, and the creeping dread that I might actually have to learn things the hard way.
I sighed internally. Out loud, it came out as a congested grunt.
"This is going to be a long one."
___________________________________________
Baby Status Update:
Neck Control: 25% unlocked
Speech: 0% Internal
Screaming: 300%
___________________________________________
One Year Since the Birth of Lucien
A whole year has passed.
The birds are singing. The wind rustles my now noticeably longer hair. Honestly? I'm digging the anime treatment.
I've caught glimpses of myself in puddles and basins. And, well, I'm cute. Sure, every baby is cute, but I've got soft black hair and my mom's pale green eyes. Not a bad combo.
Maybe one day I'll seduce my way into a powerful noble house, just me, my weaponized cuteness, and eyebrows sharp enough to sign treaties. I'll smirk, raise an eyebrow, and boom: diplomatic alliance sealed. Who needs swords when you've got cheekbones and tactical eyebrow deployment?
Okay, Peter-Lucien, breathe. You're not spiraling, you're just casually losing your mind in a dignified, baby-shaped package.
Today's my first birthday. Or, as I like to call it, Lockdown Anniversary #1. And guess what? There's a full-blown pertussis outbreak going around, so I've basically been in medieval quarantine since birth. It's giving serious COVID-19 flashbacks, minus the Wi-Fi, streaming, and hand sanitizer. I've seen fewer people than a monk in solitary confinement.
On the plus side, Dad built me an extra window so I could at least see the sky. MVP move. He even carved a little wooden ledge under it where birds sometimes perch. I name them. It keeps me sane. "Grumpy Finch" is my favorite. We have a complicated relationship.
Also, I finally figured out the year, and thankfully (I think?), one of the main characters was just born. You know him: stomach issues, trust issues, impossible name, hyper-intelligent, and future bestie of a certain charmingly overpowered skeleton. Let's just call him Jircniv.
Assuming the canon hasn't gone completely off the rails, that gives me roughly 22 years to become useful. Or die trying.
I've got two options: Waste my life, have fun and pray to arrive at 23 years. Buckle down and become someone the Sorcerer King can actually use.
Yeah, I'm calling him that. It feels right.
Trying to oppose him? Insane.
But being useful? That's doable. If I can position myself right, acquire skills, knowledge, maybe even a reputation, then when the pieces start falling into place, that's a game plan.
The real future challenge? Outsmarting Demiurge and Albedo in a galaxy-brained chess match stretched over decades. If I said I had a plan, would I believe myself? Absolutely not. Obviously.
Not that it matters right now. I'll make that call around age six, once I have the motor skills to match my intellect.
Maybe later. It all depends on how the future unfolds. I don't have the tools to predict it, and honestly, that's fine by me. For now, I'll just observe, adapt, and try not to get vaporized by divine-tier NPCs. If fate wants to throw dice, I'll pretend I know the rules and bluff like a champ. Or at least… I'll try.
As for notable developments this year: Dad's smithing business is thriving. Great news for future-me. Maybe he'll slip me some coin once I can hold a cup without drooling into it.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I've grown attached to my parents. Deeply. They tell stories, sing lullabies, and laugh when I babble nonsense, and they do it like it means something. Like I mean something. They're present in a way no one ever was before. Not out of obligation, but because they want to be. And after everything I've been through, that hits harder than any magic spell or status screen ever could.
Try spending an entire year with only two people in your life and not getting attached.
Sigh.
"System?"
...dammit. Why do I keep trying?
-Five Days Later
It's the middle of the night.
I'm back to staring at the ceiling, wondering what I'm doing with my life. I shut my eyes and try to drift off.
Then I hear it.
A notification sound. Faint. Distant. Like a phone chime from another room.
God, I'd sell what little remains of my soul to binge one of those videos where people build luxury mud mansions in the forest with nothing but sticks, unearned confidence, and suspiciously perfect camera angles. Or those soothing voiceover documentaries about fat-tailed gerbils living their best rodent lives. You know, peak YouTube. The kind that tucks you in like a digital babysitter and then abandons you twelve autoplayed videos later in a state of existential confusion and vague hunger.
I slowly open my eyes.
There it is.
A soft, translucent gray window floating in the air.
Beautiful.
I've been to art galleries with my ex back on Earth. Never my thing, it was always hers. I've seen the Mona Lisa's smug little smile, the Winged Victory posing like she owns the place, and that painting of Napoleon looking like he's about to drop the hottest album of the 18th century. But this? This beat every painting I'd ever seen.
It was in English.
Bless whatever god pulled that off.
"SYSTEM?!" I shout, loud enough to wake the dead. Or worse, my parents.
Still, hell yes. Let's see what happens.
"Alright. Let's start with the system."
[Class condition met. Would you like to acquire the Special Class: Hermit?]
Special class? Hermit?
I've spent so much time locked up the system decided to make it official. Honestly? Kinda based.
[Accept]
The window disappeared.
Suddenly, I felt hot. Dizzy.
Like Oktoberfest at sixteen: bad beer, worse decisions.
Oh god. I think I'm going to pass out.
___________________________________________
POV: Erob (Lucien's Father)
"Lucien? What's wrong? Hey?"
I touched his forehead. Burning up. Damn it, he's got a fever. And he's unconscious.
"Sweetheart! Get in here, now! Lucy's burning up!"
I heard her footsteps instantly, fast and sharp.
"What happened?!"
"Fever, really high!"
"Oh gods, no. Wait, hold on!"
She disappeared and came back seconds later, clutching a small vial.
"What is that?" I asked.
"A healing potion. We don't have time for anything else." She gently tipped it to his lips. He drank instinctively.
We waited. Watching. Holding our breath.
Five minutes passed. The heat faded. His breathing evened out.
It was like the fever had never been there.
"Thank the gods," she whispered.
I pulled her close. We both cried quietly, in the firelight.
It wasn't just fear for Lucien. It was memory. It was grief that never really left us.
Our first child had died a year and a half after he was born. A simple fever. An infection we couldn't stop. We watched him fade day by day, powerless, broken. No healing potion, no prayers had worked then.
So when Lucien's fever broke, when his breathing calmed and the heat faded, it wasn't just relief. It was a moment of healing, too. A wound reopened and mended, just a little.
"He stayed," I whispered. "He stayed with us."
Sofia said nothing. She just held on tighter and wept. Silent tears fell down her cheeks, not loud or dramatic, but the kind that come from deep places. Grief and gratitude, tangled in every drop.
And the night passed.