Ping. "One can contact this system through Testarossa if certain high-level requirements are met. Farewell, displaced soul. May your new data set be a long and fulfilling one."
The darkness was absolute, a perfect void that swallowed all thought and sensation. It was mercifully short-lived. I felt my disembodied consciousness being pulled, accelerated through an unseen conduit. A pinprick of light appeared in the distance, expanding with alarming speed until it consumed the blackness, pulling me forward into a world of overwhelming sensory data.
The transition from pure consciousness back to physical existence was a violent, jarring compression. One moment I was an unbound entity, the next I was being forcibly crammed into a vessel that felt impossibly small, weak, and helpless. My new limbs felt like foreign attachments, my motor control was nonexistent, and my vision was a frustrating, milky blur of indistinct shapes. Every sensation the texture of the cloth I lay on, the ambient temperature of the air, the low hum of magic in the room was amplified to an almost unbearable degree. It was sensory overload on a scale I'd never imagined.
I managed to force my eyelids open. The light was a physical assault, a harsh, clinical glare that was a world away from the gentle, ethereal glow of the nexus space. I was small, utterly dependent, and cradled in the gloved hands of a woman in pristine white robes. My newborn eyes struggled to focus, but I could perceive a subtle shimmer woven into the fabric of her attire, a faint iridescence that suggested magical enchantments likely a complex matrix of protective wards, sterilization fields, and healing magic integrated into the very threads.
My blurry vision slowly began to resolve, allowing me to take in the room around me. This was no modern hospital. The chamber was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling from which hung a grand chandelier wrought from what looked like gold and crystal. The crystals, however, didn't just refract light, they generated it, each one a self-contained magical lantern casting a warm, steady glow that filled the room and left no shadows. The walls were not drywall and paint, but massive blocks of polished, obsidian-black marble, veined with silver that wasn't mineral but metal, inlaid in intricate runic patterns that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light, like a sleeping heart.
Between the tall, arched windows, grand tapestries hung from ornate rods. They were not mere decorations, but woven histories, depicting the triumphs of a noble house. I could make out the central motif on each: a roaring silver lion, its mane like a starburst, set against a field of deep sapphire blue. The sheer artistry was breathtaking, the threads seemed to shimmer with a life of their own, the lion's eyes appearing to follow me as the light shifted. The air itself was thick with the scent of antiseptic herbs, the clean fragrance of beeswax from polished wooden furniture, and the faint, grounding smell of old, powerful stone. This was a room that radiated centuries of wealth, power, and history.
My gaze drifted to the centerpiece of this opulent chamber: a large, ornate four-poster bed, its frame carved from a dark, lustrous wood. On it, half-buried in a sea of silk pillows and fine linen sheets, was the woman whose blurry form I had first seen. My mother.
She was stunning. This was not the thought of a son, but the cold, objective assessment of an adult mind. Her hair was not merely blonde or white, but the color of spun silver, a liquid cascade of moonlight spilling across the dark blue silk of her pillows. Her face, though pale and etched with the exhaustion of childbirth, was a masterpiece of aristocratic bone structure. Her eyes, when they finally opened and focused on me, were a brilliant sapphire blue, holding a depth of intelligence, warmth, and a fierce, possessive light that seemed to claim me in an instant. Even in this state, she possessed a regal grace, an innate authority that was as much a part of her as her own skin.
"Testarossa, are you there?" I thought, testing the silent, seamless connection that now existed within my own consciousness.
"Yes, Master," her voice replied. It was calm, crisp, and perfectly logical, a discrete signal within my mind. It lacked the ethereal, world-spanning echo of the System, feeling more like a private, internal conversation with my own enhanced mind.
"Testarossa is a mouthful. Can I call you Tes? And thank god that annoying ping sound is gone."
"Acknowledged. I shall reply to the designation 'Tes'. The auditory ping is a feature of the World System's user interface, not my own protocol."
The doctor finished her tasks wiping me down, swaddling me in soft cloth, and then checking my vitals with a gentle, glowing light that I now recognized as diagnostic magic. A stream of golden energy, thin as a spider's thread, flowed over my tiny body, assessing everything from my bone density to my latent magical potential. Apparently, even newborns in this world received a comprehensive mystical health screening.
Then, without warning, she flipped me over her arm and landed a firm, stinging smack on my butt. I stared, my adult mind utterly baffled by the primitive absurdity of the act. A few moments of confused silence passed. A second smack, sharper this time, landed on my chubby, defenseless backside.
"Tes, what is happening? Is this some kind of archaic hazing ritual for newborns?"
"Master, this is a standard medical procedure in this world to stimulate the lungs and induce a cry. It serves as a diagnostic confirmation that the infant is a naturally functioning biological entity. I would recommend you comply to signal your viability and avoid further percussive motivation."
Percussive motivation. I would have smirked if my facial muscles were capable of such a complex maneuver. Right after the third spank landed, I let out a wail. "Whaaa! Whaaa! Whaaa!" It felt bizarre, forcing a cry when my mind was perfectly calm and vaguely annoyed, but my new baby lungs complied admirably, emitting a surprisingly robust sound.
"Give him to me," a soft but firm voice commanded. My mother. There was an unmistakable note of authority in her tone that brooked no argument.
The doctor handed me over, and I was enveloped in a profound warmth and a scent of lavender, milk, and something uniquely… maternal. She soothed me, her gentle hand stroking my back with a practiced confidence that belied her regal bearing. She pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and her voice was a low, calming hum as she lulled me, the sound vibrating through her chest in a way that was deeply comforting.
I ceased my fake crying, utterly captivated by the sensation. The warmth of her touch was alien. Not in a bad way, but in a way that highlighted a void in my previous life I had never allowed myself to acknowledge. Was this what having a mother felt like? A safe harbor? In my past, there was only the grumpy, overworked orphanage director who viewed displays of affection as an inefficient use of time. This was a warmth I had never known, a sensation that bypassed my rational, analytical mind and spoke directly to some deep-seated, primitive need for connection.
Soon, she placed me gently in a large, masterfully carved wooden crib beside the bed. The crib itself was a work of art, made from what looked like Luminous Heartwood, a magical timber that had a subtle, pearlescent quality. Protective runes were expertly carved along the edges, glowing softly with a protective blue light that matched my mother's eyes.
"My little lion cub," she whispered, her voice thick with pure, unadulterated emotion. The endearment should have been embarrassing, but instead it felt like a verbal hug, a brand of ownership and love that was entirely new to me.
The doctor then moved to perform some final checks, reaching toward the crib with professional efficiency. As her hand approached, my mother's soft demeanor vanished. The gentle warmth in the air evaporated, replaced by an arctic chill that seemed to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. Lying back against her pillows, she didn't raise her voice, but her words were like silk stretched over sharpened steel.
"Doctor," she said, her sapphire eyes narrowed into icy slits that could have frozen hellfire. "Touch my son one more time without my explicit permission, and I will personally guarantee your head decorates a pike in front of the castle gates by sunrise."
The doctor froze, her hand hovering in mid-air as if she'd suddenly realized she was reaching for a coiled viper. The maids attending to my mother went pale, their movements ceasing as a tense, heavy silence descended upon the chamber. The doctor slowly withdrew her hand, bowing with a rigid formality born of genuine, mortal fear, and backed away from the crib as if retreating from a predator.
Holy shit, I thought, with a mixture of awe and grim satisfaction. It seemed my wish for a powerful family came with a fiercely overprotective mother. This was… neat. Incredibly neat. Someone actually cared enough to threaten decapitation on my behalf. The casual way she delivered the threat suggested it was no idle promise. My mother, the Duchess, had the power to make it happen.
I turned my head, looking through a large, arched window that offered a view of the ducal estate. As if on cue, the night sky suddenly erupted in a kaleidoscope of light and sound. Fireworks. Brilliant explosions of sapphire blue and glittering gold lit up the darkness, each one bursting in patterns far too perfect to be mundane. These weren't simple gunpowder fireworks, they were magi-technical marvels, forming elaborate, shifting designs. The display culminated in a massive, silent explosion of silver light that coalesced into the form of a roaring lion, its form hanging in the night sky for a long moment before dissolving into a shower of glittering stars. A celebration for the heir. For me.