Thump-thump.
Yoo's first conscious thought in his new body was: I'm going to go insane.
Thump-thump.
That was his heartbeat. Too loud. Too present. He couldn't escape it—couldn't tune it out the way adults learned to ignore their own bodily functions.
Thump-thump.
Every sensation was overwhelming. Light was blinding even through closed eyelids. Sound was physical force against his eardrums. The slightest touch felt like sandpaper.
And he couldn't move.
His adult consciousness screamed commands at his infant body. Lift your head. Turn over. Sit up. DO SOMETHING.
His body ignored him. Muscles didn't obey. Neural pathways weren't developed. He could barely coordinate enough to suck milk from a bottle.
This is torture.
"Affirmative," Akasha agreed clinically. "Host consciousness-to-body ratio is unprecedented. Adult awareness in infant form creates severe psychological stress. Recommendation: enter dormant state until physical development catches up."
Can I do that?
"Theoretically. Would require suppressing conscious thought for approximately 6–8 months until motor cortex develops sufficiently."
No.
If he went dormant, he might not come back. Might lose himself in the infant's developing brain, emerging years later with fragmented memories and no sense of self.
He'd survived 823 years scattered in the void. He could survive this.
Thump-thump.
—probably.
Two Days After Birth
Jae-sung sat in what remained of the bunker's mess hall, holding a bundle that squirmed occasionally but mostly just existed.
His son.
He still couldn't process it. Min-ah was dead. Buried in a mass grave with forty-seven others who'd died during the breach. He'd stood over her body for three minutes—all the time he could spare—before the evacuation orders came.
Now he had this.
The baby was tiny. Premature by two weeks, born under the worst possible circumstances, delivered by—
Jae-sung still didn't understand what he'd seen. The baby had torn itself free from Min-ah's body. Had moved with purpose, with awareness no newborn should possess.
The doctors said it was impossible. Reflex actions, they claimed. The body's final desperate attempt at survival.
But Jae-sung had seen those eyes.
Ancient. Aware. Wrong.
The baby stirred in his arms. Made a small sound—not quite a cry, more like frustration.
"Hey," Jae-sung said softly. "You hungry?"
He wasn't good at this. Had no idea how to care for an infant. Min-ah was supposed to handle this part while he worked, earned tokens, kept them safe.
But Min-ah was gone.
So he figured it out. Bottle prepared poorly—too hot, then too cold, then finally acceptable. The baby latched on, sucked weakly.
Watching his son feed, Jae-sung made a promise:
I'll keep you alive. Whatever you are. Whatever it takes.
Inside
Yoo wanted to scream.
Milk filled his mouth. His infant reflexes forced him to swallow. He couldn't taste it—not really. Infant taste buds weren't developed enough for complexity.
Everything was muted. Blurry vision. Muffled sounds. Sensations that his brain couldn't fully process.
And he was so weak.
His previous life, he'd been able to walk, run, use his hands for complex tasks. Code for sixteen hours straight. Lift moderately heavy objects.
Now? He couldn't even hold his own head up.
This is hell. This is actual hell.
"Incorrect. Hell would imply punishment for sins. This is merely consequence of physical limitations."
Not helping, Akasha.
"Accuracy is more valuable than comfort."
The bottle emptied. Yoo felt his father's large, callused hand patting his back—burping technique, probably learned from a manual or advice from others.
It worked. Gas released. Yoo's infant body relaxed slightly.
At least that's less uncomfortable.
"Small victories. Recommendation: focus on achievable goals. Current priority: survive next 24 hours. Secondary priority: begin mapping motor neuron development."
Mapping?
"Affirmative. I can accelerate physical development by optimizing neural pathway formation. However, process requires conscious guidance. You must attempt movement repeatedly. Failure is expected. But each attempt provides data for optimization."
So I just… try to move? Over and over?
"Correct. Estimated time to achieve basic motor control: 4–6 weeks with optimization. Normal infant development: 3–4 months."
Six weeks versus four months. Still felt like forever, but it was something.
Fine. Let's start.
Yoo focused on his right hand. Tried to make a fist.
Nothing happened.
Tried again. Concentrated harder.
His pinky finger twitched.
That's it? That's all I get?
"Progress. Logged. Continue."
So he did. Lying in his father's arms, fed and warm and utterly helpless, Yoo spent the next hour trying to make his hand obey.
By the end, he could twitch three fingers.
It was pathetic.
It was progress.
Three Days After Birth
"You can't keep him."
Dr. Choi stood in the doorway of Jae-sung's assigned quarters—a converted storage room, barely three meters square.
Jae-sung looked up from the makeshift crib he'd assembled from supply crates and blankets. "Excuse me?"
"The baby." Choi stepped inside, closing the door. "You're a hunter. Active duty. You can't care for an infant while fighting monsters."
"Watch me."
"Be realistic. You'll be deployed again in—" he checked his tablet "—sixteen hours. Mission duration: estimated three to five days. What happens to the child while you're gone?"
Jae-sung's jaw tightened. "I'll find someone to watch him."
"Who? Everyone here has their own responsibilities. Their own survival to worry about." Choi's voice softened. "There are facilities. Government-run nurseries for war orphans. He'll be fed, protected—"
"No."
"Jae-sung—"
"I made a promise." Jae-sung stood, facing the doctor. "To my wife. Before she died. I promised I'd protect him. That means keeping him with me. Where I can see him."
Choi sighed. "That's not practical."
"Don't care."
They stared at each other. Finally, Choi pulled out a second tablet. "There's... another option. Not official. A woman named Ji-hye. She runs an underground daycare of sorts in the slums. Takes in children while their hunter parents work."
"Slums? The place is barely standing. And you want me to leave my son there?"
"It's safer than active combat zones. And Ji-hye is good at what she does. Her own son is a hunter—you might know him. Min-jun."
Jae-sung knew the name. Silver rank, young, skilled with a spear. Fought in his squad twice.
"I'll... think about it."
Choi nodded. "Here's her location." He transferred data to Jae-sung's device. "For what it's worth? The baby's survival rate is still low. Premature, delivered under trauma, no mother—most infants wouldn't last a week."
"He's not most infants."
"No," Choi agreed quietly. "He's not. Those self-delivery mechanics I saw... that wasn't normal. You know that, right?"
Jae-sung looked at his sleeping son. "Yeah. I know."
"Has he done anything else unusual?"
Those eyes. That awareness.
"No," Jae-sung lied. "He's just a baby."
Choi didn't believe him—that much was obvious. But he let it drop. "Sixteen hours until deployment. Make your decision."
He left.