Eight Weeks After Birth
The nightmares started on day fifty-six.
Not normal infant distress. These were memories.
Yoo would close his eyes and see: the alley. The gang firefight. Muzzle flashes like strobing lights. The bullet punching through his chest—hot, wet, wrong.
Then the void. 823 years of dissolution. His consciousness scattered across dimensions, each fragment screaming in isolation.
Then the gathering. The cosmic pull. The pain of reformation.
And finally: the womb. His mother dying. The monster's claw descending.
He'd wake up crying—actual infant distress this time, body and mind aligned in terror.
Ji-hye would rush over, rock him, whisper soothing nonsense.
It never helped.
Because she couldn't understand what he was processing: two lifetimes of trauma compressed into an eight-week-old brain.
"Host psychological state: deteriorating," Akasha reported clinically. "Trauma integration incomplete. Recommendation: establish emotional regulation protocols."
How do I do that when I can barely control my own body?
"Suggestion: focus on present moment. Survival. Growth. Future possibilities. Dwelling on past trauma serves no functional purpose."
Easy for you to say. You don't have emotions.
"Incorrect. I am component of host consciousness. Your emotions are my data. I simply process them differently."
That's not comforting.
"Comfort is not my function. Survival optimization is."
Yoo wanted to argue. But arguing with himself—which was essentially what Akasha was—felt insane.
So he focused on what he could control.
Movement.
Progress.
At eight weeks old, Yoo could:
Hold his head up steadily
Roll from back to stomach and reverse
Grasp objects intentionally and with surprising strength
Track moving objects with his eyes
Make varied sounds (though not yet speech)
To outside observers, he was a prodigy infant. Developing at maybe four-month equivalency.
Impressive. But not supernatural.
Ji-hye bragged about him to the other caretakers.
"Seung-yoon grabbed my finger so hard yesterday! And he smiled at me—real smile, not just gas."
I smiled because you gave me food, and my infant brain releases dopamine in response to positive stimuli. Not because I'm emotionally bonded to you. This is weird.
But Yoo let her believe what she wanted.
Because the alternative—explaining that he was a reincarnated twenty-nine-year-old—would get him dissected in a government lab.
"Correct assessment. Current strategy: maintain facade of advanced but plausible development. Recommendation: begin testing additional abilities in private."
What abilities?
"Extras World. Host has not accessed pocket dimension since emergency deployment during birth. Recommend: practice controlled entry/exit to develop proficiency."
Yoo had almost forgotten about that. The moment of desperation when reality tore and he fell into... somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
Can I access it now? Without life-threatening emergency?
"Unknown. Testing required. However, wait for privacy. Current location: Ji-hye's tent with two other infants present. Unexplained disappearance would be problematic."
Fair point.
Yoo waited.
That Night
Jae-sung visited after his latest mission. Three days this time—shorter than usual. He looked exhausted but uninjured.
"How is he?" he asked Ji-hye.
"Perfect. Growing like a weed. Watch—" She placed a rattle near Yoo. He grabbed it immediately, shook it, made delighted baby noises.
This is humiliating. I'm a grown man playing with a rattle.
But it made Jae-sung smile. First genuine smile in weeks.
"Can I take him for the night?"
"Of course. He's your son."
Jae-sung carried Yoo back to their tiny quarters. Fed him—competently now, practice had improved his technique. Changed diaper—still not great, but functional. Then just... held him.
"I don't know if you understand me," Jae-sung said quietly. "But I need to tell you something."
I understand every word. It's deeply weird, but I understand.
"Today's mission—we cleared an Iron-tier dungeon. Should've been routine. But there was something else in there. Something that wasn't supposed to be there."
Yoo focused on his father's face. Saw the fear in his eyes.
"Overlord-class beast. In an Iron dungeon. It killed three of our squad before we escaped. Just... killed them. Like they were insects."
Jae-sung's grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but Yoo felt the tension.
"The monsters are getting stronger. Appearing in wrong places. The system that's supposed to predict dungeon difficulty—it's failing. Or something's changing the rules."
The cosmic game, Yoo thought. Aethon and Chaos are still playing. Every move they make warps reality.
"I'm scared," Jae-sung admitted. "Not for me. For you. Because you're going to grow up in this world. And I don't know if I can protect you."
Then help me protect myself. Let me grow stronger.
But Yoo could only make baby sounds.
Jae-sung kissed his forehead. "Sleep, kid. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to keep us both alive."
He placed Yoo in the makeshift crib. Turned off the lights. Left for his own sleeping area—a thin mattress on the floor three feet away.
Yoo waited until he heard his father's breathing even out into sleep.
Then he focused inward.
Akasha. How do I access Extras World deliberately?
"Recall the sensation during first activation. Desperation. Need. The tearing of dimensional barriers. Recreate that mental state."
I was dying. My mother was dying. A monster was about to kill us both. That was the mental state.
"Then simulate equivalent urgency. Your current situation: vulnerable infant in apocalypse. Monsters can attack at any moment. Father is strong but mortal. You need sanctuary. Somewhere safe. Focus on that need."