Budump…
Budump…
Budump…
A muffled rhythm echoed in the darkness.
Slowly, Ethan regained consciousness. Everything felt heavy, warm, and soft.
"What is this? Am I inside a balloon filled with water?" he murmured, his voice echoing strangely in his head.
The world around him pulsed. A faint sound like a heartbeat thumped somewhere far away. He tried to move, but a strange resistance pressed against him.
"Okay, okay, think… did I get eaten by a jellyfish? Is this purgatory for idiots?"
Before he could figure out anything, the warmth pulled him back into sleep.
He woke again to chaos.
"Wait, wait! Who's pushing me?! Stop! STOP!"
Something squeezed him from every side. The pressure built until the world seemed to explode in white.
Light flooded his vision.
The world hit him like a flashbang.
"Which punk is pulling my leg? Come forth and apologize!"
He tried to curse his unseen bully, but all that came out was a helpless cry.
"Waaaaaa!"
"Wait… that wasn't English."
Before panic could set in, exhaustion dragged him under again.
The next time he woke, the world was loud.
Bright.
Cold.
"Ha ha ha! Look at this ugly red potato!" boomed a voice that might have belonged to a god with terrible taste.
"Let's name him Tiny Doombringer!"
"Oh hell no," Ethan thought. "Who's that punk?"
He wanted to protest, but all that came out was another long, angry baby wail.
Somewhere nearby, a woman's voice scolded softly. "Don't tease him. He's beautiful."
That voice, gentle but commanding, became his anchor.
When Ethan finally managed to open his eyes properly, he nearly screamed.
Giants surrounded him.
For a few terrifying moments, he thought he had woken up in a horror movie. Then realization hit.
He was the tiny one.
Tiny, helpless, bald, and completely naked.
"Perfect," he thought bitterly. "Death wasn't enough. Now I'm a baby. Life really does respawn you with all the DLC locked."
Days blurred into weeks. Weeks into months.
By the time his eyes adjusted to the light, he began piecing together his new world.
He was, mercifully, still called Ethan. Apparently, the heavens had spared him from the name Tiny Doombringer.
The first person he bonded with was his mother.
She had a kind face, long blue hair, and eyes that seemed to glow softly when she smiled. She carried herself with grace, but behind that gentleness was authority strong enough to tame dragons.
Ethan adored her instantly.
She smelled of flowers and warmth. Her hums lulled him to sleep.
But one thing shattered his pride every single day. Feeding time.
He had to drink milk to survive. From her.
Each feeding session was another blow to his twenty-four-year-old ego.
"Good thing Hank isn't here to see this," he thought miserably. "He'd never let me live it down."
Far away, in another realm, Hank sneezed violently.
"Haaachoo! Huh? Why am I catching a cold in soul form?"
Beside him, the old man sighed. "Because even the universe disapproves of your stupidity. Now tell me, what's the next nuke code? We must preserve these treasures."
The next voice Ethan came to recognize could shatter mountains. His father's.
"Good heavens," Ethan thought. "Who talks like this? Is this guy auditioning for the Voice of Thunder?"
Every word was a roar. Every footstep a declaration of war.
The man's obsession with heroic naming didn't help.
"Doombringer!"
"Obsidian Voidheart!"
"Tenma Ryoga!"
Ethan could feel his baby soul trying to escape his body.
"Stop. Please stop. I'm not a cursed relic. I'm one year old."
If not for his mother's calm but deadly glares, Ethan was sure he'd already have a title fit for a Saturday morning villain.
At least his mother had the patience of a saint, or perhaps the quiet menace of one.
The maids and servants were a blur of polite faces and fluttering uniforms. Ethan tried to memorize them, but his baby brain refused to process them properly. Everyone looked like background characters copied from the same model.
Still, they doted on him.
One maid even claimed he had "the eyes of destiny."
Ethan, drooling onto his blanket, could only think, Lady, I can't even hold my head straight yet. Let's not jump to destiny.
By his first birthday, Ethan had gathered enough evidence to conclude one undeniable truth.
This world was magical nonsense.
He had seen his mother heal scratches with glowing hands.
He had seen her summon wind to dry her hair.
And the lamps in his room were floating orbs of light that followed her around like pets.
Either this civilization had cracked perpetual clean energy or they had collectively decided that physics was optional.
Even the kitchen defied logic. Self-heating pots. Self-cleaning dishes. Cups that refilled themselves when you weren't looking.
Ethan stared at the breakfast table one morning and sighed inwardly.
"Magic. Literal sorcery. And I still can't hold a spoon."
Then came his father's daily brag.
"Today," the man bellowed, slamming his fist on the table, "I killed a tiger with one finger!"
Ethan blinked.
"Yeah, sure you did, Dad. And I'm Mike Tyson reincarnated."
What unsettled him more was his mother's calm nod.
She didn't laugh or roll her eyes. She simply said, "That's wonderful, dear. Wash your hands before dinner."
That's when Ethan knew.
The madness was real.
When he later saw the tiger skin in the hall, big enough to roof a house, his disbelief officially resigned.
The third person he got to know was his eldest brother.
And this brother was terrifying.
Imagine a university genius with the charisma of a movie star.
Always calm. Always formal. Always glowing faintly blue.
Even when speaking to Ethan, he'd lean over the crib and say things like, "How fares our youngest brother today?" in a tone that could make politicians stand straighter.
Ethan, wide-eyed and drooling, thought, "Why does talking to you feel like a job interview?"
The glow around him was impossible to ignore.
Not candlelight. Not reflection.
It was magic, pure and humming.
Unless the guy had hidden neon tubes in his robe, the only explanation was that his magic was leaking like a faulty light bulb.
When Mother congratulated him for a "breakthrough," Ethan's suspicions were confirmed.
Magic existed, and apparently it ran in the family.
After that, Ethan began observing everything more carefully.
Runes carved under furniture.
Symbols on doorframes.
Even the spoon his mother used to feed him was engraved with glowing marks.
"Why does silverware need enchantments?" he wondered miserably.
He wanted to ask. Desperately.
But he couldn't even form proper words yet.
His inner adult screamed to research, to question, to explore.
But his survival instincts screamed louder.
Because even in fantasy worlds, a talking baby meant one of two things.
A demon spawn.
Or a science experiment.
Ethan wanted to be neither.
So he crafted a master plan.
Cry.
At least three times a day.
At first, it was camouflage, a survival tactic to blend in.
Then it became fun.
There was something deeply satisfying about watching grown adults panic while he unleashed chaos in sound form.
"Waaah!"
"Oh heavens, fetch milk!"
"Someone call the healer!"
"Yes," Ethan thought, "tremble before the power of my lungs."
It was his only weapon in a world of literal gods.
Over the months, he focused on the only thing he could control: language.
He listened carefully. Memorized syllables. Watched lips move.
Slowly, painfully, he began to understand words, names, and titles.
And every night, as he drifted to sleep, the faint warmth of the Core of Insight under his ribs pulsed softly, syncing with his heartbeat.
It didn't speak or glow, but sometimes, when he concentrated, he could almost feel it humming.
It was learning.
It was listening.
Ethan didn't yet understand what it was becoming.
One quiet night, his mother, Lyra Dareth Vale, tucked him into his crib.
Her touch was gentle, but her eyes carried the sharpness of command. She whispered a small incantation, and glowing runes flared on the walls, sealing the room in a protective shimmer.
She stood there for a moment, watching him breathe, and smiled.
Then she turned and glided out of the chamber.
Five minutes later, the night erupted in motion.
Outside, a warhorse thundered to a halt. A man in steel armor dismounted, helmet under his arm, cape fluttering like a banner.
Arion Vale, Duke of the West.
Butcher of enemies. Fool of a husband.
And tragically overconfident father.
Lyra crossed her arms. "Come back before Ethan's second birthday, or I'll come drag you home myself."
Arion laughed, a booming sound that echoed across the courtyard.
"That traitor joined hands with the Red Bastards! But with me leading, we'll crush them within a month! I'll bring the traitor's head as a gift for little Doombringer!"
"Don't you dare call him that," Lyra snapped.
From behind, another voice spoke, calm and sharp.
"Don't worry, Mother. I'll make sure Father doesn't get creative. The enemy will be ash before he can play hero."
Guison Vale. Eldest son. Strategic mind. The family's living blade.
Lyra's lips softened slightly, though she still ordered the aides to keep watch on her husband. "And make sure he eats. He'll forget once the battle starts."
As the entourage vanished into the night, Lyra's regal calm returned.
But when she reached Ethan's door again, her instincts prickled.
A faint rustle.
A muffled tap.
She smiled. "Little one, you think you can fool the senses of an A+ rank?"
Without a sound, she eased the door open.
Inside, Ethan sat upright in his crib, poking at a dim pearl on the floor. It glowed faintly, casting soft light over his curious face.
Lyra chuckled quietly. "You little chaos engine."
She was about to pick him up and scold him for being awake when her smile faded.
The pearl's glow flickered once, then again, and finally pulsed in rhythm with Ethan's heartbeat.
For a moment, Lyra froze.
A strange, divine shimmer rippled through the air.
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"That light," she whispered. "Impossible."
Ethan, blissfully unaware, giggled and poked the glowing orb again.
The pearl pulsed brighter, and the Core beneath his ribs answered in kind.
The room filled with a faint, rhythmic hum.
Lyra's expression turned serious. "So it begins."