Hey.
It's me again—Ikarus.
Two years old. Twice-lived. Officially labeled "squishy" by my own system.
Rude, right?
If anyone looked through the cracked window of our orphanage right now, they'd just see a warm, messy scene: one tired woman, five kids, too few blankets, too much laughter.
Marta sat cross-legged on the old mattress, back against the wall, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The lantern light softened the lines on her face as four little troublemakers clung to her like vines.
Little Rian, with his permanent bedhead, was sprawled against her left side, clutching a ragged stuffed animal like it was legendary armor. Mei, quiet and observant, had her head on Marta's lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing the pattern on the blanket. Arun, round-cheeked and loud, was trying to climb over everyone at once, giggling whenever he slipped.
And then there was Lina.
Lina was pure chaos in the shape of a girl. Short hair, bright eyes, and a grin that said "I absolutely did steal that extra piece of bread, catch me if you can." She sat directly beside me, poking my cheek with one finger like it was her favorite hobby.
"Ikarus looks like a dumpling," Lina declared.
Marta huffed a soft laugh. "Lina, stop bullying the baby."
"I'm not bullying him, I'm appreciating his dumpling-ness," Lina protested. She booped my nose. "Right, Ikarus?"
I stared at her, deadpan, in the way only a reincarnated soul trapped in a toddler body could.
"If I had my old body," I thought, "I'd flick her forehead."
Instead, my chubby hand reached out… and grabbed her sleeve.
"Ah—see?" she said proudly. "He likes me."
Marta shook her head, but her eyes were warm. "He tolerates you. That's different."
Arun flopped dramatically across my legs. "Sister Marta, tell us the story again. The one about the silver dragon over the capital!"
"You're going to wear her voice out," Mei murmured, but even she looked up, interested.
"The dragon is cool," Rian added, muffled into his stuffed animal.
Marta sighed, that long-suffering sound that secretly meant she'd give in. "You've heard it a dozen times."
"One more!" Lina insisted. "For Ikarus. He's still new. He needs proper education."
Proper education, huh?
Dragons, not algebra. This world had its priorities straight.
"All right, all right," Marta relented. Her gaze slid to me for a moment, and something flickered there—affection mixed with a quiet, stubborn protectiveness. The same look she'd given me on the ship when she named me.
She started the tale. Silver scales catching sunlight. Wings casting shadows over towers. Sorcerers on the walls, spells at their fingertips. A dragon's roar that shook banners and bones alike.
The kids leaned closer, eyes wide, mouths slightly open in awe.
I watched them more than I watched Marta.
Their shoulders pressing together. Their small hands clutching at her sleeves. The way Lina's eyes sparkled when Marta described knights standing firm, swords raised.
This right here—this pile of cheap blankets and secondhand clothes and shared warmth—was my entire reason.
I had been forsaken twice.
But these idiots accepted me without knowing anything.
I wasn't going to let the world break them like it broke me.
Eventually, Marta's voice softened, the story winding down with a "happily ever after" that I doubted the real world cared about, but the kids needed.
Arun was already half-asleep. Rian's stuffed animal had become a pillow. Mei's breathing had gone slow and even. Lina fought sleep the hardest, blinking rebelliously until exhaustion finally dragged her eyes shut.
Marta adjusted them all, tucking the blanket around their small forms. I ended up curled on her right side, my head against her arm.
She brushed my hair absently with her fingers. "Sleep, Ikarus," she murmured. "You're safe here."
Safe.
The word still felt fragile in my mind, like a soap bubble that might burst if I believed in it too much.
But in this room, with their warmth pressed up against me, it was the closest thing to truth I'd ever had.
Which was exactly why I couldn't waste it.
Later, when the lantern was dimmed and the room had sunk into the soft chorus of children's breathing, I opened my eyes again.
The ceiling above me was cracked, a faint line running like a scar across the plaster. Moonlight spilled in through the window, painting pale shapes on the floorboards.
Marta slept sitting up, head tilted to the side, chin almost resting on her chest. Her hand had slid off my hair but still hovered nearby, as if even in sleep she was ready to catch me if I rolled too far.
"I know the system thinks I'm squishy," I thought, "but my mind isn't."
In my previous life, I'd drowned myself in stories—manhwas, light novels, anime, series. Sword saints carving mountains. Knights repeating basic swings ten thousand times. Reincarnators building technique in their heads before their bodies could keep up.
A normal two-year-old couldn't train swordsmanship.
I wasn't normal.
I closed my eyes and let the world outside fade.
My breathing slowed. In. Out. In. Out. I imagined my awareness sinking inward, away from my aching, undeveloped muscles and into the quiet space behind my thoughts.
Little by little, the feeling of the mattress, the warmth of the kids pressed against me, the sound of light snores—all of it blurred into background noise.
In that inner space, I stood.
Not physically, of course. My real body remained a curled dumpling on a thin mattress. But in my mind—my second-life mind, filled with stolen techniques and half-remembered panels—I was on my feet.
Bare ground stretched out beneath me. Empty. Dark, but clear.
In my hand appeared a straight wooden training sword.
I could feel it.
Not the perfect weight of a master's blade, but the simple familiarity of a beginner's tool. The grain of wood under my fingers. The way the hilt rested in my palm. The line of the blade extending from my center outward.
"This is mental practice," I reminded myself. "Motor imagery. Visualize it correctly, and the brain learns even if the body can't follow yet."
I placed my feet shoulder-width apart, shifting my weight slowly until it felt balanced.
"In all those stories, they start from the basics," I thought. "Stance. Grip. Line. Intent."
I raised the sword.
In my old world, I'd watched countless characters do this. Here, in this world, it suddenly mattered whether I could imitate them properly.
"Don't rush. Feel it."
I aligned the blade with an invisible target in front of me. Imagined an enemy. Not Noah. Not Caelan. Not Elara. Not yet.
Just a simple point in space that I wanted to cut.
I inhaled.
Exhaled.
And swung.
The imagined sword cut through the air in a smooth, straight arc. My mind tracked the entire line—from start to end, from shoulder to hip, from balance to follow-through.
When the swing finished, my heart was pounding as if I'd sprinted.
Dizziness lapped at the edges of my awareness.
"Woah…"
I staggered mentally, which was an impressive feat considering I wasn't actually standing.
"Guess I really am two," I thought wryly.
My brain felt hot, like I'd crammed an entire exam's worth of information into ten seconds. The urge to just drop and sleep was strong.
But then I pictured Lina's grin. Rian's quiet clutch on his toy. Mei's shy glances. Arun's dramatic dragon roars. Marta's tired smile.
"If I don't push now, what am I even doing with this second life?"
I straightened in the mental space.
"Again."
I reset my stance. Checked my grip. Fixed the line of the blade.
Swing.
This one wobbled. Halfway through, I realized my imagined wrist was too loose, the edge misaligned. The cut would have bounced off real armor.
"Sloppy," I muttered to myself. "Again."
Swing.
Swing.
Swing.
Each time, I paid attention to something small—elbow position, shoulder tension, the direction of my hips. Every correction made the movement a little cleaner in my mind.
Outside, in the real world, my tiny fingers twitched slightly against the blanket.
Somewhere at the edge of my awareness, a faint chime responded.
[Motor imagery detected.]
[Mental practice recognized.]
[Note: host is still physically squishy, but neural pathways are adapting.]
"Told you," I thought. "Squishy doesn't mean useless."
[Debatable,] the system replied dryly.
I would have rolled my eyes if they weren't currently closed in deep focus.
That was Day One.
I lasted… maybe ten mental swings before my focus crumpled and I fell back into exhausted sleep. When I woke the next morning, my body felt normal, but my mind had that faint soreness of having thought too hard.
Marta chalked it up to "growing pains" and shoved a piece of bread in my hand.
By Day Two, I could manage fifteen clean swings in my mind before the world started tilting.
The kids played tag in the yard while I sat in Marta's lap, pretending to doze as I replayed the movement over and over in my head. Sword up. Breath in. Eyes on the line. Cut.
Lina flopped down beside us, panting. "Sister Marta, I think Ikarus is broken."
Marta glanced down at me. "Why?"
"He's too quiet," Lina said suspiciously. She leaned close, squinting into my face. "What are you thinking about, dumpling?"
"Oh, you know," I thought, "basic sword trajectories and murder."
My lips just drooled a little. Perfect cover.
Day Three, I added footwork.
Step forward, cut.
Step back, cut.
Step diagonal, cut.
My imagined body stumbled constantly. Half the time, my mental self tripped over air.
"Idiotic," I scolded myself. "You watched hundreds of these scenes. Move like you've learned something."
I corrected my center of gravity, checked the angle of my knees, and tried again.
Outside, sweat formed lightly at my temple even though I hadn't moved.
Miya wiped it away absently. "Weird heat wave lately," she muttered.
Day Four, I pushed it too far.
I built a small phantom opponent in my mind—a simple dummy in front of me. I imagined cutting once. Twice. Three times. Front, side, low. Every repetition drained me faster.
My mental legs shook. The world began to flicker. It felt like trying to sprint on a brain that only just learned to walk.
"Just… one more set…" I insisted.
I didn't make it.
I woke up sometime later with my face pressed into Marta's shoulder, her hand rubbing gentle circles on my back.
"Bad dream again?" she murmured.
"Yeah," I thought. "About my trash stamina."
By Day Five, something changed.
The mental blade moved smoother. The line of my swing stopped wobbling. The connection between intent and movement felt… sharper. Cleaner.
I stood in that inner training ground, gripping the wooden sword, and for the first time, the stance felt almost natural.
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
Each imagined strike landed where I wanted it to. My focus held longer. The dizziness came later.
When I finally let the sword vanish and my awareness drift back toward my body, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave—but it felt good.
Earned.
I lay there on the mattress, eyes still closed, listening to the quiet breathing of the other kids, Marta's soft snore from the corner, Miya's faint movements in the next room.
A chime rang in my mind.
[Status Update.]
A translucent panel slid into focus in my awareness.
[Name: Ikarus
Age: 2
Level: 1
Magic: 2
Stamina: 4
Strength: 5
Will: 55
New Skill: Swordsmanship (Perception) – 25
– Host's mental training has improved sensitivity to angles, timing, and swing lines.
– When physical training begins, efficiency will be increased.
New Trait: Mental Swordsman (Low)
– Mental imagery of techniques has minor but real impact on neural pathways and future motor control.]
Additional Notes:
– Divine Lust System: Suppressed (Unstable)
– Divine Eye: Locked
– Infinity: Observing.]
I stared at the panel for a moment, then snorted internally.
"Will fifty-five, huh? Guess trauma really does scale."
[Experience breeds resistance,] the system commented. [And host is annoyingly stubborn.]
"I prefer 'dedicated.'"
['Squishy but persistent' is also accurate.]
I resisted the urge to flip off an intangible interface.
Swordsmanship (Perception) at 25 from five days of purely mental practice wasn't bad. No, it was insane. Not flashy by Webnovel protagonist standards maybe, but for a literal toddler lying still under a blanket?
This was my cheat.
Not just the system, not just Infinity, not just whatever that Divine Eye would become—but the fact that I refused to waste anything I knew.
"I have knowledge of so many stories," I thought. "I've seen training arcs, power systems, struggles, saves, betrayals. I know what happens to people who hesitate in worlds like this."
They die.
Or worse, they watch the people they care about die.
I wasn't going to let that happen.
Even if all I could do right now was swing an imaginary sword in my head until I got a headache, it was better than nothing.
"My body is two," I told myself. "My mind isn't. I'll bridge the gap."
[Recommendation acknowledged,] the system said. [Mental training protocol can continue. Caution: do not overstrain. Permanent cognitive damage at this stage would be… suboptimal.]
"Suboptimal," I echoed dryly. "Thanks for the concern."
[Clarification: host's death or brain damage would also be inconvenient for system objectives.]
"So you do care."
[Incorrect conclusion.]
I could have sworn the system sounded faintly amused.
I let the panel fade and opened my eyes just a crack.
The room was still dark, quiet. Lina had rolled away, one hand flopped across my leg. Rian's stuffed toy was now halfway under Marta's foot. Mei mumbled something in her sleep. Arun snored like a tiny dragon practicing.
I turned my head ever so slightly toward Marta.
She looked… older in sleep. Tired. But there was a peace there too, one I hadn't seen when she worked under the Dawsons.
She had thrown away her past life for mine.
Now I was building my next life for hers—and for these four.
"If I'm squishy now, fine," I thought. "I'll use that time to prepare. When I can finally hold a real sword, I won't be starting from zero."
I let my tiny hand inch across the blanket until my fingers brushed Lina's.
She shifted, grabbed my hand in her sleep, and squeezed.
My chest tightened.
Second life.
Second chance.
New family.
I wasn't going to lose them.
"All right," I told the darkness. "System, tomorrow we continue. Same mental dojo. Same swings. Add new angles when my brain stops overheating."
[Understood,] the system replied. [Training schedule saved. Prognosis: with sustained effort, host will be significantly less pathetic than average in 10–15 years.]
"…I hate you," I thought.
[Strong emotional response detected. Will +0.1.]
I almost laughed.
Sleep pulled at me again, heavy and insistent. This time, I let it take me without fighting.
I had time.
I had a plan.
I had a system, an eye waiting to awaken, Infinity watching, a suppressed lust construct that was going to stay sealed if I had anything to say about it.
And above all, I had people I wanted to protect.
For now, that was enough.
Sooner or later, the world would meet the "talentless" child it tried to discard.
By then, I wouldn't be squishy anymore.