The days bled into one another, a slow, maddening river of sameness. The magnificent view outside the window ceased to be a wonder and became a taunt, a painting of a world I could not touch.
It was the same routine again. I have not been so bored in my entire life…
In my past life, boredom was a luxury stolen between shifts and deadlines. This was a new kind of torture. An eternity of helpless observation. I understood now why novels and anime skipped the infant stage. In novels and anime they just skip it… but I have to live every second of it! Man, this is so boring!!! Every minute was an exercise in patience I did not possess. The slow arc of the twin moons across the lavender sky was my only clock.
My body was a prison. A weak, demanding, humiliating prison. I still don't have enough strength… Ah, man… The cycle was degrading: wake, stare, be fed, soil myself, be cleaned, stare, sleep. My mind, screaming with questions and strategies, was trapped in a vessel that could do little more than digest and excrete. The same routine of pooping, staring at the window… the room… I was soo… tired of it…
But biology, even alien biology, is relentless. As days passed on I slowly gained strength. The blurriness of my vision sharpened. The random, flailing movements of my limbs began to feel less like a foreign signal and more like something I could, with immense effort, direct. The sheer, helpless fury became a fuel.
Day 54…
A milestone in my silent captivity. I could finally exert a semblance of will over my muscles. Lying on my back in the crib, I remembered a fragment from my old world, a stray piece of trivia from a scrolling news feed: I remembered from a news article from my previous life… that if you train a baby from infancy… the baby turns out to be stronger than normal babies…
It wasn't much. But it was a principle. Adaptation through stress. My situation was the definition of stress. Instead of just sitting here pooping all day… I suppose I would do that.
The goal was laughably small. Lift my own arm. I focused everything—the frustration, the fear, the simmering anger at the golden-haired man, the desperation to do something—into the muscles of my right shoulder. I imagined the neural pathways, the synaptic commands. I grunted internally, straining.
My arm trembled. Then, with a jerky, ungraceful motion, it rose a few inches off the mattress.
Ohh… It really went up!
The triumph was microscopic, but it was the first victory I'd had since dying. It was agency. However minuscule. I let it fall, panting from the mental and physical effort. I repeated the process with my left arm. I did it a few times and I was tired very soon. Exhaustion slammed into me, a thick, heavy blanket. My eyes went heavy and I slept.
That sleep was different. It wasn't an escape; it was recovery. My body was learning.
The next waking cycle, after the wet nurse came and went (a silent, efficient woman who never met my gaze), I turned my focus to my legs. Lifting them was harder, heavier. But I made them move, kicking feebly at the empty air above the crib. I did it a couple of times before I was tired…
I made it my purpose. My secret rebellion. While my body was caged, I would forge it into a tool. Every waking moment not spent eating or staring out the window was spent in deliberate, grueling micro-workouts. A lift of the arm. A curl of a leg. A turn of the head against the pillow. The progress was glacial, but it was progress. Soon after a couple of days… my strength went up. The movements became less jerky, the lifts a fraction higher, the endurance a few seconds longer.
Ah, I could finally train! I was missing this… at least I'm doing something instead of sitting… The mind-numbing boredom was replaced by a grinding, focused routine. It was a salvation. I had a project. A KPI. Reps. Sets. I started strength practice… day after day after day… I didn't stop as I practiced and practiced, eating food and sleeping in the routine as well. My infant body, fueled by whatever rich nutrients were in the milk here and driven by a consciousness with the discipline of a grown man, responded at an accelerating rate.
Day 100…
I celebrated my first century in this life. A hundred days of survival, of observation, of silent calisthenics. The golden-haired man—my "father"—visited only occasionally, always with that same performed smile, those assessing eyes. He would look at me, say a few of those melodic, alien words, and leave. I thought that my father was gonna kill me… looks like nothing happened… But the lack of overt threat didn't calm me. It deepened the mystery. What was he waiting for?
On that hundredth day, I attempted a push-up. From my hands and knees, I tried to lower my chest and push back up. My arms shook violently, but for one glorious, straining second, I completed the motion. It seems inhuman… that I can do push ups and light punches just … 100 days. By any metric of my old world, it was impossible. A superhuman infant.
But then, I wasn't on Earth. The realization was a constant undercurrent. But… this is not earth… I am in a different universe…different planet… The evidence was in the twin moons, the silver-blue trees, the preternatural grace of the golden-haired ones. The quality of children was very high. This body, this species, was simply built differently. My training was merely unlocking its innate potential faster. I was an eager student in a superior physical classroom.
Day 170.
The changes were undeniable. I had grown. My limbs had length and definition unusual for a babe. My grip was strong. The routine of caretaking continued, but now I dominated the time between visits with a strict regimen.
I could now do 20 push-ups in a row, followed by 30 controlled, snapping kicks against the padded crib rail, and 30 light, precise punches into the air. The coordination was coming. I was no longer a flailing infant. I was a tiny, dedicated martial artist in a pearl-inlaid prison.
THIS IS AMAZING! I shouted in my mind. To think I would advance to such a level at such a young age. The physical prowess was a comfort, a tangible asset in the "Extreme Nightmare." Strength could be a shield. Perhaps it was why I was given this noble body—to survive the horrors to come.
But the triumph was instantly tempered by the looming, much greater obstacle. But there was a problem… I didn't know any of the languages they spoke… I had been a sponge for visual information—the patterns on the maids' uniforms, the rituals of cleaning, the hierarchy evident in who bowed to whom. But the spoken world remained a locked cipher. To live in this world I first needed strength that I have now… Now I need information… and language learning..
I scanned the room, as I had a thousand times before. It was a place of grandeur, but not of knowledge. There were no scrolls, no tablets, no books left lying about. Tch… There are no books in this room. The golden-haired ones didn't seem to be readers, or they took their reading materials with them. Well, it will take time. I would have to listen harder, try to match sounds to actions, to build a dictionary from crumbs. It was a daunting, years-long task ahead of me.
Some day later…
I was in the middle of my afternoon session, my small body sweating as I executed a slow, controlled leg lift, my mind focused on the burn in my quadriceps.
Thump.
A soft, distinct sound. Not a footstep. Not a door. Something solid and small hitting the thick, plush carpet.
My exercise froze. I lowered my leg, every sense straining. Huh?
I turned my head, my heart thudding a sudden, alert rhythm. There, on the floor just beyond the crib, where there had been nothing a moment ago, lay a book.
It was small, about the size of a modern paperback, but thicker. Its cover was made of a dark, supple leather, tooled with geometric patterns. It looked worn, used.
Wha- wh-Wha-what?? How?
I stared, unblinking. I had scanned that patch of carpet seconds ago. The door hadn't opened. The window was shut. No one had entered.
Is this system… or someone? Was the impersonal game-like interface from the white chamber intervening? Or was something—or someone—else in this room, invisible, watching me train, listening to my silent thoughts? The idea was more terrifying than the golden-haired man's smile. I was confused. I was alone in the room… Did something read my mind? I had just been lamenting the lack of books, the need for language.
A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature slithered down my spine. My eyes darted to every shadowed corner. Nothing. Just the grand, empty room and the silent maid by the door, who seemed to have noticed nothing.
The book lay there. An invitation. Or a trap.
I needed to take a risk. My mind raced. To get that book, I needed to get out of this crib. I had never tried. The sides were high, smooth. It had seemed an insurmountable wall. But now, the prize was just beyond it.
I looked at the book, then at the crib's railing. A new goal, immediate and dangerous. My physical training had a purpose now. Get the book. Decode the world.
A grim focus settled over me. It seems like… my wishes came true. But in an Extreme Nightmare, wishes had a price. I didn't know who or what had granted this one, or what they would ask in return. But for a chance to understand, to move from being a blind pawn to a player who could at least read the board, I would pay almost anything.
I slowly, quietly, pushed myself to my hands and knees. I crawled to the side of the crib, my tiny fingers gripping the ornate white bars. I peered down at the floor. It looked very far away.
The first real test of my new strength was not a push-up. It was an escape.