Time flowed steadily in this new life, and before I realized it, more than nine months had passed since I was born into this world. My body, still small and fragile compared to the man I used to be, had grown stronger with time. My mind remained sharp, though confined by the limitations of this infantile form. But today, I was determined to show my parents just how far I had come.
Over the past few days, I had been practicing. At first, it was just standing while holding onto the edge of something—a chair, the wall, my mother's hand. Then came the difficult task of finding balance. My legs, weak as they were, wobbled like a leaf caught in a breeze, but I persisted. And now, I was ready to take my first real steps on my own.
Evening arrived, and with it, my father returned from work, his face weary but brightened by the sight of me. My mother greeted him warmly, and soon the three of us were on the floor, my parents playing with me as they often did. Their laughter filled the room, a melody I had grown fond of in this quiet, simple life.
It was time. I crawled a short distance away from them, turning back to face my parents, who were sitting together on the floor. They didn't seem to notice at first, caught up in their conversation, but that was fine. I needed to focus.
Carefully, I placed my hands on the ground and pushed myself upright. My legs trembled, and for a moment, I thought I might fall, but I steadied myself. My parents noticed now, their voices hushed as they watched me with wide eyes. Slowly, I lifted one foot and placed it forward, then the other. Each step felt like a monumental effort, but I kept going, inching closer to them.
My mother clasped her hands to her mouth, her eyes shining with tears of joy. My father laughed, his deep, warm voice echoing in the small room. "Noah!" he exclaimed. "He's walking!"
When I finally reached them, my mother scooped me up, spinning me around in her arms as she showered me with kisses. "Our little boy is growing so fast!" she said, though her words were incomprehensible to me. My father ruffled my hair, his pride evident in the way he looked at me.
It was a simple moment, but in their happiness, I felt a sense of accomplishment. Even if my mind was that of a grown man, this was a small victory worth celebrating.
Time moved quickly, and before I knew it, I was three years old. My once-wobbly steps had turned into confident strides, and the once-incoherent sounds I made had formed into words and sentences. My body grew stronger, but it was my mind—sharp and eager—that kept me constantly looking for more to explore and learn.
This world I now called home wasn't entirely unfamiliar to me. It was The World of Magic and Sword, a novel I had read in my previous life. That knowledge gave me an odd advantage, though it also left me deeply unsettled.
I already knew what kind of world this was. Magic wasn't just a myth here; it was a tangible, integral part of life. Everyone was born with the potential to use it, but few managed to master it. The key was understanding and controlling mana, the invisible force that permeated everything in this world. It was a skill that required immense concentration and knowledge—qualities that many lacked. As a result, only a small portion of the population could wield magic effectively.
I also knew of the dangers that lay ahead. This world was far from peaceful. It was filled with beings of extraordinary power: humans with devastating magical abilities, mystical elves with ancient wisdom, demons born from the abyss, and magical beasts capable of tearing through armies. The thought of such threats was enough to send a shiver down my spine.
What's worse, I had no idea when or if the events of the novel would unfold. The protagonist, the companions, and the overarching plotline were still far off from my current life. For now, all I could do was prepare myself for whatever lay ahead.
The uncertainty of the future didn't stop me from exploring the present. One of the first things to catch my interest in this world was the bookshelf in our home. It stood modestly in the corner of our small living room, filled with books of all shapes and sizes. Some had intricate designs on their covers, while others were plain and worn. To me, they represented a gateway to understanding more about this world.
One day, unable to contain my curiosity, I tugged at my mother's sleeve and pointed toward the bookshelf. "Books," I said, my speech still a bit clumsy. "Want… read."
My mother's face lit up with delight. "Oh, Noah! You want to read books?" she said, lifting me into her arms and carrying me to the shelf. I nodded enthusiastically, though I knew that the stories she would tell me were unlikely to be entirely new—I had read similar tales in the novel. But even so, I needed to know what this world held for me. My knowledge might have gaps, and this was my chance to fill them.
She picked out a small book with a simple cover and began reading aloud. It was a story about brave knights, mysterious mages, and ancient kingdoms. Her voice was warm and soothing, and though I already knew many of these concepts, hearing them from her brought a strange sense of comfort.
But my curiosity didn't stop at listening. I wanted to understand the words myself, to decipher the symbols on the pages. Noticing my eagerness, my mother began teaching me to read. My progress was slow at first, but thanks to my determination—and my experience with literacy in my previous life—I quickly learned to recognize and understand the letters.
Within months, I could read simple books on my own. The bookshelf became my favorite place in the house, and I spent hours poring over the pages. Every book I read deepened my understanding of this world. While the information wasn't always new, it helped solidify my grasp on the intricacies of the setting, from geography to cultural norms.