The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming sense of helplessness. My limbs didn't respond the way they should, my body felt unfamiliar, weak, and fragile. I couldn't move my head properly, and every sound around me was muffled, like I was hearing it through thick glass. Slowly, I blinked my eyes open, but the world was a blur of indistinct shapes and light.
[Reincarnation successful.]
[Name: Hiroshi Matsumoto]
[Stats, skills, and inventory have been retained. Heroine System reset.]
I would've groaned if I could. I knew what had happened—I had died fighting the demon and somehow, here I was, in a new life, a new body, but still with my memories intact. Yet I wasn't just reincarnated—I was an infant, barely able to move, much less defend myself.
The realization settled in like a heavy weight. I was back at square one.
Over time, things became clearer. I was reborn into a new family, one that seemed well-off but not extravagant. My vision improved, and I could make out details of my surroundings. The room was cozy, with soft wooden walls and warm sunlight that filtered in through a large window. From what I could see, it seemed like the kind of home that belonged to a family living a comfortable, peaceful life—not nobles, but not peasants either.
As the days passed, I noticed more. A kind woman, who I assumed to be my mother, would often be there when I woke up, smiling down at me as she cradled me in her arms. Her voice was soft and soothing, and though I didn't understand the words yet, the warmth in her tone was unmistakable. My father would sometimes appear, his hands rough but his demeanor gentle as he held me, bouncing me softly while whispering something about his "precious boy."
Then there was the maid, an older woman with silver-streaked hair who always seemed to be around, tidying up and helping with whatever needed doing. She treated me kindly, often singing softly as she worked. From the little bits of conversation I picked up, I learned that her name was Marta, and she had been with my family for many years.
They named me Leonis—Leo, for short.
---
For the first few months, my world consisted of blurry faces, warm hands, and a comforting routine. I ate, slept, and slowly began to regain control of my limbs. It was frustrating at first—having the mind of a grown man but the body of a baby. I wanted to walk, to talk, to move freely, but my body wasn't ready for that yet. So, I had to be patient.
I could hear my parents often talking about their lives, and through that, I learned more about the family I had been reborn into. My father, Elias, was a merchant, someone who dealt with trade between different villages and towns. He wasn't wealthy, but he made enough to provide a good life for his family. My mother, Lisette, came from a modest background but had learned to manage the household with ease and grace.
One day, I overheard them speaking while I lay in my crib. "Lisette," my father's voice, a low rumble, filled the room, "do you think our boy will follow in my footsteps? Or maybe he'll want something else?"
My mother laughed, her voice light. "Who knows, Elias? He's still so young. But whatever he decides, I'm sure Leo will make us proud."
---
By the time I was crawling, I had learned to observe everything around me. I watched the people, the way they moved, the way they interacted. My mother would carry me around the house, pointing out things and telling me their names.
"That's a bird, Leo," she'd say, pointing out the window to the garden where small birds pecked at the ground. "And that's a tree. One day, you'll be able to run around and climb them."
I responded with a gurgle, trying to form words but unable to do more than babble. It was frustrating, but I was learning.
Marta, the maid, often spent time with me when my parents were busy. She had a sharp, no-nonsense attitude but was always kind to me. "Little Leo," she'd mutter as she rocked me in her arms. "You're going to be a handful when you start walking, aren't you? Just like your father when he was a boy."
Marta seemed to know my father's childhood well, often sharing stories about him getting into trouble as a child. I filed the information away, slowly piecing together what kind of life I'd been born into.
---
The first time I managed to stand on my own two feet was a moment of triumph. My legs wobbled under me, and I felt like I was about to