The first thing Juri Winkler felt was warmth.
It was a smothering, wet warmth, pressing in from all sides, pulling him into its strange embrace. His senses were dull, his thoughts muddled. He tried to move, to orient himself, but his body felt unresponsive, as if he were trapped in a heavy cocoon.
His last memory was vivid—a deafening roar, the blinding light of a grenade's explosion. He had died in that moment, inside the cramped confines of the T-95. He was certain of it. So why was he here, floating in this strange, liquid-like space?
Juri's thoughts raced, desperate to make sense of the impossible. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't obey. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. Instead, he could only drift, weightless, as faint sounds reached his ears.
At first, they were muffled—low vibrations that pulsed through the fluid surrounding him. But gradually, they sharpened, transforming into something unmistakable: voices.
It was impossible to make out the words, but the tone was clear—worried, hurried, tense. A woman's voice cried out, raw and strained, cutting through the haze.
What is this? Where am I?
And then it hit him. The warmth. The drifting. The voices.
No. This can't be right.
Before Juri could process the horrifying realization, a sudden pressure gripped him. It wasn't just a physical sensation—it was a force that pushed him from every angle, driving him downward.
Panic surged through him as the pressure grew, squeezing him into a narrow tunnel. He tried to fight it, to resist, but his tiny body was powerless. The warm liquid around him shifted, draining away as the pressure intensified.
The woman's screams grew louder, desperate and primal, mingling with the frantic voices of others.
And then, with one final, agonizing push, Juri was free.
The cold was unbearable.
It clawed at his skin the moment he emerged, shocking him into full awareness. He gasped—or tried to—but no air came. He was lifted suddenly, cradled by large hands, and for the first time, he opened his eyes.
The world was a blur of light and shadow, shapes shifting and swimming before him. A man's voice called out—deep and commanding, though the words were lost on Juri's disoriented mind.
"Is he breathing?" another voice asked.
"Give him a moment," the man replied.
Juri tried to scream, to demand answers, but the sound that came out was a pitiful, rasping cry. The hands holding him shifted, passing him to another set of arms. A woman's voice murmured softly, her tone filled with relief.
"Oh, my little one," she whispered. "You're here. You're finally here."
Juri's mind reeled. The pieces were falling into place, each one more absurd than the last. He wasn't in the tank anymore. He wasn't even himself. He was…
"A baby?" he thought, his disjointed mind grasping for clarity.
It was impossible. Ridiculous. And yet, the evidence was undeniable. His body was tiny, weak, and foreign to him. The woman's arms cradled him gently, pressing him against the warmth of her chest.
"How?" he thought. "Why?"
He had been Juri Winkler—a man of unrelenting will, a creator of machines that could destroy armies. He had built a legacy of steel and fire. And now he was… this?
The voices around him continued, pulling him back to the present.
"He's so quiet," the woman said softly. "Is that normal?"
"Some babies don't cry right away," the man replied. "He's strong. He'll be fine."
Juri stayed silent, his tiny fists clenched as he processed the absurdity of his situation. He wasn't dead. Somehow, he had been given a second chance—a new life in an unfamiliar world. But why?
"Have you decided on a name?" the man asked, his tone warm.
The woman hummed thoughtfully, cradling Juri closer. "I was thinking… Ivan?"
Juri's tiny body tensed. Something about that name felt wrong, like a rejection of everything he had been. A sharp cry erupted from his lungs, startling the woman.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Not Ivan, then?"
The man chuckled. "Seems like he's got an opinion already. What about Dmitri?"
Another cry, louder this time.
"Not Dmitri either," the woman said, laughing nervously. "All right, let's try… Alexei?"
Juri wailed, his cries echoing through the room. Frustration bubbled inside him, though he had no way to express it. He wasn't Ivan, or Dmitri, or Alexei. He was Juri Winkler. That name carried the weight of who he was—who he had been.
"Hmm," the woman murmured. "He's so fussy. What name would make you happy, little one?"
They continued listing names, one after another—Viktor, Nikolai, Andrei—but Juri rejected them all. His cries grew more insistent, more desperate, until finally, the man sighed in exasperation.
"What about Juri?" the man suggested.
The crying stopped instantly.
The woman blinked, staring down at the baby in her arms. "Juri?"
The room fell silent, save for the faint crackling of a fire in the corner. Juri's tiny body relaxed, his breaths evening out as the name settled over him like a balm.
The woman smiled, her eyes softening. "Juri Winkler," she said gently. "It suits him."
The man nodded. "Strong name for a strong boy."
Juri closed his eyes, a strange calm washing over him. He didn't know why he had been given this second chance, but one thing was clear: he would make the most of it.
As the days passed, Juri began to piece together the basics of his new life. His parents, Marina and Anton Winkler, were simple farmers living on the outskirts of a small village called Volgrath. The village was nestled in a lush valley, surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests.
It didn't take long for Juri to realize that this wasn't just another part of Earth. The villagers spoke of magic as casually as one might talk about the weather. He watched in silent astonishment as his mother lit the stove with a flick of her fingers, tiny sparks of flame dancing across her fingertips.
Magic was everywhere in Volgrath, woven into the fabric of daily life. The blacksmith used fire spells to temper his steel. The baker used cooling charms to keep his bread fresh. Even the children played games that involved conjuring small orbs of light.
Juri, however, felt none of it.
From the moment he began to understand his surroundings, it was clear that he had no connection to the magical energy that seemed to flow through everyone else. While other children levitated pebbles or summoned flickers of light, Juri's hands remained stubbornly empty.
At first, his parents dismissed it as a delay. "He's a late bloomer," Marina said with a smile. "He'll surprise us one day."
But as the years passed, it became increasingly obvious that Juri was different. The other villagers began to whisper, their words laced with pity or scorn.
"No magic at all?" they would murmur. "Poor boy."
Juri, however, wasn't disheartened.
"If I can't use magic," he thought, "then I'll create something better."
Even as a child, his mind buzzed with ideas. He would sit for hours, sketching crude designs in the dirt—machines powered by gears and levers, fueled by ingenuity instead of magic.
The villagers laughed at his strange behavior, calling him "the magicless dreamer." But Juri didn't care. He was patient.
Because he knew, deep down, that the world was built for those with vision.
And someday, his vision would shape it.