Darkness. Silence. A void so deep it swallowed all thought, all sensation.
Then—pain.
A sharp gasp of air filled my lungs, burning as if I had never breathed before. My body was heavy, weak, fragile. My senses dulled, sluggish. The contrast was jarring—one moment, I had been plummeting to my death, and the next, I was here.
Alive.
Or rather… reborn.
I couldn't move. My limbs felt too small, too weak. My body was wrapped in something soft, yet the air around me was cold, unfamiliar. Then came a sound—soft, muffled, almost distant. A woman's voice.
"…He's so small…"
My eyes cracked open. Blurry shapes greeted me, the world distorted and unfocused. But as my vision slowly adjusted, I saw her—my mother.
Not the mother from my past life.
This woman had pale skin and long, silvery-white hair, her expression distant and cold. She held me in her arms, but there was no warmth in her gaze—only fatigue, resignation, and a deep sadness buried beneath her distant demeanor.
I wanted to speak, to ask questions, but no words came. Only a weak cry—an infant's wail.
I wasn't just alive.
I had been reborn.
Odd thing I was also called Samuel in this life .
But hey at least that Carter name is not here .
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
I had been the heir to the Carter Empire, raised in luxury and power. Now, I was nothing more than a helpless baby.
At first, I thought this was just another life on Earth, but it wasn't long before I realized the truth. The village I lived in was unlike anything I had ever seen—wooden huts, dirt roads, people wearing medieval-style clothing. There were no cars, no technology, no electricity. The world outside was primitive, far removed from the corporate towers and private jets I had once known.
And the language? I understood it. The words spoken around me were unfamiliar at first, yet somehow, they made sense. As if my mind had simply adapted.
A new world. A new life. A second chance.
And this time, I would live for myself.
But first—I had to deal with the humiliations of infancy.
Everything about being a baby was frustrating.
My body was weak, my movements sluggish. I couldn't even lift my head at first, let alone move freely. Sucking milk from my mother was uncomfortable, humiliating even, but I had no choice. Hunger overpowered my pride. And then there was the worst part—soiling myself.
I, Samuel Carter, who once commanded entire boardrooms and negotiated billion-dollar deals, was reduced to this?
It was maddening.
Every small victory—lifting my hand, turning my head, grasping a finger—felt like an eternity in the making. I had spent my past life training to be a ruler, yet now, I couldn't even roll over without struggling.
But no matter how frustrating it was, I endured.
Because this time, I was free.
I learned about my mother in fragments—whispers from the villagers, passing conversations, the way people looked at her.
My mother was Lilia Evermoor and she was once a noble lady, a woman of high birth. But something had happened—something that led to her exile, her disgrace.
The villagers pitied her. They pitied me.
"She had everything once… now look at her."
"That child… he has no father, does he?"
"Poor woman. She's barely surviving."
I could see it, too. My mother worked endlessly—washing clothes, tending to crops, mending fabric—anything to earn enough for the two of us. She never complained, never faltered, but her body was frail. Each day, she seemed weaker, more exhausted.
And yet, despite everything, she never abandoned me.
She was cold at first, distant. But she never neglected me, never let me suffer. Even when she was weary, even when she barely had the strength to stand, she cared for me.
For eighteen years in my past life, I had never known the warmth of a mother's love. But here?
Here, I felt something real.
And for the first time, I found myself wanting to protect someone.
The day I realized this world had magic was the happiest moment of my new life.
It was evening. My mother sat by the small fireplace, her hands cupped together. Then—water formed between her fingers, floating in the air before gently settling into a bowl.
I stared, eyes wide.
Magic.
Real, tangible magic.
I wanted to laugh. To shout. To celebrate.
This wasn't just a medieval world—it was a fantasy world.
And if magic existed, then that meant power.
And if I had power—
I could be free.
At one year old, I finally managed to walk.
It wasn't graceful. My legs wobbled, my balance unsteady. I fell countless times, bruising myself in the process. But I didn't stop. I refused to.
And when I finally took those first real steps, when I finally reached my mother's side—
A small smile escaped her lips.
It was brief. Barely there.
But it was the first time I had seen her smile.
"…Mama."
The word left my mouth before I could even think. A simple word. A childish sound.
Yet my mother froze.
Her eyes widened, something shifting in them. Then, softly—hesitantly—she reached out and touched my hair.
"…You spoke."
I nodded.
For the first time, her cold expression melted. Just a little.
She started teaching me to read soon after.
Although I could instinctively understand the language I couldn't read it. The letters were foreign to me who was a polygot in the previous life. And then I made it my mission to master the language at the end of the year . " Or at least reveal it to her by the end of the year .", I thought.
We had no books, no paper, no ink. So she used the earth as our canvas, sticks as our pens. She traced letters into the dirt, guiding my small hands to follow.
It was slow, tedious. But I learned.
Each new word, each sentence I formed, felt like another step forward.
And my mother—she taught me with patience, with care.
She was no longer just a cold noblewoman forced into hardship.
She was my mother.
Life wasn't easy.
We barely had enough to get by. My mother's health was fragile, her body growing weaker with each passing day. The villagers still pitied us, whispering behind our backs.
But despite all of it—despite the hardships, the struggles, the lack of luxury—
I loved this life.
For the first time, I was not bound by a title, by expectations, by chains of duty.
I was free to live as I wanted.
And I would cherish that freedom.
By the time I turned two, my mind was sharper, my body stronger.
But there was one problem.
I didn't do well with other children.
My mother insisted I play with them, that I interact with kids my age. But I couldn't.
They were too simple, too immature. Their interests, their games—it all felt meaningless. I had spent eighteen years in my past life negotiating with world leaders and handling billion-dollar deals. How was I supposed to play with wooden blocks and chase chickens?
My mother sighed at my reluctance, but she didn't force me. She never did.
She accepted me for who I was.
And in return, I vowed to take care of her.
Because in this life—
She was the only family I had.