The pulling forced getting stronger
At first, it was faint, no more than a distant shimmer in the abyss. Then, like the slow break of dawn, it grew— stronger, washing over him with a strange, unfamiliar sensation.
The next moment.
Sound followed.
Muffled voices. A rhythmic beeping. The soft rustling of fabric.
Then came the pain.
A crushing force pressed in from all sides, as if his body were being squeezed through an impossibly tight space. It was suffocating, overwhelming, unlike anything he had ever experienced.
And then—
Air.
A rush of cold against his tiny, bare skin. His lungs burned as they filled for the first time. Instinct took over before his mind could even process the sensation.
He cried.
A sharp, desperate wail tore through the silence. His voice was weak, high-pitched—nothing like the deep, commanding tone he had once possessed.
Wait.
Something was wrong.
His body felt... small. His limbs unresponsive, delicate. The moment he tried to move, all he could manage was a slight twitch of his fingers.
Panic surged through his mind.
Why couldn't he move? Why did everything feel so different?
His vision blurred, unfocused, as if a thick fog covered his eyes. Dimly, he became aware of shadows looming over him, shifting figures he couldn't yet distinguish.
A voice broke through the haze.
"A healthy baby boy."
The words rang in his ears, but they didn't make sense.
A baby?
No.
That couldn't be right.
He had died. He remembered it vividly—the execution, the betrayal, the emperor's cruel smile as he was cast aside like a pawn. He had fallen into darkness, swallowed by nothingness.
And yet…
Here he was.
He tried to speak, to move, to do anything that would prove this wasn't real. But all that came out was another pitiful cry.
Then, warmth.
A pair of trembling hands lifted him gently, pressing him against something soft. A familiar yet unfamiliar scent filled his nose.
"My baby…"
The voice was hoarse, weak, but filled with emotion.
His blurry vision cleared just enough for him to make out a woman's face. She was pale, her hair damp with sweat, exhaustion clear in her expression. But her eyes—deep and gentle—held nothing but love.
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she stared down at him, her lips parting in an unsteady breath.
"He's beautiful…"
Another voice—deeper, rougher—spoke from beside her.
"Are you all right?"
A man.
His face was partially hidden in shadow, but his voice was thick with worry. His hands, calloused and strong, rested protectively on the woman's shoulder.
"I'm fine, William," she whispered. "He's here. He's real."
William.
That was the man's name.
The man exhaled shakily, then turned to someone outside Alexander's limited vision.
"Doctor, is everything all right with my wife? She lost a lot of blood."
A third voice entered the conversation—older, authoritative, but calm.
"She is weak, but she will recover with rest. The birth was difficult, but both mother and child have made it through."
Another figure moved into view—a man in a long coat, his sleeves rolled up, his hands still stained from assisting in the delivery. A doctor—or rather, whatever passed for one in this time period.
Alexander's mind spun.
Doctor. Birth. Baby.
He had been reborn.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap.
No.
No, no, no—this wasn't possible. This couldn't be happening.
He had lived a life. He had been Alexander Valtor, Duke of House Valtor, the empire's strongest general. He had fought wars, commanded armies, spilled blood. He had been betrayed, executed—he had died.
And now, he was here.
A newborn.
Weak. Helpless.
His breath hitched.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't right.
His chest tightened. A heavy weight pressed down on his mind. The room around him seemed to shrink, the voices fading into a distant hum.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't an illusion.
It was real.
He cried.
Again.
And again.
Louder, more frantic than before.
The woman—his mother—shushed him gently, rocking him in her arms.
"It's all right, my love," she murmured, brushing a trembling hand over his tiny forehead. "You're safe now. You're home."
Safe?
Home?
He had no home. No safety.
His last home had betrayed him.
His emperor, his allies—everyone he had ever trusted had turned against him. He had died branded as a traitor, a villain, his name erased from history.
He sobbed harder, his tiny hands clenching into fists as if trying to hold onto something—anything—that made sense.
William frowned, concern flashing in his eyes. "He's crying a lot."
The doctor smiled faintly. "A strong cry is a good sign. It means he has healthy lungs."
The man let out a nervous chuckle. "He'll be a fighter, just like his father."
The woman—his mother—laughed weakly, her exhaustion evident. "I only hope he doesn't take after your temper."
The room filled with quiet laughter.
Alexander couldn't understand it.
How could they be so calm?
Did they not realize what had just happened? That he—he—had lived an entire life before this? That he had died?
He wanted to scream. To demand answers. To fight.
But he couldn't.
He was a baby.
A helpless, pathetic, crying infant.
The weight of that reality crushed him.
He had once held a sword that could carve through legions. Now, he couldn't even lift his own head.
He had once commanded thousands. Now, he was at the mercy of strangers.
A second chance.
A new beginning.
Some would have seen this as a gift.
To Alexander, it felt like a curse.
Tears still streamed down his face, but his cries grew softer. His body trembled, exhausted from the sheer force of his emotions.
His mother held him closer, her warmth seeping into his small frame.
"Shhh… It's all right," she whispered. "You're here. You're with us."
His tiny fingers twitched. His breathing slowed.
His mind, still reeling, finally began to accept the undeniable truth.
He was alive.
Not as Alexander Valtor.
Not as a duke, a general, or a traitor.
But as someone new.