The week without Dad and his noisy crew feels… strange. The house is quieter—almost too quiet. The only familiar sounds are my own babbling (which is getting more intentional), Mom's soft humming as she works, the clinking of her alchemy tools, and the rustle of pages as she reads. I'm seven months old now—a veteran at this whole baby reincarnation thing.
Getting Dad's letter was a huge relief. An army messenger delivered it, stamped with General Valerius's official seal. Mom opened it with slightly trembling hands, but a relieved smile spread across her face as she read. "Good news, Lexo," she told me, lifting me up to kiss my forehead. "Dad and the others are okay. They've successfully repelled some advance scouts and are helping reinforce the defenses at the main fort in the region. He says Borin's complaining about the food, Lyra misses the tall trees, and Kael has already 'found' several extra rations." The tension visibly eased from her shoulders. Knowing they're alright, for now, is enough.
My "help" in the clinic continues. I've gotten pretty good at handing Mom the right cloth or pointing out the jar she needs—as long as it's within reach and she guides me with her eyes. Sometimes, while she channels her healing Light, I close my eyes and focus on my own core. That 80% feels solid, stable—like a tensed muscle waiting to be used. There haven't been any more sudden leaps; it seems that emotional surge was a one-time anomaly. The remaining 20% will likely require conscious effort… or maybe something else.
With the relative calm in the house, I decide it's time to tackle another crucial aspect: knowledge. I understand everything I hear, but my ability to communicate is frustrating. And I want to know more about this world—its history, its geography, its magic… beyond the snippets I pick up from conversations.
So, I launch "Operation: Secret Baby Library." Mom has a small bookshelf in the main room filled with a variety of books: medical texts, some volumes on botany, a couple of history tomes, and one or two heavy volumes with runes and diagrams that scream "magic." Convincing Mom to let me "play" near the bookshelf takes some persistence (and a lot of pretending to be interested in nibbling on a nearby chair leg). Once I'm there, the real work begins.
I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall so I don't topple over, and try to open these hefty volumes. My stubby fingers are clumsy, and the pages are thick. More than once I end up drooling on an alchemical diagram or accidentally tearing off a corner (oops!). But my mind is focused. I recognize some letters from the alphabet of my past life, though the script here is different—yet with some Latin similarities. I start associating the symbols I see with words Mom uses constantly: "healing," "light," "herb," "kingdom," "border."
I pore over the maps in what appears to be an old geography encyclopedia, trying to memorize the shape of this new world. I study the medical diagrams (still mostly incomprehensible), comparing them to my rudimentary knowledge of anatomy (both human and, now, my own with this extra core). It's an incredibly slow and painstaking process, limited by my baby physique. But every little discovery, every symbol I start to recognize, feels like a victory.
In short, it appears I live on a planet similar to Earth, called Ummo—a world mostly covered in water with one enormous, Pangea-like continent in the middle. Within this central landmass are seven clearly defined territories. From what I can tell—and thanks to the big red arrow Mom drew in the book—I'm in Quintus.
I don't yet know why it's called that (which will be another mystery to research later), but it seems these countries or kingdoms are simply named numerically according to their position—nice and simple: starting with Primus and ending with Septimus, arranged clockwise from north to west. So my nation is in the southwest, in an almost idyllic grassland with a mountain range to the north separating it from Sextus.
After a week of this new routine—passively refining my inner energy, "helping" in the clinic, and my secret study sessions—I feel that even though my core hasn't advanced in percentage, my mind is more anchored in this world. The connection between my adult consciousness and my surroundings is growing stronger.
Curious to see if my intellectual efforts or internal stability have produced any measurable effect, I focus and call up the interface.
------------------
[Lexo]
Level: 0.80
HP: 16/16 (+1)
MP: 21/21 (+1)
STR: 2
VIT: 2
INT: ?? (Linguistic Processing Active)
WIS: ?? (Basic Environmental Analysis Active)
DEX: 2
MAG: 2
Status: Conscious Mind, Stable Mana Core (~80%), Self-Teaching.
------------------
Ah! Interesting changes in INT and WIS. They're still locked, but now they show specific activity—"Linguistic Processing" and "Basic Environmental Analysis." And a new status: "Self-Teaching." The system recognizes my efforts to learn on my own. My basic stats and HP/MP continue to tick up slowly with growth. My core remains stable at ~80%.
I smile inwardly, feeling victorious—if only for a moment—before I finally crash into a blissful sleep, lulled by the soft scent of my blankets. Right, I'm still just a baby.