Consciousness did not return all at once.
It surfaced in fragments—disjointed sensations drifting together in no particular order. Warmth. Pressure. A dull, persistent discomfort that wrapped around Cael's awareness like a thick fog.
Then came the inability to breathe.
Air rushed into lungs far too small, burning as it filled them, triggering a violent reflex he couldn't control. His body convulsed, throat tightening as a sound tore free from him—shrill, broken, and humiliating.
Crying.
The realization struck him harder than the physical sensation.
Why am I crying?
Panic surged, but it had nowhere to go. His limbs flailed weakly, movements clumsy and disconnected from his intent. He tried to clench his jaw, to stop the noise, but his body ignored him entirely.
Something shifted beneath him.
Strong hands—gentle but firm—lifted him, supporting his head. A voice followed, old and rough around the edges, trembling with something dangerously close to relief.
"Hush now… easy… you're alright, young master…"
Young master?
Cael's thoughts stumbled over the words.
His vision flickered on, blurred beyond recognition. Colors bled into one another, shapes warping and swimming. A face hovered above him—lined deeply, framed by thinning gray hair. Eyes tired, but alert. Alive.
This wasn't a hospital.
The ceiling above him was wooden. Old. The air smelled faintly of dust, herbs, and stone rather than antiseptic.
A cold understanding settled into his mind.
I died.
The memory hit him all at once—the sirens, the running, the flash of light, the crushing pain. The war that had swallowed his world whole without ceremony.
He was certain of it.
And yet his heart beat rapidly in his chest. Weak, frantic, but undeniably real.
Reincarnation.
The word felt surreal even as it fit too neatly.
So this is how it happens, he thought dimly. No gods. No voices. Just… waking up.
His body continued to cry, lungs burning as tears streamed down his cheeks. He had no control over it. No strength to fight it.
The old man rocked him gently, murmuring words Cael couldn't understand, though the emotion carried through clearly enough.
"You're safe… the house still stands… as long as I live, you won't be alone…"
The crying slowly subsided—not because Cael willed it to, but because his body tired itself out.
Darkness claimed him again.
Life as an infant was a lesson in helplessness.
Days blurred together, marked only by hunger, sleep, and brief stretches of hazy awareness. Cael learned quickly that his mind might be intact, but his body was not his own.
Hunger arrived like an ambush—sudden, overwhelming, painful. Sleep dragged him under without warning. Sounds were too loud, light too sharp. Even being held could feel exhausting.
Worst of all was the lack of control.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't sit up. Couldn't even turn his head deliberately most of the time.
And yet, his thoughts were clear.
He remembered Earth vividly—his room, his phone, anime playlists looping late into the night. His parents' tired smiles. The war creeping closer year by year until it finally reached him.
And TBATE.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
A reincarnation story fan getting reincarnated, he thought bitterly. Figures.
He listened.
That became his anchor.
The old man—Orien, he eventually learned—talked constantly. Sometimes to Cael. Sometimes to himself. Sometimes to people who were no longer there.
"This house used to ring with laughter," Orien muttered one evening while rocking him near the hearth. "Your father despised silence… said it made him think too much."
Father.
Dead, then.
"Your mother was kinder," the old man continued softly. "Too kind for a world like this."
Cael absorbed every word, filing it away.
A noble house. Low-ranking, by the sound of it. Once stable, then slowly ruined—not by a single catastrophe, but by war, sickness, and debt piling atop one another until nothing remained.
Everyone was gone.
Everyone except a newborn heir and an old butler too stubborn to leave.
The weight of it settled heavily in Cael's chest.
Months passed.
His body grew stronger, inch by inch. He learned to roll over. To sit with support. To babble convincingly enough that Orien laughed instead of worrying.
Inside, Cael was working.
Not recklessly.
He knew TBATE's rules too well to make that mistake.
Mana cores didn't appear because someone wanted them to. They formed slowly, naturally, as mana gathered and stabilized within the body.
Arthur had been an exception.
Cael was not.
So he focused inward.
At first, there was nothing—just a vague sense of warmth deep within his chest, like a presence he couldn't quite touch. He concentrated on it carefully, tentatively, as though reaching for something fragile in the dark.
Sometimes, he felt resistance.
Sometimes, pressure.
Once, a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes, forcing him to stop immediately as nausea followed.
So that's the limit, he thought grimly.
He adjusted.
Instead of forcing mana to move, he tried to invite it. To coax whatever faint motes existed within his body toward a single point.
Progress was microscopic.
Days of effort yielded nothing visible. Weeks passed with no obvious change.
But occasionally—just occasionally—he felt something shift.
A tightening sensation. A subtle density forming deep within his chest, vanishing the moment he tried to focus too hard.
It was exhausting.
And it burned through his energy frighteningly fast.
After longer attempts, his head throbbed painfully, and he grew irritable and weak, his body demanding food and rest with greater urgency.
Orien noticed.
"You've been fussier lately," the old man murmured one night, worry creasing his brow. "Growing pains, perhaps…"
Cael wanted to laugh.
If only you knew.
By the time he could walk unassisted, Cael understood his situation well enough to fear it.
The estate was large—but empty. Entire wings were sealed off, doors locked to conserve heat and resources. Dust coated unused furniture. The walls bore the marks of age and neglect.
There were no guards.
No servants.
No visitors.
A noble house in name alone.
Orien handled everything—finances, cooking, cleaning, protection—with the weary determination of someone holding collapse at bay through sheer force of will.
Sometimes, Cael caught him staring at the family crest carved above the fireplace.
Other times, he heard him whisper apologies into the silence.
Cael didn't know what kind of future awaited a normal reincarnated teenager in a babies body.
But he knew one thing with certainty:
He had to survive long enough to grow strong.
Not quickly.
Not spectacularly.
But steadily.
As he lay in bed one night, focusing faintly on the fragile, unstable density forming deep within his chest, Cael let out a slow, controlled breath, reaching the limit of his mental abilities and fearing a backlash he slowly stopped for the night.
Tomorrow, he promised himself.
This world had taken everything from the family he'd been born into.
He would not let it take this second chance as well.