My death wasn't anything you'd call heroic.
There was no blinding flash of light. No voice of God. No dramatic soundtrack swelling at just the right moment.
I was just a guy in his thirties from Nusantara, heading home from work with a head full of mortgage payments and one office group chat that never—and I mean never—shut up.
Rain was falling lazily. The streets were slick. And one insane truck—its size clearly exceeding every last ambition I'd ever had—decided that day was my expiration date.
One second I was standing on the sidewalk, the next my body was flying through the air like a discarded ragdoll. The pain came fast, left even faster. Replaced by a strange silence that felt hollow.
The last thing I saw before everything went dark was faces.
Faces of people I'd eliminated on command in my past life. Things I'd done because I was ordered to. They all appeared, staring at me with absolutely no expression, like they were collecting a debt I'd never be able to repay.
Darkness. Then… nothing.
***
When I opened my eyes again, the world didn't greet me with heaven or hell.
The world greeted me with the sharp stench of medicine, rough fabric clinging to skin that was still far too smooth, and the sound of crying that—I realized quickly—was coming from my own mouth.
I was reborn!
It took time for me to absorb that information. Babies don't have much time for thinking. Most of my energy went to crying, sleeping, and—with impressive professionalism—wetting myself.
But in the gaps between those limited activities, my consciousness remained intact. All thirty years of memories from my life as an adult man were still there. Existential exhaustion. Past trauma. The bad habit of over-analyzing everything.
This world? Almost identical to Earth. Too similar to be mere coincidence. The language I heard around me sounded like a mix of Spanish and some local dialect I couldn't quite place.
The map on the clinic wall—I caught a glimpse of it while being carried past by a nurse—showed a coastline that looked like Latin America.
The year? I didn't know yet, but judging by how people dressed, the basic medical equipment, and the surroundings… everything pointed to one conclusion: the early 1900s.
My theory was simple: I died, got transferred to a world that was essentially the same, just rougher, younger, and clearly hadn't invented the internet yet.
Ironic, really.
***
I grew up as a strange child to everyone around me.
Not strange like I could shoot fire from my hands or talk to ghosts. Just… too calm for a kid my age. While other babies cried because they were hungry or the light was too bright, I'd stare at the ceiling, contemplating how fragile the concept of identity was.
While other two-year-olds were learning to walk and falling constantly, I moved carefully, like an old man afraid of breaking a bone.
My mother, Sofia, would laugh softly when she noticed.
"This one," she said, stroking my head, "is like an old person trapped in a small body."
I wanted to answer. You wouldn't believe how many corpses I've seen in my previous life.
But of course, all that came out were baby sounds nobody wanted to hear.
My father—in this world—was rarely home. By the time I was old enough to piece together the family situation, one thing became clear: my father was a general. Not just any general, either. His uniform was always immaculate, his posture like forged steel, the way he stood made you feel like the world should rearrange itself around him.
But what confused me—was our lifestyle.
Our house was simple. Not simple by rich people's standards. I mean genuinely simple. No rows of servants waiting for orders, no luxurious furniture. Some of our plates had small cracks, the wooden chairs in the living room creaked every time someone sat down, and my mother sewed some of our clothes herself.
For a general's family, honestly, it was suspicious.
My conclusion, again, was practical: my father was the real-deal type of general. Clean. Upright. Allergic to unnecessary luxury. The type who, if given gold bars, would probably turn them into training ammunition.
I respected him. Not because he was my father, but because he wasn't corrupt. Back in my old world, officials and officers corrupted like mushrooms after rain.
As I grew older, my advantages started showing. Not because I was smarter than other kids, but because I'd already lived thirty years. I knew how to read faster, spot patterns, and most importantly—I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
I learned quickly: being a child who's too smart is dangerous. So I played it subtle. Asked the right small questions. Gave answers that were slightly above average, never perfect. Enough to make teachers nod in agreement, not enough to draw real attention.
Sometimes I deliberately got things wrong. That was an art in itself.
I had an older sister, Isabella, and a younger sister, Eleanor. Isabella was the serious type—a miniature version of Mother. Eleanor? Chaos in human form. Her laugh was loud, her running never stopped, and she was always dragging me into problems I never asked for.
"Brother, you're always so quiet," Eleanor said one day, tugging at my hair. "No fun!"
I patted her head gently, mumbling unclearly. "My dearest little sister. Someone in this world has to maintain balance."
She stared at me, then burst out laughing like the silly little kid she was. Light comedy, side effect of an extreme mental age gap.
***
It happened when I was ten years old. Early 1910.
A strange afternoon. The sun was low, light filtering through the living room window in a golden hue that made the floating dust particles look like they were dancing. My father sat in his big chair, and I sat on his lap. He wasn't saying anything. His hands were large, heavy, solid.
He was lost in thought.
I could feel the tension in his body. As a child with the experience of an adult who'd been on battlefields and possessed just enough empathy from office job training, I could recognize this wasn't ordinary daydreaming.
I stayed quiet. Waiting.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Only the sound of the clock and Eleanor's shouting from the backyard.
Finally, without looking at me, my father spoke. His voice was heavy, like it came from the bottom of a well.
"Mateo. Do you know what's happening in our country right now?"
I shook my head, even though he wasn't looking.
"The President is sick… has been for a while. But no one has the guts to tell the people." A long pause. "Now he's almost gone, and everyone's ready to tear each other apart for his seat."
I didn't answer. But inside, my mind was already working. A Latin American country, early 20th century. Unstable politics. Strong military. Weak civilians. A familiar pattern. This wasn't good…
Father continued, his tone flat like he was reading a weather forecast. "Some factions are asking for my support. Some are asking me to step aside. Some are asking me to die for the nation."
His hand clenched briefly, then went limp again.
I knew I should stay quiet. A ten-year-old had no place in a conversation like this. But the words slipped out before I could stop them.
"If the country is like a train," I said softly, "what if the engineer falls asleep?"
Father went still. But his body tensed.
I pushed further, pretending to be innocent. "Do the passengers just sit nicely until the train crashes?"
He looked at me. His eyes narrowed, searching my face for something. I put on the expression of an innocent child who didn't understand anything.
"Who told you that?" he asked.
"No one, I just… read it in a book."
A long pause. I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then I pushed a little more. My tone lighter this time, almost joking: "My teacher at school says sometimes rules are made for normal situations. But if things aren't normal… maybe the rules can take a little vacation?"
A small smile. The smile of a child who didn't know anything.
Father didn't smile back.
He stared at me for a long time. So long I started wondering if I'd gone too far.
But then he stroked my head gently. His hands were rough, full of calluses. But his movement was tender.
"You're a strange child, Mateo," he said.
"Is strange bad?"
There was no quick answer. His gaze shifted to the window, to the sky beginning to turn orange.
He looked back at me.
"Not bad, but… you're still young. Even though… sometimes… sometimes I forget you're young."
I didn't know what to say. Honestly? For the first time since being reborn, I actually felt like a child. Small and powerless.
***
A few weeks later, everything changed.
That morning, around half past five, I woke to the sound of doors slamming. Not once—multiple times. The thud of heavy boots on wooden floors. Men's voices, fast and tense.
I crept to the window. The front yard: three vehicles parked in semi-chaotic fashion. Armed soldiers on every corner.
Mother appeared in the doorway, her face pale.
"Mateo, change your clothes. Quickly."
"What is it, Mother?"
"Not now."
They hurried us to the living room. Father was already there, in full uniform. Two senior officers beside him. Maps were spread across the dining table, covered in pencil marks.
He glanced at us briefly—me, Isabella, Eleanor, Mother—then returned to the maps.
"Sofia, take them to the safe house," he said, glancing at one of his adjutants. "Route two. Don't stop until you reach the destination."
Mother grabbed Father's arm. "Ricardo…"
He turned. His face was as hard as always. But his eyes… his eyes were different. There was something there I'd never seen before.
"Go, Sofia," he said softly. "I'll follow."
A lie. I knew it was a lie. The way he spoke was too gentle, too final.
But we left.
Inside the horse-drawn carriage, rattling over damaged roads, I sat silently between Isabella—who was gripping my hand tightly—and Eleanor—half-asleep, unaware of anything.
No one spoke. Just silence.
***
The safe house turned out to be an old building on the outskirts of town. Thick walls. Small windows. Heavy security.
Day one. Day two. Day three.
No news. Just routine reports from the guards, who always said, "Everything's fine, Ma'am."
I knew it was nonsense. The way they spoke—rushed, automatic.
On the third night, I couldn't sleep. I sat near the radio, slowly turning the dial, searching for outside broadcasts.
The next morning, around half past five, I found it.
A voice came through, sending Morse code I recognized.
"—the old government has officially fallen. President Valdez was declared dead at 2 AM. Power has been temporarily assumed by the Military Council. General Ricardo Guerrero, former Chief of Staff of the Army, delivered a national address one hour ago. The address emphasized national stability and security during this transition period—"
I stood frozen.
Behind me, Mother appeared. Her gaze moved from the radio to my face, then back to the radio again.
She didn't say anything. Just sat in the wooden chair beside me, took my hand, and held it tight.
Her grip was warm. But her hand was trembling.
On the radio, the Morse code continued:
"—several opposition factions have reportedly been secured. The security situation in the capital is under control—"
I turned off the telegraph.
My head was full. Too much information in too short a time.
Reflections came uninvited. I remembered that afternoon conversation. The train. The engineer falling asleep. The emergency brake. My chest felt strange. Like something was pressing from the inside.
"This isn't my fault," I muttered without realizing it.
Mother looked at me. "What, dear?"
I shook my head. "Nothing, Mother."
But inside, another voice whispered: Is it really not your fault?
I remembered those faces again. The ones from my past life. They never really left. And now, in this new life, whether by accident or perhaps deliberately through some strange twist of fate, I had become a small spark in a major coup.
Or maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe…
Now my father was the ruler of this country. And for the first time since being reborn, I felt afraid. Not because of the situation. Not because of the coup. Not because I could die.
But because of one simple fact:
In my first life, I was a tool. A hand that killed in the name of the state. In my second life, without meaning to, I might have become what I used to be… even worse.