Cradle training

I’d love to pretend I eased into it like some kind of reincarnated prodigy. But the truth is, I spent the next few months drooling, screaming, and trying not to soil myself.

Still—between the naps and feedings—some things started to click.

My name was Vaelon, or so I assumed, since everyone kept saying it whenever they looked at me. I didn’t understand the language yet—it was all a blur of strange sounds, completely unlike anything from my old life. I could make out the sounds well enough, but patterns more complicated than simple names had yet to emerge.

Maybe it was just my baby brain lagging behind, waiting for neural pathways to finish wiring themselves. But more likely, it was an entirely new language.
Either way, I was going to have to relearn everything from scratch.

The beautiful woman with the fiery red hair had been taking care of me nonstop since the day I arrived. I didn’t know her name yet, so I just called her Mom in my head.

There was something oddly comforting about the way she held me, even though I knew this wasn’t the woman who’d raised me in my past life. Call it instinct or something buried in our DNA—I was drawn to love her from the very first instant.

She was always nearby—feeding me, cleaning me, changing me. And even though the house was full of servants, she never let them touch me. Not once.

The only exception was the little girl with violet pigtails. She followed our mother everywhere, mimicking everything she did with theatrical seriousness. Whenever Mom fed me, she fed a doll. When Mom bathed me, she joined in with a big smile—clearly having the time of her life.

The two of them were inseparable, always chattering away—even while I slept. Great for language exposure—not so great when I was trying to concentrate and reflect peacefully on my current situation.

It didn’t take long to learn my older sister’s name, since she was always coming over diligently whenever called: Alenya.

After the pinching incident, she took on the role of my personal bodyguard, keeping her other brother at bay and always watching for sneaky attempts to mess with me.

It wasn’t easy. Theron—as I eventually learned from all the scolding—was particularly crafty. He’d slip into the room like a cat and creep up to my crib when no one was looking. Sometimes he’d just stare at me. Other times, he’d poke me with a finger, watching to see how I’d react.

I never cried when he did it, which seemed to please him. And whenever I wanted him gone, I’d flash him a big grin... then scream my lungs out.

He’d burst out laughing and bolt as my tiny, pigtailed protector came storming in, shrieking his name and chasing him through the halls.

Theron’s antics, Alenya’s scolding, Mom’s soft humming—all of it started to form a routine. A strange, noisy, oddly comforting rhythm.

And as the days blended together, I finally had time to think.

Judging by the number of servants and the lavish decor, the family I’d landed in was doing very well for themselves—most likely of noble descent. People were constantly rushing around, cleaning the halls, bringing food and drinks to my mother and siblings like it was all perfectly normal.

My father had been largely absent during those early months, which also lined up with that theory. If he was the head of the house, he’d probably be tied up handling estate affairs. That would certainly explain the worn-out look on his face whenever he did appear.

All things considered, I seemed to have won the lottery on this one. A wealthy household, a mansion, a full staff… and if genetics could be trusted, I might even grow up to be a very handsome man.

Kind of ironic, really. After spending most of my old life complaining about how unfair things were—how the rich always had it easy—I somehow ended up as one of them.

But cruising wasn’t my style. I’d gotten used to working hard, making every moment count. Already, I felt restless—like I needed to find an outlet for all this wasted energy.

I tried strategizing about the future, using what I knew of the world I’d built to chart an optimal path—something that would let me live up to my full potential in this second life. If my memories ever began to fade, I wanted to at least set the groundwork for success. Boost my early stats, make the life I wanted a natural outcome rather than a lucky guess.

But highly intellectual tasks—like strategic planning or crunching numbers in an invisible spreadsheet—turned out to be incredibly taxing for this tiny brain of mine. Every time I tried to pick up where I left off, I’d pass out from exhaustion and sleep for twelve hours straight. I even tried conjuring simple spells in my head, only to wake up a full day later, drooling into a pillow.

Clearly, it was too early for that. And if I didn’t want to freak out my caretakers by collapsing constantly, I’d have to put those plans on hold and focus on the basics: crawling, walking, talking—everything an infant is expected to learn.

So I got to work. Training my body. Crunches, toe touches, air cycling like a madman. I’d pull myself up on the mobile above, trying to strengthen my noodle limbs while hiding it all from an overbearing mom and two clingy siblings who never gave me a moment alone.

There were a few close calls—once, Mom walked in just as I was pulling myself up the crib and had to flop down like a dead fish.

It wasn’t easy—especially trying to lift my comically oversized head. That thing weighed a ton compared to the rest of my body.

I ended each day drenched in sweat, but it started to pay off. My crawling improved, then I could pull myself upright and balance—way earlier than most infants. My coordination still sucked—I felt like I was walking on a ship in high seas—but at least I had some mobility.

And the first thing I did once I could walk? I found a chamber pot.

Strange how something so mundane could feel like a victory. After months of having no other choice but to soil myself—stewing in my own filth—regaining control over my bodily functions felt like a blessing from the gods.