Crying Effectively

The village gate still creaked when the tall man came in, dragging a bucket and wearing a face that said, “I don’t have good news, but at least I came quick.” You didn’t need to hear the tone of his voice to know what the news would be: the smell of worry announced it before he did. The few smiles in the tavern fell asleep, the children clung to their mothers’ skirts, and I, in my little cradle, watched the door as if it were a TV screen that only showed bad movies.

“Goblins,” said the guard in a voice trying to sound firm. “They’ve ambushed a supply cart on the main road. They’re—uh—pretty intense today.”

The word goblins made all the adults look up at the same time like a bad synchronization joke. Iris, who as usual had more courage than common sense, looked at me and smiled with that mix of tenderness and conspiracy only used by kids planning unforgettable mischief.

“Take him,” said the healer, without blinking. “Don’t leave him at home.”

Were they taking me to fight? It was ridiculous even by the standards of my new life: a guy who had died over a figurine, reborn in a body that couldn’t even hold a spoon. And yet there was Iris, grabbing me from the cradle as if I were a cheap trophy. She held me to her chest with a surprisingly competent technique for a seven-year-old.

“Don’t worry, Lyran Tom,” she said, and her voice was sun and soot at once. “I’m going to show you dragons.”

If there were goblins to face, at least there would be a chance to see action and, if I behaved, maybe a bit of local fame. Or at least, less shame when I died. I mentally switched to observer mode: baby body, adult mind, and a minimum viable plan to not be dead weight.

[SYSTEM] Available Missions: 1. Defend the attacked cart — Reward: Experience, local recognition. Player Status: Lyran Tom (Body: Infant). Dignity: 2/100. System Comment: “Interesting material detected. Recommendation: do not ruin it further.”

The village moved en masse down the dusty road. There were more armed men than my guilty-adult memory expected; some with rusted spears, others with sticks dressed up as swords. The cart was in sight before the smoke of the skirmish rose: two goblins, filthy and quick, were attacking the vehicle while a smaller one tried to carry off a sack of flour like it was a trophy.

My first thought was practical: among the shouts, the crash of wood, and the horse’s frightened neighing, there was an undeniable quality that could be exploited. A baby cries. A baby’s cry is not a mere nuisance: it’s a magnet. It is bread and alarm and the attention focused on a single source. If someone pays attention to a baby, they’re very likely to stop watching the line of claws and fangs for a second.

“Don’t involve me in this”—I wanted to tell them all with the voice I no longer had, but the world didn’t obey me.

Iris grabbed me tighter. Her eyes shone with the kind of determination toy-heroes sometimes have. She pointed me toward the fight as if I were an officially sanctioned distraction device from the Ministry of Naiveté.

“Everyone look!” she shouted, and the crowd split into a ring around us.

It was clear no one expected a baby to take part in the fray; they expected carrier pigeons, not imminent threats. The goblins, who until then had been pawing at the cart, stopped as soon as they saw a new thing enter their field of view. And then I understood: attention divides attention. If two goblins’ attention divides, their blows lose synchronicity. If their synchronicity breaks, a rusted spear has a better chance of passing through more air than flesh.

I had no weapons but an imaginary rattle and some drool. I did, however, have the best offense of this developmental state: an absolutely convincingly heartrending cry.

I inhaled. Ridiculous neural mechanisms (the same ones that in life believed sarcasm solved everything) searched for the right tone. The system observed in silence. Iris stepped to the edge of the parapet, proud, like someone presenting the finale at a fair.

I made the first sound. It was more an attempt than a commitment. A guaa— timid, far from the auditory tectonic shift that would be needed to provoke chaos.

[SYSTEM] Notification: Sound detected. Intensity: 2%. System Advice: “Increase volume. You wasted an emotional breath.”

I took another breath. This time it was intentional: I opened those tiny vocal cords and let the inner drama of my adulthood condense into a single, perfectly calibrated wail balanced between sorrow and alarm. I cried as if I had lost a million figurines in one fall.

The first goblin froze. His jaw trembled. The second turned his head. The one carrying the sack of flour dropped what he had and, for a moment, his eyes turned… confused. The sound—that note so painfully and disproportionately sincere—cut through the smell of sweat and blood.

The villagers froze for a couple of seconds that felt like minutes. Then, in a chain, the mothers looked, the men looked, even the horse stopped holding its breath. The ambush’s synchronicity collapsed like a poorly stacked house of cards.

Iris looked at me proud, and I allowed myself a small smile. From my prison of diapers I could see the beauty of applied statistics: a baby, divided attention, time bought. In that lapse, the blacksmith threw a hammer that relied more on weight than finesse. One of the goblins took the blow in the back and went straight to the ground. Another tripped over the cart wheel. In less time than it took my system to emit a comment, the fight was resolved by a combination of accidental distraction and functional village violence.

When the last goblins fled into the brush, the village exhaled as if it had held its breath through a bad joke for too long. The children applauded, the old women celebrated, and a couple of big men approached Iris as if she owned fate.

“Shit,” I thought inwardly, and the system smiled, because it did on its comic interface.

[SYSTEM] Mission Completed: Defend the cart. Rewards: +25 EXP, +1 System Insult (logged), Medallion of “Crying with Effectiveness” (cosmetic, no practical value). System Comment: “Use of unconventional skills: 100% ridiculous, 87% effective. Congratulations, Lyran Tom. Your incompetence remains fascinating.”

“That was great!” Iris exclaimed, once the adrenaline subsided and the gravity of the plan mixed with the euphoria of triumph. “I told you we’d see dragons!”

There were no dragons—not today—but there was flour scattered all over the road and a new feeling in my small chest: the echo of usefulness. I had saved people. In my own way. With an instrument I’d never imagined would be lethal: my cry.

The healer looked at me and, without saying anything, smoothed my cheek with the softness of someone who has seen many absurd things and decided to accept them. The tall guard from earlier nodded his chin toward me with professional recognition mixed with perplexity.

“Don’t underestimate the kid,” he said. “If he cries like that over a sack of flour, I don’t want to imagine what he’ll do if he sees a real dragon.”

Iris hugged me again. From inside that hug, I heard the system’s sarcastic final note, which couldn’t let the victory pass without its corresponding remark.

[SYSTEM] Log: New skill unlocked — Distracting Cry (Level 1). System Note: “Leveling up to 2 implies a higher risk of public humiliation. Proceed at your own discretion.”

I thought about that line: higher risk of public humiliation. It was both a warning and a promise. And as strange as it sounded, I liked it. Life had become a little more interesting. I had a completed mission, a useless medallion to show off, and, above all, a tiny purpose: learn to cry better if the situation required it.

Iris, in all her enthusiasm, was already talking about next time. I, with my body still smelling of milk and tavern garlic, promised myself mentally that I would practice my vocal repertoire. Not so much for glory—that already seemed pretty scarce—but because if life had given me another chance, I might as well use it to do something more than mourn my lost figurines.

As the people celebrated and I calculated decibels, the System launched one last line, not without malice.

[SYSTEM] Secondary Objective Added: Gain 10 dignity points. (Progress: -1).

I sighed. I had work ahead. And for the first time in a long time, crying didn’t seem so useless.