I always thought death would come in some epic form—fire, explosions, maybe a god with a clipboard. Instead, it was a silver Honda at 60 km/h, my own fault for trying to cross on red while scrolling through memes. One second I was alive, the next I was a human meatball being scraped off asphalt.

  No glorious sendoff. No deep regret. Just the faint smell of burned rubber and a ringtone I never got to answer.

  Then came the darkness.

  And then—light.

  Warmth. Noise. Pain in every muscle I didn't remember having. My eyelids fought me like they were cursed. Everything was loud. Muffled yelling, crying, cnking metal... and someone saying what I can only describe as the verbal version of static noise.

  At first, I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe coma. Maybe brain damage. Maybe reincarnated as a brick. But then I realized something terrifying:

  I had been reborn.As a goddamn baby.

  Two Weeks Post-RespawnOkay, let's get this out of the way.

  Babies are useless.

  They cry, eat, poop, and scream at 3 AM for no reason. And that’s exactly what I spent the first few weeks doing. Don’t judge me. I had to py the part. Inside I was a fully-grown Indian man trapped in a wriggling pink body with zero bdder control.

  Worse, the people around me didn’t speak any nguage I knew. No Hindi. No English. Not even broken English with that thick uncle accent. Just... gibberish. Elegant gibberish, yes. But definitely not Earth-based.

  It sounded like someone trying to read Tolkien with a French accent while drunk.

  Still, I wasn’t a complete moron in my past life (just emotionally bankrupt and spiritually unmotivated). So, I listened. Picked up sylbles. Patterns. The way certain sounds made the people around me react. Over time, I realized two important things:

  The people caring for me were my parents. And they were oddly hot. Like, ridiculously good-looking. My mother had a regal face, flowing brown hair, and a soft voice that made me sleepy even without the milk. My father? Tall, sharp-eyed, always in bck robes etched with glowing symbols like some Final Fantasy reject.

  I wasn’t in Kansas. Or India. Or Earth.This world ran on a different set of rules.

  Magic existed. Swordsmanship was treated like a civil service skill. People wore clothes like they were extras in a Victorian-era anime. Horses still existed, but so did floating mps. I saw someone levitate a broomstick out the window one morning like it was a regur Tuesday chore.

  Six Months Later: Baby Talk No MoreI started babbling words around month five. By month six, I could form basic sentences. My mother nearly fainted when I started saying, “Mava, flu me ronta,” which—if I got my syntax right—meant, “Mother, carry me up.”

  A lot of nguage came instinctively. Either my baby brain was some reincarnation cheat, or I’d unlocked that fabled ‘receptive window’ children have for learning speech. By the end of the year, I could understand most conversations around me, even if I still spoke like a drunk poet.

  Names followed shortly after.

  My father’s name was Kael Wyrhart. A court mage, which apparently was this world’s version of a government official-ssh-magical nuke. He worked directly under the royal family of an empire called Wellstion—the name sounded like a mix of "wellspring" and "stallion" and made me want to punch someone.

  My mother’s name was Lyria, a housewife who’d once trained in elemental healing magic before retiring to raise me—and maybe other kids ter. Please no.

  And me? I was now Lucien Wyrhart.Yeah. Very fantasy. Very “chosen one”-sounding.No pressure.

  Age 1: The Magic Test of DoomBy now I could walk, talk, and eavesdrop like a champ. I’d also concluded, through months of vague conversation, that this world had seen a world-ending event a century ago. A true apocalyptic catastrophe, involving monsters that tore cities down, dragons that burned nations, and an actual Hero’s Party who saved the realm with great sacrifice.

  But that was a hundred years ago. Now? Peace. Rebuilding. Scientific and magical advancements growing side by side like two cats forced to share a couch.

  Anyway, none of that mattered. Not today.

  Today was the day my father decided to test me for magical affinity.

  Now, I’d seen kids from nearby houses get tested. It usually involved some glowing orb, lots of dramatic humming, and either joyful squealing or disappointing sighs. Not everyone had magic—but in this region, most commoner families had something. Magic or sword. One or the other.

  I was hoping for magic. Swords require muscles. Muscles require effort. Pass.

  I sat on a wooden stool, barely big enough for my one-year-old butt. My father, Kael, stood before me in his robes, arms crossed, eyebrows forming the “You will not disgrace me” look common to Asian parents and imperial court mages alike.

  He held out a small crystal orb. Pale blue. Warm to the touch.

  “Lucien,” he said in a deep voice, “Pce your hand. Focus.”

  Easy for him to say. My baby brain was still figuring out how to focus on not peeing myself in high stress situations.

  Still, I did as told. Pced my hand. Closed my eyes. Focused.

  At first—nothing.Then… warmth.Then—cold.Then burning.Then my palm lit up.

  The orb glowed crimson. Then blue. Then gold. Then violet. Swirling like an unstable mood ring possessed by a disco ball.

  My father’s eyes widened. My mother gasped behind him.

  “Elemental fluctuation?” he muttered. “So soon?”

  “What does it mean?” my mother asked, stepping forward, clutching her dress.

  “It means…” Kael stepped closer, kneeling to my level. His gaze pierced through me like a microscope powered by fatherly pride. “Our son has affinity to multiple elements. Four, at least.”

  He turned to Lyria. “He’s a natural conduit. A rare-born.”

  They kept talking. Words like “arcane reservoir,” “mana channels,” “potential surpassing lineage.” Stuff I would’ve ughed at in my previous life while binge-watching anime.

  Now? It was my life.And apparently, I had talent.A lot of it.

  Later That NightAs I y in bed—yes, still in a crib, don’t judge—I stared at the moon through a stained-gss window.

  So let me get this straight, I thought.I get hit by a car for being a dumbass.I reincarnate in a world straight out of a dark fantasy novel.I have magical talent.And I’m born to a loving, powerful family.This almost feels like an apology letter from the universe.

  Of course, things wouldn’t stay easy. This world was too structured, too peaceful on the surface. People talked about science mixing with magic, of tensions rising between nations, of old heroes dying and new ones being watched like b rats.

  And me? I’d slept through the st apocalypse.

  Something told me the next one might not be so kind.

  But for now? I had diapers, milk, and mana.And a very sarcastic internal monologue.Let’s call it progress.