[Somewhere in the "New York" Realm]
It took me exactly ninety days—three long, confusing, milk-drenched, nap-interrupted months—to truly grasp what had happened to me. Ninety days to accept that I, a fully grown twenty-five-year-old woman just days ago, had been reincarnated. Not into another adult body or even a magical vessel of power, but into the tiny, fragile form of an infant. A baby. A mewling, helpless baby who couldn't hold her head up, let alone cast a spell or wield a sword. A baby who had to be fed… from her new mother's breast.
That part, in particular, was a mental hurdle I never could've prepared for. One moment I was a sharp-tongued, battle-scarred former heir to a Queendom, and the next, I was nursing like a newborn lamb. Which, of course, I technically was. Humbling doesn't even begin to describe it. Mortifying, maybe. Surreal? Absolutely.
But what made the whole experience even more bewildering was the world itself—the realm I had awakened into.
They call this place New York, a land so loud, so fast, so chaotic it feels like a realm permanently on the verge of war. But there are no castles. No magical energy humming in the air. Just steel towers that scrape the sky and tiny glowing boxes they stare into for hours. And the language—gods, the language. Sharp, clipped sounds with a strange rhythm, but somehow… I understood it. From the very first day, it all made sense to me, even though I knew I shouldn't comprehend a word. Their form of communication felt primitive and overly literal compared to the lyrical, layered dialects of my old world. But it worked.
And so, day by day, I listened. I observed. And I learned.
First discovery: I am not royalty in this life. My parents are not a king and queen, nor nobles of any court. There were no midwives whispering my birth as a divine omen, no celebratory fanfare marking the arrival of a prophesied princess. No. I was born to two very ordinary people. A woman named Morticia Ann King and a man named Jiehong Qin—though, for reasons I've yet to understand, he insists on being called Edward in public. Perhaps names work differently here. Or perhaps "Edward" carries some unspoken power in this realm. Regardless, these two people are my new parents. They seem kind. Loving, even. And from what I've gathered, they've wanted a child for a very long time.
They were married six years ago—Morticia at twenty, Edward at twenty-eight—and they'd been trying for a baby ever since. I can sense their joy, even in my infant form. I can feel the warmth in their touch, the way their voices soften when they speak to me. They adore me.
Second discovery: they come from very different lands—what they call countries. Morticia speaks of a place called the United States, while Edward refers often to China, each carrying their own customs, foods, languages, and histories. Morticia has long, curly hair the color of ripe strawberries and skin so pale it seems kissed by snow, with eyes like shards of ice—big, bright, and blue. Edward, in contrast, has sleek black hair that hangs straight as a blade, smooth yellow-toned skin, and narrow grey eyes that rarely miss a thing. Their love appears real. Unusual, perhaps, by my old world's standards, but genuine. And somehow, they found each other across these vast lands and made a life here—in this bizarre kingdom of New York.
Third discovery: I have a name. A long, strange name—Melissa Zhihao King Qin. It rolls off the tongue in a way I haven't quite grown used to. Melissa is what they call me, though my heart still answers, stubbornly, to Anna. The name Zhihao comes from Edward's side, specifically from his mother—Yaling Hong Qin, my paternal grandmother. She explained, quite proudly, that in her culture, Zhi means "wisdom, intellect," and Hao means "brave, heroic, and chivalrous." Qualities they hope I'll carry. I wanted to tell her that I already did. That I have bled for my wisdom, fought for my bravery, and killed for my sense of honor. But my mouth is too small and toothless for such declarations now.
Yaling told me more—about her own name, meaning "elegant, graceful, refined, and the tinkling of jade," and about my father's true name, Jiehong, meaning "outstanding and vast." There is poetry in their names, a subtle magic in their meanings, even if they don't call it that.
Fourth discovery: I am what they call mixed. A combination of the two. Part of two different worlds, two different bloodlines. They seem to take great pride in this, admiring how I have Morticia's tiny nose but Edward's eyes, Morticia's dimples but Edward's jet black hair. Mixed. As if I am a potion carefully stirred in a cauldron, born of two histories merging into one.
It is strange—this life, this world, this body. But I am watching. I am learning.
And though I cannot yet speak, nor stand, nor wield the powers I once commanded with ease…
I remember.
And that memory may be the most powerful magic I have left.
Fifth, and perhaps the most shocking of all the realizations I've come to in these past ninety days: none of the people in this world—not a single one—seem to possess even a sliver of magic. Not in their blood, not in their bones, not even lingering faintly in the air around them. Their auras are dull, lifeless, void of the ever-present hum of mana I had grown used to sensing back in Thoria.
It was almost… eerie.
Even more startling was the fact that, despite the powerful, dormant reservoir of magic I could already feel coiled within my new infant body—tucked away like a dragon sleeping beneath my skin—they seemed completely unaware of it. Blind to it, as though the very concept of magic had never crossed their minds. Not even as folklore or myth. As far as I could tell, this society had no grasp of the cosmic forces that governed existence, no understanding of ley lines, celestial pulses, or the flow of mana through living things. It was as though this world had either forgotten or never known the fundamental truths that shaped reality itself.
And that led me to a startling, unsettling conclusion: this realm is primitive—not technologically, perhaps, but cosmologically. Spiritually. They are children playing with wires and screens while blind to the stars screaming above their heads. This lack of arcane knowledge is both baffling and dangerous. A world without magical awareness is a world vulnerable to all kinds of unseen forces.
Sixth, to my surprise, they do follow a calendar remarkably similar to ours in Thorian. Time here, too, is mapped according to the constellations—stars and celestial alignments seem to guide their measurements of months and seasons. So, they are not entirely oblivious to the heavens, though they interpret them through a far less nuanced lens.
However, the year here is wildly different. I died in Thoria in the year 9784—close to the end of a great millennium. But here, in this realm they call "New York," the current year is 2029. A number so small, it feels almost prehistoric in comparison. And yet, strangely, the date of my birth remains unchanged: December 8th, this time in 2029… just as it was in 9758 back in my old life.
The odds of that being coincidence? Slim. Too slim.
Seventh, I've learned that I am the only child—the daughter—of what they refer to as "old money" families. Apparently, both of my parents hail from long-standing bloodlines that have held wealth and influence across generations, though their power isn't political in the way I once understood. There's no nobility, no court, no crown—but there is status. Prestige. Their names open doors, turn heads, and carry weight in this society, even if their influence is rooted in economics rather than governance.
Still, power is power, and it seems I've been born into a privileged station once again—though not nearly as grand as being the rightful heir to a Queendom.
My paternal grandmother, Yaling Hong Qin, speaks often of our heritage. She boasts proudly that we are descendants of an imperial bloodline from her homeland, China. Her words carry the pride of generations past, and she speaks reverently of her husband—my grandfather—Jietang Qin, whose name, she says, means "outstanding and prosperous." According to her, he has retreated to a place called the Wudang Mountains, a name that feels sacred in her tone. I wonder if that place holds magic. I wonder if he does.
Lastly, I wasn't even supposed to be born yet.
I came early—far too early. Born at just seven months, fighting for air and warmth. It's why we've remained in this sterile place they call a hospital, a cold, strange building dedicated to healing and science, not magic and potions. Machines beep and hum in place of enchanted wards. The people wear white instead of robes. They wield scalpels and syringes, not wands or staves. Yet they've kept me alive, and for that, I am grateful.
But it is here, in this hospital, that I felt something that made my heart still and my spirit burn with curiosity.
There's another.
In the room next to ours, I sense it clearly—the unmistakable presence of magic, soft and new, like an ember waiting to grow into flame. It radiates from another newborn. A baby, just like me. That means I'm not alone. I may be part of the first generation of magic-bearers in this world, and I'm not the only one.
And that—that—leads to the question that keeps haunting my thoughts like a ghost in the dark:
Could this be connected to the rift?
That cosmic wound I saw tear open the sky in the final moments of my life—the crack between realms that pulled my soul from one world into another. Did that moment fuse our worlds together somehow? Did it allow magic to bleed into this realm, awakening something long buried—or planting something entirely new?
And more importantly… did Yato come with me?
He died the same moment I did, his life ending in blood and grief as mine was stolen away. Was he pulled through the rift too? Was he reborn somewhere in this realm, like me? Or did his death come after reincarnation, his soul passing through again to chase mine across the veil?
I don't know.
But I will find him.
Even if it takes me another lifetime, I will find Yato.
My soulmate. My shadow. My blade.
Wherever he is.