Let me tell you something nobody prepares you for in reincarnation:
Having your baby photos turned into royal propaganda posters.
There I was, age five, sitting through yet another godforsaken painting session. Not because I wanted to be immortalized in oils like a pint-sized monarch, but because my noble family had decided I was, and I quote, "a symbol of peace, rebirth, and unparalleled cheekbone structure."
The court painter was seventy percent blind and one hundred percent dramatic. He flung his scarf like he was dueling ghosts, declaring, "Hold still, young Lord Reinhardt! The light on your left nostril speaks of destiny!"
Inner Me: Destiny smells like old cheese and turpentine.
The worst part? My face was already plastered across half the empire. Every orphanage, bakery, and tax office had some version of me looking angelic, with sparkles added.
Oh, and did I mention? The sparkles were magically enchanted. They twinkled.
**"Stop squirming!"** shouted my personal tutor-slash-handler, a woman named Madame Thistle, who wielded her parasol like a divine weapon. "You are not merely a child! You are the heir to Reinhardt!"
Inner Me: I'm also five. And I need to pee.
But public image came first. Even before potty breaks.
---
After surviving another sketch session that made me look like a smug cherub, I was led—read: dragged—to the Grand Salon.
This is where noble children were publicly paraded for "social development." It was basically a glorified preschool with more tiaras, jealousy, and backhanded compliments than a beauty pageant hosted by demons.
The moment I stepped in, everything stopped. Twenty-something miniature nobles turned to stare at me like I was a unicorn with tax benefits.
"That's Lord Caelum Reinhardt," whispered one snotty-looking boy.
"The one betrothed to four houses," hissed a girl who looked like she ate etiquette books for breakfast.
"He doesn't even *look* like a saint," another mumbled. "He looks... mischievous."
Inner Me: Thank you. That's the goal.
I had just enough time to flash a charming, not-at-all-threatening smile before someone launched a crumpet at my head.
*Direct hit.*
Cue chaos.
---
Turns out, nobles take crumpet duels very seriously.
Within seconds, I was engaged in a full-scale pastry war with three rival heirs. I dodged, ducked, and counter-launched a cream puff that smacked Lord Elric of House Velmont square in the nose.
He burst into tears.
And just like that, I became a legend.
**"CAELUM REINHARDT!"**
The voice of doom. Madame Thistle.
She stormed in like an avenging angel wielding a parasol of judgment.
"Explain yourself!"
I dusted powdered sugar off my tunic and smiled sweetly.
"I was merely defending my honor, Madame."
Somewhere, a maid fainted from how cute I sounded.
Madame Thistle's eye twitched. "You have a tea ceremony in ten minutes. Try not to incite a civil war before then."
---
Tea ceremony. Sounds harmless, right?
Wrong.
The tea ceremony was where I'd meet the **first of the four noble girls I was engaged to**. A small, innocent introduction, they said.
It was a trap.
The tea room was vast and glittering, filled with the scent of imported lilies and tension. I was seated at a table far too large for someone who still occasionally needed help tying shoelaces.
Then she walked in.
**Lady Seraphina du Valorin.**
Aged six. Dressed like royalty. Carried herself like a queen.
Expression? The textbook definition of disapproval.
She sat across from me with all the grace of a war general and folded her hands.
"So," she said, voice crisp. "You're the boy I'm supposed to marry."
Inner Me: Abort mission.
Outer Me: Smile and sip tea.
"I suppose I am," I said lightly. "Though I wasn't consulted. Were you?"
Her eyebrow arched. "Of course not. But I have standards."
"Good," I nodded. "Because I have escape plans."
A pause.
Then—
She smiled.
"You're not entirely useless," she said.
And just like that, I had survived my first fiancée meeting.
Barely.
But I had a feeling the others wouldn't be so merciful.
Stay tuned.
(And for the love of tea, don't throw pastries at nobles unless you're ready to become famous.)