This is not fine.
Sharath tried to scream again, but all that came out was an indignant wail that startled the nearest midwife into almost dropping him.
"Strong lungs!" someone called. "A fighter already!"
He blinked furiously, trying to make sense of the world around him. Gone were the familiar buzz of machines and sterile lab lighting. Instead, he was bathed in the warm glow of firelight and surrounded by the earthy scent of lavender, soot, and blood. The walls were stone. The ceilings were vaulted. The voices were all speaking a musical, almost Sanskrit-like language—but not quite.
Okay, quick recap: lab meltdown, quantum arc explosion, and now I'm a… newborn?
He tried to move his arms, but they felt like wet noodles with arthritis. He flailed. Someone cooed. He flailed harder. Someone nearby cheered.
"I believe he just cast his first hex," said a voice with an exaggerated hush.
"No, that was definitely a poop," someone else replied solemnly.
Oh gods. I've gone from cybersecurity engineer to being the center of a medieval poop joke. Fantastic.
The voice of a woman cut through the chatter—tired, but strong and loving. "Let me hold him," she whispered.
Sharath felt himself lifted, turned gently, and placed into the warm embrace of Lady Ishvari Darsha.
His mother.
His new mother.
She looked exhausted, her long dark hair matted with sweat, her brow shining in the firelight. And yet, she was radiant. Her eyes were shimmering with tears—joy, not pain—as she looked down at him with an expression so full of wonder that Sharath's scientific skepticism briefly short-circuited.
"You're beautiful," she whispered. "My sweet son."
Her fingers brushed his cheek. Her skin was warm, trembling slightly.
"This one's different," one of the older midwives said. "He didn't just cry. He screamed like he knew something the rest of us didn't."
Lady, you don't know the half of it.
A gruff male voice echoed from the corner. "He'll be a warrior, then. Or a general. We Darshas are bred for strength."
The man stepped forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-gray eyes and a beard that looked like it could deflect arrows. Lord Varundar Darsha—his father. If genetics counted for anything in this world, Sharath hoped he at least inherited the beard.
"Look at his grip," Lord Varundar murmured, gently offering a finger. Instinctively—or perhaps mischievously—Sharath latched onto it with all the strength his tiny fingers could muster.
"Ha!" the lord laughed. "Already trying to disarm his enemies!"
"Or trying to yank off your wedding ring," Ishvari said wryly. "Clearly he has excellent taste in jewelry."
Sharath, still gripping the finger, considered this moment. Okay. Parents seem loving. Not evil. That's a good start. Nobody's chanting 'bring me the demon child' yet. So far, so survivable.
The servants resumed cleaning the room, tidying the remnants of childbirth and preparing herbs and warm cloths. A young maid passed close to his cradle and gasped softly.
"What now?" one of the midwives asked.
"The cradle," she said, pointing.
Everyone turned. Sharath was gently placed into the ornately carved wooden bassinet. At first glance, it looked like a luxury heirloom—a noble family's version of a crib. But then…
The carvings began to glow.
Faint lines of blue-white light pulsed across the cradle's surface. Symbols shimmered and shifted like they were alive—definitely not just artistic decoration. The glow synchronized with Sharath's heartbeat. One of the runes even adjusted itself when he hiccupped.
A silence fell over the room.
"…He activated the cradle runes," the head midwife said slowly. "By himself."
A younger maid whispered, "My cousin's son never activated his until he was six weeks old. And even then, it took two shamans and a goat."
Everyone turned to stare at Sharath.
He blinked.
Then let out a perfectly timed, smug-sounding coo.
The next morning, Sharath awoke in a cradle that was humming softly and smelled faintly of cinnamon and cedarwood. Sunlight streamed in through a stained-glass window, painting strange geometric patterns across the nursery walls. A bird chirped musically from a perch outside, but it sounded… autotuned?
Okay. Deep breath. You are Sharath Krishnamurthy. Age... uh, zero. Previous profession: cyberdefense researcher. Current status: magical royal baby. Objectives: survive, investigate, and absolutely avoid looking like a prodigy until you understand the local witch-burning policies.
He wriggled slightly and turned his head. A young woman in robes was tidying the room and muttering under her breath.
"…too many herbs in the stew last night… I told her not to mix lavender with mandrake again… baby started glowing like a lantern…"
Sharath narrowed his eyes. Mandrake? Glowing stew? I've been reincarnated into Hogwarts if it were run by herbalists.
The maid glanced over. "Awake again, little master?" she said kindly. "Such curious eyes. Like you're watching everything."
Lady, if you knew how much I understood, you'd be fitting me for shackles.
She leaned over and touched one of the glowing cradle runes. Sharath instantly felt a wave of warmth ripple through him—like the spiritual equivalent of being tucked into bed by a hug.
Okay, that's definitely magic. Like biometric comfort enchantments or something. This is… astonishing.
As the hours passed, Sharath found himself cataloging everything: language phonemes (very Sanskrit-ish, but with Norse inflections), room architecture (stone walls, wooden ceiling with carved beams), and magical cues (the cradle's runes responded to emotional spikes).
He tried testing things experimentally.
When he screamed, a glowing gem in the corner dimmed slightly. When he smiled (or attempted to), the room's air grew subtly warmer.
Environmental reactive magic tied to infant mood? That's either advanced emotional tuning or some seriously paranoid parenting.
During one diaper change—an event that Sharath preferred not to think about—he tried humming the melody he'd heard from Lady Ishvari's lullaby the night before.
The changing table lit up with a pattern of glowing butterflies.
The maid screamed. "He's casting joy-spirits! The baby is blessing the chamber!"
Sharath blinked. Okay, that's a new one. Note to self: babies aren't supposed to have theme music. Dial it down.
The real chaos began a few days later.
It was time for the formal Naming Ceremony, a tradition apparently steeped in ritual, mystery, astrology, and—unexpectedly—gambling.
As Sharath lay on a silken pillow, he noticed several nobles and servants exchanging coins behind his mother's back.
"They're betting on my name," he realized, stunned.
One grizzled knight whispered, "Twenty gold on 'Varundar Junior.'"
"Nah," muttered a steward. "It'll be something pretentious. 'Elithran the Radiant' or some such."
"Radiant?" said another. "The baby sneezed on a rune circle yesterday and it caught fire."
"I heard it sang back!"
"I heard it levitated his bathwater."
"I heard it spoke in tongues."
I burped. Loudly. But sure, let's call it tongues.
An elderly astrologer emerged from the shadowy end of the hall. His robes sparkled unnaturally. His staff had a crystal humming on top. His beard had braids.
Oh no. It's the final boss of grandpas.
The astrologer approached Sharath with ceremonial gravitas. "Let the stars speak."
He pulled out a lens made of some sort of opal and held it over Sharath's heart. The moment the light hit him, Sharath felt like someone had scanned his soul with an MRI machine made of fireworks.
Symbols burst into the air—glyphs, colors, patterns that pulsed with memory and meaning. One of them looked suspiciously like a Wi-Fi icon.
"Hmmm," the astrologer murmured. "This soul… it is not new."
Lady Ishvari gasped. Lord Varundar frowned.
The astrologer smiled. "But it is good. Strong. Full of potential and… riddles."
He raised both arms dramatically. "This child shall be called—Sharath Virayan Darsha!"
A pause. Then:
"Wait," someone in the crowd said, "Didn't he say Sharath?"
"Isn't that... already his father's cousin's name?"
"Did we just lose the naming pool to coincidence?"
Sharath was too stunned to care.
My name is Sharath. Again. What are the odds?
The astrologer continued, "Sharath—he who sees through illusion. Virayan—bearer of light. Darsha—one who reveals the hidden."
Oh, you have no idea how accurate that is.
As nobles applauded and wine flowed, Sharath lay back in his magically humming cradle, blinking up at floating rune patterns.
In the distance, past the walls of the estate, he saw movement in the forest.
Something big. Lurking. Watching.
His pendant—newly given—flashed once with faint blue fire.
So I've got magic, mystery, medieval tech, a suspiciously familiar name, and something large prowling the treeline.
Welcome to your second life, Sharath. No pressure.