"Do you wish to live again, ****?" asked the voice.
"Y-Yes… yes, I do."
And then—darkness. I tried opening my eyes, but all I saw were blurs and shifting silhouettes. My chest tightened as I cried, trying to make sense of it all.
Where the fuck am I? Why can't I see? Why can't I speak? Why do my limbs feel shrunken, my senses muffled? He thought panicking.
The last thing I remember… I was at war. That's right — I died. Not even in a glorious way. Just a single bullet. Friendly fire. My own teammate thought I was the enemy. And then… that voice.
Now? I've been reborn. Fresh out of my new mother's womb, all memories intact — but trapped in the body of a helpless infant.
***
Three dreadful weeks later, my senses finally settled in. I could hear, smell, see, feel, and taste.
I've been reborn.
I still can't understand their language. All I know is my mother wears a different beautiful dress every day. Obsidian black hair. Golden eyes with bright white pupils. But she barely spends time with me. As for my father? Haven't even seen him. A wet nurse feeds me and puts me to bed. I can't do anything. I hate being a baby.
Pssssss… great. I just pissed myself.
***
"Hello, young master! You're finally six months old!" said Camilla, the maid.
"Aagu uaaaa!" — special technique: happy baby noises.
"Today you'll meet your father! His Majesty Arthur Ketsra has returned from battle and will bestow upon you a name. Isn't that exciting?" she said, spinning me playfully.
Yes, I know my father's name. And no, I can't respond. Otherwise, you'd think I'm some genius. Truth is, I knew way too many languages in my past life. I can pick up another in no time. I'm not fluent yet, but give me a month. Reading's still impossible though — nobody's given me a book. Not my fault. That's on them.
From the hall, a voice rang out.
"So, where's the boy?"
"In that room, Sir — to your left," said the butler.
Then entered a towering man, at least 190 cm tall, built like a soldier. His tattered clothes told stories of battle. A longsword hung at his waist, its jeweled hilt catching the light. Long blond hair framed emerald eyes. A scar ran from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.
So that's my father. His gaze held curiosity… and maybe a hint of joy.
"Hello there, child. I am your father, King Arthur Kets—"
"HIS MAJESTY WENT TO SEE THE BABY?! HE JUST GOT BACK FROM WAR! HE'S PROBABLY CARRYING A DOZEN DISEASES! WHAT IS THAT MAN THINKING?!"
Ah, the sweet voice of my mother. And she's right — I might die if Father doesn't back up. I'm still just a baby. Frail. I only started crawling yesterday.
"It's alright, Char. I won't take too long," Arthur replied.
"Don't you think we should name the baby properly, with a ceremony like the others?" asked Queen Charlotte.
"No. The name is usually given within the first month, but I wasn't here because of the war and diplomatic matters. This time, informal will do," Arthur said matter-of-factly.
"Well, it's up to you," she muttered.
"I've been thinking about this for a while. I shall name you… Roland."
Roland Ketsra… Not a bad name.