No matter how hard I resisted, that damned woman, Elara, the lady of the house, insisted on "feeding" me for nearly a year. Thankfully, the memory has begun to fade, though it still makes my skin crawl.
I don't dislike Elara. She means well, or at least she thinks she does. But being a grown man trapped in a baby's body might be the most humiliating thing I've ever experienced. The first time she "fed" me, I made a vow to never let anyone know I was reincarnated. Not ever.
I've killed hundreds, men, women, even children, without a second thought. The battlefield never made me feel nearly as sick as I do at the thought of Elara finding out she breastfed a grown man.
Just the thought of it makes me want to keel over into a ball.
Elara, with all her suffocating affection, was only a fraction of the nightmare.
My father, Edward, head of House Ascelyn, kept his distance from his children. He rarely showed affection, though he occasionally expressed pride when we met his expectations.
By the time I was just three, I began to speak, read, and write. That alone was enough to earn praise from both him and Elara. They treated it like a miracle, unaware I had already lived a life before this one.
Impressed, my father began hiring tutor after tutor to accelerate my education, something he never did for my brothers, nor my aunts and uncles for their own children.
The little leisure I had as Agate was never spent on reading or writing. Compared to the educated, I was far behind, no formal schooling, only pieces of knowledge picked up through necessity. I was self-taught at best. So now, as a three-year-old speaking with clear, fluent speech and writing letters with precision beyond that of a child, I seemed like a prodigy. A miracle. But I know what they do not. If I don't push beyond what I once knew, by the time I reach adolescence, I'll be behind even the slowest of nobles.
The tutors taught me more than just language. They covered magical theory, philosophy, the history of Volind, and, of course, a carefully sanitized version of Volind's "conquests." One of those conquests was Isen. My home.
To my surprise, they didn't claim Isen was filled with savages or inferiors. Instead, they said Isen stood in the way of progress. That we refused to assimilate. That we ignored the Emperor's decrees and clung to our so-called sovereignty.
It wasn't exactly a lie. But they taught it as if it were a moral truth, that progress justified everything. That the deaths of those I loved were nothing more than stepping stones toward a brighter future.
I detested the ideas the tutors taught, but I couldn't stop asking questions. I wanted to understand this new world, even the parts I hated. Most of the time, my questions were brushed aside. "Too young," they'd say. "You'll understand when you're older. The Emperor's decisions are far too complex for a child."
Today, just a month before my fifth birthday, I asked a new tutor how the lower class was educated. I expected the usual condescension. Instead, he paused.
"What an odd question for someone your age," he said. "Well, young master, those outside the military and noble classes aren't given formal education. You're actually quite fortunate."
He continued, voice matter-of-fact, "Most commoners can read and write barely, but philosophy? History? No. It's a crime for them to own texts like that. It's been like that for generations."
"Why?" I asked.
The tutor paused, then smiled softly. "I'm not sure you'll fully grasp it yet, but I'll try to explain simply."
"We don't mistreat the lower classes. Quite the opposite, compared to kingdoms of the past, we have almost no poverty, no crime. That's thanks to the Emperor and his Will."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"But knowledge… knowledge is delicate. The mind is fragile. If everyone had equal access to every idea, they'd misuse it, harm themselves, and others without meaning to. You can't force people to see the world the same way. That's why education must be… selective."
"The Emperor, in his wisdom, grants understanding only to those who need it, those charged with protecting the realm. For others, it would be a burden. Or a weapon. But for nobles such as us, it's a reminder of what we need to protect."
The revulsion must have been plain on my face because the tutor's expression morphed into confusion.
"That's disgusting," I blurted, unable to stop myself.
Before regret could catch up, I added, my voice filled with anger, "Who is this Emperor to impose his rule on everyone? And why must I protect a world like this?"
The tutor's eyes narrowed with anger,
"How dare you, child. You may be the son of high nobility, but you will not question my words or the Emperor's in such a manner. Do you understand the destruction thoughts like yours could bring upon the kingdom?"
"No… of course you don't." The tutor sneered, "Ungrateful little brat. Let's go have a word with your father, shall we?"
He grabbed the collar of my shirt, fingers wrinkling the fine fabric. A button probably worth more than everything I'd owned as Agate snapped off and clattered to the marble floor.
I slapped at his hand, teeth clenched.
"Let go. How dare you?"
He didn't answer. Just dragged me begrudgingly toward my father's study. My feet slid across the polished floors, shoes sliding as I struggled.
By the time we reached the heavy double doors of Father's study, I was yelling loud enough to break glass.
The guards stationed at the entrance moved instantly. Spears moved into position, the blade's tip sitting inches from the tutor's chest.
"Unhand the young lord. Now."
One of the guards barked the order, his spear inching forward.
The tutor's grip faltered for a moment.
"I will not," he snapped. "This runt insulted His Majesty the Emperor. He spoke of rebellion."
His voice filled with false conviction, his hands shaky.
The guards exchanged a brief glance
Then the first one repeated:
"Unhand the young lord. Now."
"I demand to see th..."
The tutor's words were cut off by the opening of the doors to the study.
Standing in the doorway was a man who dwarfed even Elara, despite her already imposing height. His hair was a metallic silver. His face was clean-shaven, his eyes a deep gold.
Edward Ascelyn. Lord of the House. My "father."
Every time I saw him, The urge to flee rose to the top of my mind. My memories betrayed me, visions of him slicing through my comrades, his sword painted in the blood of men I'd trained beside. He never looked angry. Just Indifferent.
But now… he looked angry.