I Became a Newborn in the Murim
I entered the kind of university everyone goes to, a perfectly ordinary four-year university in Seoul (even though I was a liberal arts major).
I received the kind of scholarship everyone gets—not a full ride, but still consistently.
I worked the kind of part-time jobs everyone does, paying for tuition and living expenses on my own.
I was drafted into the military like everyone else, served an uneventful term, and was discharged.
I never even took a leave of absence like everyone else does, and earned my diploma right on schedule for my age.
"So why can't I get a job?! Why!!"
It had only been half a year since graduation, so there was still some room to make excuses.
But my family wasn't well-off enough for me to laze around for a year or two like other people, so I had to go somewhere—anywhere.
Still, shouldn't I at least work somewhere that pays better than pulling full-time shifts at a barbecue restaurant? Or is even that asking for too much?
"I need to escape this hell called the Korean Peninsula."
I vaguely remember muttering that before drifting off to sleep under the influence of alcohol.
At the very least, one thing was certain. Until I fell asleep, I was lying on the bed in my one-room apartment in the middle of Seoul.
"Waaah (damn it)."
"Oh my! It looks like my baby recognizes me!"
"Waaah (that's not what I meant when I said I wanted to be dropped somewhere else…)"
"Mom, try it, Mom!"
I failed to do what everyone else does and get a job.
But it seems I did manage to do what everyone else does—get reincarnated into another world.
Right in the middle of a crowd constantly chattering away in Chinese.
"Uuuaahhh (does anyone here speak Korean)…?"
Inside a suspiciously antique-looking room, wrapped in silk.
1. I became a newborn in the murim.
I see chubby, pale hands like little fiddleheads.
"Ueppyaa (please, at least put on some kids' cartoons or something)…"
A voice so pleasant it lifts my mood just hearing it reaches my ears.
If it weren't my own body, I might've doted on it with all my heart. But childhood reincarnation, which looks like a comedy from afar, feels more like a tragedy up close.
"Eppuiii (I'm bored to death)."
A baby's day is long. It's long even though most of it is spent sleeping. There's a reason people say raising kids without YouTube is hell-level difficulty.
Even inexperienced parents vaguely know that YouTube probably isn't good for children.
But within a young child's sense of time, boredom is a horrifying, almost unbearable form of torture.
If they aren't exposed to some kind of video media, even briefly, during this long day, then every baby is doomed to become a little tyrant…
"Young master, it's time for lunch!"
It's been a week since my reincarnation. Even if I'm a complete amateur who's only ever heard Chinese through short videos, by now I can roughly infer things from context.
That voice belongs to the woman who sticks close to me throughout the day. Judging by the situation, she's probably a maid of this household, and that familiar phrase clearly means she's about to feed me.
"Blegh…"
I squeezed my eyes shut and opened my mouth. As a healthy adult man trapped in a baby's body, my conscience hurt too much.
Judging by everything so far, the woman who's probably my wet nurse takes her job extremely seriously. With my eyes closed, I did my best to distract myself from the sensation of skin touching my lips.
'For now… this really is China, right?'
I've never seen the five-star red flag, and I'm nowhere near fluent enough in Chinese to distinguish regional dialects just by hearing tones, so I can't be completely sure.
Still, if everyone around me speaks Chinese and treats me with extreme care, there's only one conclusion.
'At the very least, I was born into money.'
The room I usually lie in is bigger than my old studio apartment. It's even furnished with furniture far too luxurious to be meant for just a single newborn.
Just looking at the porcelain and folding screens in sight, they already seemed worth more than the deposit on my old apartment. On top of that, they even wrapped a newborn—one that poops every single day—in fine silk so its skin wouldn't be damaged.
A week has passed since I opened my eyes. Despite having my clothes changed more than three times a day, I haven't worn the same outfit even once.
This is an absurdly wealthy household. A great start.
'This is… medieval, right?'
I smacked my lips as I felt skin peel away inside my mouth. A sweet liquid pooled at the corner of my lips and dripped down—wasted.
Gentle fingers tapped lightly, wiping my mouth clean. As I looked at the nursemaid tending to me, a thought crossed my mind.
'I haven't seen a single electronic device. If this were about protecting a child's environment, there wouldn't be no air conditioner or heater in the room either.'
At first, I wondered if I'd possessed the body of a child actor on a drama set. But even in China, the idea of filming a newborn twenty-four hours a day seemed too far-fetched—so I discarded that thought (though, if it were China, maybe it could happen).
Then this place isn't at least modern civilization. I can't be completely sure this is even Earth, but I decided not to start with assumptions that can't be reasoned through.
Excluding the modern era, Chinese civilization historically didn't expand much beyond the mainland. They already possessed vast territory and were busy just defending it, and fundamentally viewed foreigners as barbarians. Expansion was never a strong driving force for them. They preferred receiving tribute instead.
In other words, for Chinese speakers to wield power of this magnitude in a medieval context, it's reasonable to assume this place is within China proper.
"Young master, did you eat well? It's time to sleep now—off to dreamland."
The nursemaid lifted me into her arms and began gently patting my back.
The warmth and softness of her touch slowly loosened my tension. My thoughts melted and blurred like chocolate.
"Wuh-bae-uh (wait a second)!!"
Wait—wait. Don't pat me like that.
My eyelids were too heavy. A brain no bigger than an infant's palm was refusing any further higher-level thinking.
The absolute survival instinct—full and warm means sleep—began pressing down on my entire body.
"Young master, rock-a-bye… sleep nice and sound."
Her quiet voice seeped into my ears.
The tiny fingers clutching the edge of the nursemaid's sleeve gradually loosened their grip.
'W–wait… just a moment. One last round of Organize…'
If this is a possession story set in medieval China… then it's either an alternate-history story or a martial arts one…
If it's alternate history, I need to figure out the dynasty first…
"Beeeuhh (so warm…)..."
So warm.
No matter the genre, there are things you must do when you transmigrate.
If you wake up in the early 21st century, you invest in crypto.
If you open your eyes in the late 20th century, you go all-in on Google.
If you become a scoundrel, you start by being kind to your servants.
And if you transmigrate into the body of a newborn—
You have to be called a genius!
"Mam–!"
Not knowing Chinese at all isn't important. No one is born having mastered a language, after all.
That means I'm starting on the same line as every other baby. Just like I'm learning Chinese for the first time, every baby my age in this body is unfamiliar with the language too. And unlike them, I'm actually an adult—my conditions are vastly better.
So it's advantageous to learn the language as quickly as possible and build the tech tree toward "Our child must be a genius!"
Because this is the age of ignorance and barbarism—medieval China.
If I'm not the eldest son, I'll inevitably have to enter a succession struggle with my siblings. That's simply the fate of children born into powerful families.
I haven't seen any siblings yet, but that doesn't change anything. Medieval China was a brutally competitive society, just like medieval Europe. With such a young and beautiful mother, who knows when a new rival—called a younger sibling—might be born?
In that kind of situation, being perceived as a prodigy in early childhood has destructive power comparable to a "reformed delinquent" in the eyes of parents—statistically speaking.
"Mam–!"
"Mom? Did you just call me 'Mom'?"
I babbled insistently at the woman who, judging by the circumstances, seemed to be my mother.
She wore clothes far more splendid than anyone else here, stayed by my side for hours every day chatting about this and that, and whenever she appeared or left, she was accompanied by numerous attendants and received deep, right-angled bows from my nursemaid.
Seeing that warm gaze overflowing with maternal affection, she had to be this body's mother. And in Chinese, children call their parents mama and baba.
At least I knew that much—and thankfully so.
"Our child might be a genius!"
"Mam—! Ebeheh (this is exhausting)..."
I complained while smiling brightly. Just as I'd hoped, the woman hugged me and gently swayed me back and forth, delighted. I let out a token giggle and put on some babyish charm in return.
Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit uneasy at the same time.
'Why isn't my hearing opening up?'
I was surrounded twenty-four hours a day by extremely accommodating native speakers who attended to my every need, speaking slowly, clearly, and in simple words suited to a child's level.
And the one listening had the intelligence of an adult—along with the soft, pliable brain of an infant.
Yet whenever I tried to think even a little too hard, drowsiness would come crashing down on me. All I could do was infer the situation from a few words here and there; there was no feeling of my ears "opening up" at all.
No way… me—no, this body. This flesh…
'Is it… stupid?'
I froze, lost in thought before this shocking possibility.
If the woman in front of me really is this body's biological mother, then looks are basically guaranteed. I haven't seen the father yet, but if half my bloodline comes from such a beauty, I probably won't grow up ugly.
Good family background and good looks already put me somewhere near the top tier. But if my intelligence is lacking, how am I supposed to survive in this brutal, barbaric society of medieval China?
'But my memories aren't completely gone.'
The one saving grace is that my memories from my previous life remain almost entirely intact.
Unlike modern China, which has used simplified characters since the late twentieth century, medieval Chinese characters were written in forms quite familiar across the broader Sinosphere. If they were around the difficulty of seventh- to ninth-grade characters, I could still read—and even write—them haltingly.
Chinese characters are logographic symbols; once created, their core meaning doesn't change much over time. While different scripts can drastically affect readability, the basic characters used in everyday life have retained the same shapes since the days of oracle bone inscriptions.
Don't panic. It's only been ten days.
With friendly native speakers constantly providing level-appropriate language input, this is a better environment than most overseas study programs. Even if it takes a while, surely three months would be enough for my ears to open up.
"Eheheh—Mam!!"
I burst into giggles and beamed up at the woman, and at that very moment, everyone in the room let out shrill squeals of delight.
I felt like a superstar.
But it took six months before I could even roughly understand what my nursemaid was saying. Around that time, I met my biological father for the first time.
"Dad, try it, Dad!"
"Ukyah—!!"
A burly, heavily muscled mountain-bandit-looking man brutally assaulted my cheeks with his thick black beard while shouting excitedly.
"Baba—!!"
A baby's tear ducts are difficult to control even with an adult's reason and intellect. Overwhelmed by the horrific sensation, I let out a few tears and gave him the sound he wanted to hear.
"Hahaha! Even though he's my son, this is truly amazing!"
"Baba, baba—!! Ugeh!!"
This middle-aged man burst out laughing and shouted without the slightest concern for a baby's delicate eardrums.
Beyond the wide-open doors, armed men stood waiting in clusters in the garden.
Lifted high into the air by my biological father and swung around like I was on a roller coaster, I thought to myself:
'If this is alternate history, then he's a military official. If it's a martial arts world, then this is a prestigious clan.'
If it's alternate history, then at least a general-class military officer—high-ranking enough to keep private soldiers accompanying him at his residence.
If it's a martial arts setting, then a renowned clan. One wealthy and powerful enough to maintain private troops and set aside such a vast estate just for a single child… likely even direct-lineage of the clan head. Possibly a powerful local magnate or a noble family.
This is a top-tier start.
"Baba!"
I smiled brightly and showered my father with sincere affection.
It was the completion of a world where everyone was happy.
In fact, up until my first-birthday celebration, my state of mind had been steadily climbing upward—from winning first prize in the lottery all the way to hitting the Super Bowl jackpot.