The first lesson Darian Ashford learned in his new life was that babies are useless.
He couldn't walk. Couldn't talk. Could barely hold his own head up. He lay in a wooden cradle, staring at a ceiling he'd already memorized by day three, and waited for his body to catch up to his mind.
It was infuriating.
In his past life, he'd spent 107 years building himself into something respectable. Not great, never great, but respectable. He could fight. He could hunt. He could track prey through dense forest and read the weather in the clouds. He'd survived dungeons that killed younger, faster men.
Now he couldn't roll over without grunting like a dying pig.
The only consolation was his mind. Every memory remained, sharp and clear as the day he'd died. Sera's smile. Rik's hands on his shoulders. Lysa's bored gaze. The wine, sweet on his tongue. The dagger, cold between his ribs.
Twenty five years of trust. Twenty five years of love and friendship and shared adventure. All of it burned into his soul like a brand.
He had plenty of time to think about it. Babies slept sixteen hours a day, and Darian spent most of those waking hours staring at that ceiling and remembering.
His new mother's name was Elara.
She was young, maybe twenty five, with tired eyes and calloused hands and a smile that appeared every time she looked at him. She worked in the fields from dawn until dusk, and she still found time to hold him, to feed him, to sing songs he didn't recognize in a voice that made his chest ache.
He didn't deserve her.
That thought came unbidden one night as she rocked him by firelight, humming a tune about harvest moons and lovers parted. He was three months old, barely able to focus his eyes, but he could see her face clearly. See the exhaustion pulling at her features. See the love shining through anyway.
In his past life, his mother had died young. He barely remembered her face. But Elara's face, he suspected, would haunt him just as much as Sera's.
He didn't deserve her. She loved a baby who wasn't really a baby. She loved a stranger wearing her son's body.
But he needed her. Needed this family. Needed the chance to grow before he could do what needed to be done.
So he let her love him. And tried not to think about what she'd feel if she ever knew the truth.
---
His new father was named Theron.
A farmer, like most men in this village. Broad shouldered and quiet, with thick arms from years of swinging a scythe and a permanent stoop from bending over crops. He came home each night covered in dirt and sweat, kissed his wife, and peered into the cradle with an expression of bewildered wonder.
"He's bigger today," Theron would say, every single day.
"He was bigger yesterday too," Elara would answer, every single time.
"I know, but look at him. He's definitely bigger."
Darian would stare up at this giant of a man and feel something he hadn't felt in over a century. Safety. The knowledge that someone would fight for him, die for him, simply because he existed.
He'd felt that way about Sera once. About Rik. About Lysa, even, in his foolish trusting way.
Never again.
But watching Theron's face, listening to his daily observations about Darian's miraculous growth, he couldn't quite kill the warmth that flickered in his chest.
He'd protect them. When the time came, when he finally walked the path of revenge, he'd make sure no shadow touched this village. No demon prince. No scheming woman. No hired assassin.
This family would survive. Even if he didn't.
---
At six months, Darian said his first word.
It wasn't "mama" or "papa." It was "no."
Elara had been trying to feed him mashed vegetables, a sludgy green concoction that tasted like boiled sorrow. She'd cooed and smiled and offered the wooden spoon like a peace treaty.
Darian, who remembered fine dining in the capital, who'd tasted dragon steak and elven wine and a hundred delicacies across a hundred adventures, looked at that spoon.
He looked at Elara's hopeful face.
He said, clear as a bell, "No."
The spoon clattered to the floor.
Elara stared at him. Theron, mending a tool by the fire, froze mid swing.
"Did he just..." Theron started.
"He said no." Elara's voice was strange. Half wonder, half concern. "Babies don't say no at six months. They barely babble."
Darian realized his mistake immediately. A century of habit, of speaking his mind, of opening his mouth without thinking. He'd forgotten where he was. Who he was supposed to be.
He gurgled. Smiled his toothless baby smile. Reached for the spoon.
"Mamamamama," he added, for good measure.
Elara and Theron exchanged glances. Then Theron laughed, deep and warm.
"Clever boy," he said, ruffling Darian's nonexistent hair. "Already knows what he doesn't want. He'll do well in this world."
Elara wasn't entirely convinced. Darian caught her watching him strangely for days afterward, her eyes thoughtful and searching.
He was more careful after that.
---
At one year, Darian took his first steps.
He could have walked earlier. His body was ready by nine months, muscles strong enough, balance good enough. But walking meant being mobile. Mobile meant drawing attention. Drawing attention meant risking more slips, more questions, more of Elara's searching looks.
So he waited. Crawled when expected. Pulled himself up on furniture at the normal time. Took his first wobbling step at twelve months exactly, right on schedule, while both parents watched with tearful pride.
Theron lifted him high, laughing. "My boy! My strong boy!"
Darian allowed himself a small smile. This body was weak, pathetically weak, but it was his. And every day brought him closer to the day he could finally move.
Closer to the day he could finally hunt.
---
At three years old, Darian found a stick.
It was a good stick. Straight and solid, about the length of his arm, with a natural curve at one end that fit perfectly in his palm. He picked it up, tested its weight, and swung it experimentally through the air.
Thwip.
Perfect balance. Good reach. Decent weight for his current strength.
He spent the afternoon swinging that stick at bushes and stones and unfortunate patches of grass. By evening, his arm ached and his palms had blisters and he felt more alive than he had in three years.
Theron found him in the yard, whacking a fence post with grim determination.
"What's that, son?"
Darian paused. Considered his answer. "Stick."
"I can see that." Theron crouched beside him, studying the fence post. It was covered in fresh dents. "You've been busy."
"Practicing."
"Practicing what?"
Darian looked at the stick. Looked at his father. In his mind, he saw Rik's face, the stone expression as his hands held Darian down. He saw the axe he'd carried for decades, the one that had been taken from his corpse and sold for gold.
"Everything," he said.
Theron was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Alright. But don't hit the fence too hard. We need it to keep the pigs in."
He walked back to the house, pausing at the door to look back. Darian had already returned to swinging, his small face set in concentration that seemed far too old for his years.
Theron watched for a moment longer, then went inside.
He didn't mention it to Elara. Some things, he sensed, were better left alone.
---
At five, Darian asked his first real question.
"Father, what's beyond the village?"
Theron looked up from his work. They were in the field, Theron harvesting vegetables while Darian sat at the edge, still clutching that same stick. He'd worn the bark smooth over two years of use.
"Beyond the village?" Theron wiped sweat from his brow. "Forest. More farms. The road to Millbrook, if you go far enough."
"And beyond that?"
"Bigger towns. Cities, even. Places with stone walls and markets and too many people."
"And beyond those?"
Theron set down his scythe. Studied his son with those quiet, thoughtful eyes.
"Why do you ask?"
Darian considered his answer carefully. He'd had years to practice this, to craft responses that sounded childlike but revealed nothing. He was good at it now. He had to be.
"I want to know what's out there," he said. "When I'm bigger. When I'm strong."
Theron nodded slowly. "Most boys your age want to know what's in the forest. Maybe the next village. Not cities beyond cities."
Darian shrugged, a gesture he'd copied from watching the village children. "I think about it sometimes."
"Dream big." Theron smiled, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. "Nothing wrong with that. Just remember, whatever's out there, it'll wait until you're ready. No rush to grow up."
Darian looked down at his stick. At his small hands, still years away from holding a real axe.
"No rush," he agreed.
But in his mind, he was counting every day. Every wasted day of childhood. Every moment his enemies grew stronger, richer, further beyond his reach.
Sera was probably level 500 by now. Maybe more. Rik and Lysa would have climbed too. And behind them, someone else. Someone who'd wanted that amulet badly enough to orchestrate a decades-long betrayal.
Darian didn't know who. Didn't know why. But he'd find out.
However long it took.
---
At seven, Darian killed his first animal.
A rabbit. He'd been hunting in the forest, something he'd started doing at six, claiming he wanted to help put food on the table. Theron had taught him to set snares, but Darian preferred the slow stalk, the patient waiting, the moment of violence at the end.
The rabbit never heard him coming. A rock, thrown hard and true, caught it behind the ear. It dropped without a sound.
Darian stood over it, breathing hard.
[DEVOUR ACTIVATED]
[Target: Rabbit (Level 2)]
[Stats Absorbed:]
- AGI +0.1
- PER +0.1
- ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 3% -
He stared at the notification. It had been seven years since his rebirth. Seven years of waiting, growing, pretending to be a normal child. And finally, finally, his Talent had awakened.
Devour. X rank.
He could feel it now, a hunger at the edge of his awareness. Not physical hunger. Something deeper. The urge to consume, to take, to grow.
He looked at the rabbit. At his small hands. At the darkening forest around him.
Somewhere out there, Sera was living in luxury. Rik was surrounded by wealth and power. Lysa commanded assassins who could kill him a hundred times over before he ever got close.
And behind them, someone waited.
Darian picked up the rabbit and started walking home.
He had a long way to go.
---
That night, he checked his status screen for the first time in seven years. He'd avoided it, knowing it would only remind him how weak he was. But now, with Devour awakened, he needed to know.
DARIAN ASHFORD
Level: 9
STR: 14
AGI: 16
VIT: 13
INT: 11
PER: 18
LCK: 8
TALENT: DEVOUR (X-RANK) [ACTIVE]
ANCIENT BOND: SYNC 3%
SKILLS: None
Level 9. After seven years of life, after all his past experience, all his knowledge, he was level 9.
In his past life, he'd reached level 312. It had taken 107 years. It had been unremarkable, average, nothing special.
This time, he'd go further. This time, he had a Talent that could steal stats. This time, he knew what was coming.
He closed the screen and stared at the ceiling.
Nine years until he could leave this village. Until he could start hunting properly. Until he could begin the long climb toward revenge.
Nine years.
He'd waited a hundred already. What was nine more?
---
In the next room, Elara whispered to Theron.
"He's different. You see it too, don't you?"
Theron was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "I see it."
"Should we be worried?"
"No." Theron's voice was firm. "Whatever he is, whatever he'll become, he's our son. He loves us. I see that too."
Elara said nothing. But later, when she checked on Darian, she stood in the doorway for a long time, watching him sleep.
His face, in sleep, was peaceful. Childlike. Innocent.
But his dreams were full of daggers and wine and a woman's smile.
And somewhere deep in his soul, an ancient presence stirred, patient and waiting.
Not yet, it whispered. Not yet.
But soon.
---