The first sound I heard when I woke up wasn't a voice or a scream… it was something that came from me—a sharp, fragile cry.
I tried to move, but my body didn't respond the way it should have. My hands felt clumsy, strangely small, unable to fully open my palm. My vision was blurred, a mixture of shadows and yellowish light swaying gently with the wind slipping through a poorly sealed window. The air smelled of herbs and smoke.
This was definitely not my apartment in Chicago.
A beautiful dark-haired woman held me carefully in her arms. Her eyes were red from tears, yet they shone with relief.
"He's healthy," she whispered.
Beside her stood a broad-shouldered man with a sturdy build and commanding presence. He watched me in silence. His pupils carried a faint reddish tint, his gaze sharp and penetrating. He wore simple clothes, but his posture—his aura—was not that of an ordinary man.
I tried to speak. To ask. To shout.
But only another infant's cry escaped my throat.
Soon after, I fell asleep.
The next day, I had too many questions.
My memory was intact. I remembered the disastrous winter that struck Chicago—fueled by human greed and climate change. I remembered the cold… and now that I thought about it, the pain as well.
The pain of freezing to death.
Dead… and reborn as a baby.
Something I had only ever read about in fiction novels.
Trapped in the body of a newborn, and before I could question my existence any further, sleep claimed me once again.
A month passed.
A month of constant humiliation.
I had the thoughts of a twenty-five-year-old man, the complete memories of my past life, yet I was trapped in a body incapable of controlling its own needs. I cried when I was hungry. I cried when I was uncomfortable. I cried when I simply didn't understand what was happening.
It was maddening.
As the weeks went by, I began to observe my surroundings.
The house was modest, built of dark wood and stone. There was electricity, but no televisions, no internet. It felt like those old films set decades ago, where people dressed formally and spent their evenings reading books—a quieter, more innocent era.
Outside, I could hear the wind and the distant murmurs of neighbors.
It seemed like a small village. Judging by the sounds of animals, we were likely farmers. Through the window, I could see vast fields of vegetation resembling wheat.
My mother, Samantha, was warm, kind, and patient. She carried me gently, sang old melodies while feeding me, and looked at me as though I were the center of her universe. Her affection was genuine… and strangely painful to receive, because no matter how tightly she held me, I felt out of place.
My father, Jordan, was different.
Stern. Quiet. Standing as straight as a soldier. At dawn, I would sometimes see him in the backyard practicing slow, precise movements. His fists cut through the air with silent force. He didn't train like someone seeking exercise.
He trained like someone preparing for the inevitable.
One night, while my mother slept, he held me in his arms and stared at me intently.
That was when I noticed.
His eyes.
Red—not entirely, but glowing with a deep crimson hue, like embers hidden beneath ash.
Days later, I noticed a change in myself.
My eyesight suddenly sharpened. Disoriented at first, I crawled toward a basin filled with water and confirmed it.
My eyes were the same as his.
Red.
Subtle, but unmistakable.
It wasn't a common trait. When I observed the neighbors, I realized that even green or blue eyes were rare. Our family was far too different.
And it wasn't just that.
People looked at my father with respect—but also caution. As if the smallest conflict could turn disastrous.
During my first year, my body began responding better.
I crawled earlier than normal and started walking along the walls weeks before my first birthday. At first, I assumed it was natural—perhaps this world operated differently.
Then I noticed something else.
My body was strong.
Not in the obvious way of a baby—but in resilience. When I fell, the pain was less than it should have been. When other children in the village became sick, I showed only mild symptoms.
Weeks after my first birthday, I overheard my parents arguing in hushed voices late at night.
"His soul is stable," my father said. "More than I expected."
"He's just a baby," my mother replied, worry in her voice.
"No… he's not just a baby."
Those words unsettled me.
Soul?
As time passed, I realized this world was not merely an outdated version of Earth.
There was something more.
Sometimes, if I focused, I could feel a faint vibration in the air—like an invisible current brushing against my skin. A special kind of energy.
It reminded me of the novels from my past life.
Cultivation.
Had I been reborn into a world of cultivators?
Excitement flooded me… followed quickly by fear. If that was true, I needed to begin somehow. A familiar phrase echoed in my mind: cultivate from the womb.
But how?
Ideas formed easily. Acting on them was another matter entirely.
Progress came thanks to my father.
Without my mother knowing, he began testing me. He strapped small weights to my ankles while I played and made me hold objects heavier than any child my age should manage.
That was how I learned to use that energy.
I unconsciously guided it through my body, improving my coordination and helping myself endure the weight.
My father never said a word.
But in his eyes, I saw expectation… satisfaction… and concern.
By the time I turned two, I could walk steadily. My coordination surpassed that of any other child, and my strength had grown considerably. I could leap from the ground to low tree branches with little effort. I could even lift small logs—or the axes my father used to chop wood.
The villagers' gazes shifted.
I was no longer just the son of the red-eyed man.
I was the red-eyed child.
Sometimes I wondered why this had happened to me. I hadn't been a hero in my past life. I hadn't saved anyone or fulfilled some extraordinary destiny.
I was just an ordinary person.
And yet, the universe had given me another chance.
Was it a gift…
Or a debt?
As the months passed, the sensation in the air became clearer. I called it Qi.
When my father trained, I could feel it—something invisible yet heavy surrounding him. A subtle pressure that made the ground beneath my bare feet tremble.
I knew, without being told, that my parents were not ordinary.
My mother used that same energy to move objects around the house, to bathe and feed me, and even to sense where I was. Whenever I snuck off to the forest to play, I would soon find her waiting for me on the other side—smiling before tugging my ears for leaving home.
There was undeniably something more to this world.
On the day I turned three, my father knelt in front of me.
"It will begin soon," he murmured.
I didn't understand what he meant.
But a part of me…
was ready.