"Never let anyone or anything look down on you! A dragon never accepts pity or charity!"

"Kaijus and Dinos never give up. They will always emerge stronger!"

"We are Primevals! We embody strength!"

—These aphorisms reverberate through his consciousness, as constant as a heartbeat. Inescapable, like the air he can't quite breathe, they infuse the warm, aqueous environment enveloping him.

Imagine lying in a warm bath while a thunderstorm plays its calming symphony outside, the soft glow of a full moon illuminating the room through the window. Now add a powerful fan, whipping gusts of wind across his face—refreshing, invigorating. For him, this is a sanctuary—a place that exudes both safety and comfort.

Ah, a slice of heaven...

Yet, it's an imperfect paradise. His senses are dulled; breathing, seeing, hearing—they're all compromised. But rather than stir anxiety or fear, the velvety liquid encasing him infuses a sense of tranquility.

Is this...death? Paralysis has me bound; breath is a luxury I can't afford. Words—utterly beyond reach. Strange... Even so, panic remains elusive.

His thoughts drift like leaves on a slow-moving stream, not landing on any particular emotion for too long. In this cocoon of warmth and muffled sounds, there's no room for alarm, only an odd contentment with the inexplicable. And so he lingers, wrapped in his liquid cradle, undisturbed by the unknowns that envelop him.

He has no concept of time in this enveloping warmth, and no memory of ever arriving here.

Never panic. Just work until it's done. That had always been his way, whether in construction, military service, or even navigating the labyrinthine politics of friendships and the torturous maze known as 'public school.' He prided himself on his laser-like focus and unwavering resolve.

But now he floated in idleness.

Was he getting...bored?

Three months—or what felt like an eternity—passed.

Today was different. An inexplicable sense of urgency filled him.

(Hmm, something big's coming, isn't it?)

Suddenly, he felt a mounting pressure, starting at the crown of his head and descending throughout his body. Although immobilized and sightless, his senses of hearing and touch seemed to activate. The tactile world around him was warm, oddly malleable.

Before he could ponder this new sensation, an urgent need for air seized him. Lungs? Breathing? But how? No air was available here.

(Okay, not dead, but how in the world am I breathing?)

Then he felt it—a repetitive pressure against his backside. Judging by the heft and strength of the impact, it seemed to be coming from an adult male.

(Hold on...is someone smacking my butt?)

He sensed the shape of a hand imprinting itself onto his skin, again and again.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

...! ...!

Something was unequivocally off about this situation. He couldn't put it into words, but the sensation was unmistakable: his posterior was the target of some physical interaction.

Then a voice broke through, tinged with a note of surprise. "Well, that's something I've never seen before. Breathing but not crying—and is that a glare I see? Regardless, congratulations on your successful birth."

...Birth?

He remained enveloped in his warm, liquid world, but the sudden clarity hit him like a bolt of lightning. This was not some ethereal plane or idle fantasy—he had just emerged into life, anew and bewildered, yet distinctly himself.

Another woman's voice chimed in, tinged with a blend of pride and relief. "Of course! As if I could fail at bringing my only son into the world."

Yet another female voice added to the conversation, tinged with disbelief. "Honestly, I thought you'd have thrown in the towel by now. Good thing we were here for the main event. Shame about the natural birth, though..."

"Natural birth? Hah! I'm tough, but ain't no way I'm delivering this child without some chemical assistance."

For the first time in what felt like forever, he heard more voices than the one that had been doling out motivational maxims to him every day. The language they were speaking was an eclectic mix—Greek, Italian, Latin, Chinese, and Japanese with a heavy emphasis on the last three. It's mostly gibberish to him, but there are pieces he can sort of follow.

"Ah, my love, you're not alone anymore," his apparent mother cooed. "Soon enough, you'll have more company than you'll know what to do with. An extra-large room will be prepared just for you."

He didn't have the foggiest clue what that meant, but at least he could put some pieces together.

(Alright, got it. Reincarnated, not dead—check. Just went through the whole birthing experience—double check. Two moms—triple check. Now, why the hell did I have to go through birth? Couldn't they just drop me into this world as a five-year-old, like in those animes? Whoever's in charge up there, you owe me big-time. Make me forget today, please!)

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A full year had ticked away since Dracul's rebirth into this bewildering world. Once known as Drake Dracul Mercer—a mix of African and Caribbean heritage—he was now Dracul Vespasian, the only male offspring in a house teeming with mercenaries, bandits, and monster slayers.

"Dracul, isn't it about time for your bath?" Isla, his dedicated maid of four years, inquired with a smile. Sporting short vermillion hair, a crooked cowlick, and a French maid's outfit, she was an interesting mix of traditional and eccentric.

This maid reminds me of a character from a gacha game, Dracul thought, bewildered by the world's resemblance to Earth—though Earth certainly didn't boast starships or magic.

Dracul stared back at her, choosing not to vocalize. Speaking felt alien, though the redundancy of babyhood left him yearning for more engaging activities, letting his passive demeanor speak for him. Infancy was monotonous—an endless cycle of eating, sleeping, and the less-than-glamorous aspect of diaper changes.

Lifting him with practiced ease, Isla placed him on the changing table. "You've grown so much," she remarked, beginning to undress him. "Look at those chubby thighs!"

If only I could talk, I'd have a thing or two to say.

His belly was full, yet uncomfortably so; he felt a stirring need for a diaper change but lacked the words to articulate it.

Just then, his mother, Primera, burst into the room. "Where is my baby boy!" she exclaimed, heading straight for the changing table.

Isla's eyes widened at the sight of Lady Primera, who wore a green camo crop top, black cargo pants, and an array of unnecessary belts.

Seizing Dracul with her scaled hands, Primera enveloped him in a boa-constrictor-like grip. "You're growing so quickly, my sweet boy."

It should be noted that everyone in this household was either a Dragon or a Dinosaur, capable of morphing into humanoids with reptilian features. Dracul, however, was the sole half-human.

Primera continued, her scales cold against his skin. "I know you'll be strong like your donor father. The lab did an excellent job mixing our genes."

A lab baby? Seriously?

Though born into a household of battle-hungry, ferocious beings, Dracul sensed their underlying kindness and warmth.

Maybe this isn't so bad. One day, I'll explore why this world is technologically advanced and maybe even wield a lightsaber-like weapon.

With these thoughts, he waved a tiny hand at his mother, earning affectionate coos from the women.

For the past year, he'd been longing for some system or status screen to appear, but to no avail.

(Status open?)

Suddenly, his internal plea for a status check bore fruit; a tank-green RPG-like screen materialized before his eyes.