A week has passed since my unintentional adventure in the library, and let me tell you, nothing has changed. I’m still trapped in this glorified potato sack of a body—a baby. A wobbly, helpless, wiggly thing with zero sense of coordination. I look like I’m perpetually trying to hold up my head on a windy day while carrying a sack of potatoes. Every time I attempt to move, it’s like my neck forgets its job and just sags. A true masterpiece of evolutionary design, let me tell you.

But you know what? Being a baby isn’t all bad. In fact, there are some perks. Sure, I can’t sit up without looking like I’m auditioning for an awkward fish role in a nature documentary, but hey, I’ve got time. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to do everything except not think. Which, in this case, is exactly what I need.

While everyone assumes I’m just some wide-eyed, drooling, one-month-old who’s more likely to throw myself off a balcony than figure out how to tie my shoes (not that I have shoes, but whatever), I’ve got different plans. Plans that involve escaping this tiny, helpless, drooling hellhole of a situation. Plans to break free from this baby prison and actually, you know, do something. Something more than just be a noble’s son stuck in the middle of a slow-motion collapse of a sinking house.

My parents? They have no idea. I’m already several steps ahead of them, in ways they couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Currently, I’m stuck in my room—locked in tighter than a bank vault—with Clara, the maid I accidentally ruined a few days ago. If you’re wondering what I mean by “ruined,” well, let’s just say that I made her life incredibly difficult by vomiting all over her dress. Classic move, right? She was so sweet about it, though. Too sweet, in fact. She didn’t even seem to mind that I coated her in an entire week’s worth of baby food. I’m sure she’ll remember that fondly every time I demand an autograph.

Clara, bless her heart, is harmless. If anything, she’s a little overbearing. She’s got this cute little button nose and short, amber hair that seems to glisten even when she’s scrambling around cleaning up after my latest “incident.” Part of me wonders why a woman so young and so, well, alive—and by that, I mean not dead inside—would want to be a live-in maid for the Valdris family. But that’s beside the point. I’ve got far more important things to think about.

Like getting back into that library.

But right now, every move I make is being scrutinized, as if my tiny, barely functional hands are going to break the very room I’m in. Or maybe they think I’ll somehow hurl myself off a staircase like a baby stuntman, or start making an unholy mess with my laughably small limbs. Honestly? I’ve been through worse lockdowns. You’d think I’d lose my mind in solitary, but no. This is nothing new. I’ve spent years locked in rooms before—this is just a slightly more embarrassing version of the same thing. At least this time, I don’t have to hear the sound of an adult-sized toilet flushing. That’s an upgrade.

Clara is basically my shadow. No, really—my shadow. I can practically feel her eyes on me at all times, like she’s waiting for me to spontaneously burst into flames or defenestrate myself. Her bright brown eyes flick from corner to corner, always alert, always watching. She’s got this endless well of care in her, but it’s the kind of care that’s a little too much—like a big sister on a sugar rush. She’s held me more times than my father has, which is... well, a bit strange, right? I mean, it’s fine—she’s nice, she doesn’t even seem to mind when I puke in her hair (I know, it’s bizarre)—but I’m starting to think I might need to “accidentally” get stuck under the bed more often to get a break.

Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but she’s just too sweet. I’m a grown man stuck in a baby’s body—I don’t need a personal sugar dispenser 24/7. I need space.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to get. Space, but with a little more planning involved.

I can’t work on my physical strength right now—I can barely sit up without looking like a confused sea creature—but there’s something more important I can focus on: my soul core. Oh yeah, that’s right. Time to get a little metaphysical.

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In this world, everyone has two cores: a mana core and a soul core. The mana core is easy enough to understand. It’s what lets you do magic—cast spells, attack, summon lightning from your fingers, etc. But the soul core? That’s the big one. That’s the core that strengthens everything else—the muscles, the bones, the skin, your entire being. It’s what makes people strong enough to survive. To fight. To endure. And right now, it’s the one thing I can start working on. The one thing that could allow me to grow strong enough to fight back, to do more than just be some kid with baby food stains on his onesie.

I remember reading about the soul core in one of the books during my 3000-hour playthrough of this game of a life I’m now stuck in. The technique. The path. It’s all coming back to me slowly but surely—like trying to remember a forgotten password. It’s frustrating, but it’s coming together. The path to strengthening the soul core isn’t about raw force—well, at least not yet. That comes later, when I can start breaking bonds and training the real strength. Right now? It’s about stillness. Focus. Patience. It sounds easy when it’s written down, but we all know nothing is easy when you’re stuck in a baby’s body that doesn’t even know how to roll over without crying.

But I’m patient. I’ve got time, and I’m going to use it.

So, while Clara hovers nearby, making sure I don’t accidentally set myself on fire or swallow something dangerous (which, let’s face it, is highly likely), I focus. I breathe. I do my best to block out the noise. The voices outside. The sound of Clara’s feet shuffling across the floor. The smell of food being prepared in the kitchen. All of it has to fade away.

I concentrate on that tiny, flickering warmth deep in my chest. It’s not much. Just a tiny ember, but that’s where the power begins. I focus on it. I breathe deeply, slowly, making sure to keep everything else out of my mind.

And then, something shifts. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The warmth grows, just a little. A flicker of power, a seed of something real. It’s small, but it’s something. My soul core is starting to take root.

It’s working.

I open my eyes, grinning to myself. Even though I can’t fully control my face yet (thanks, baby muscles), it feels like a small victory. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

The next few days are a blur. Clara continues her vigil, hovering over me like a kindly but overly cautious helicopter mom. But I don’t mind. It’s more time for me to focus, more time to work on my soul core.

When she’s not looking, I sneak into the library. I’ve got it all figured out—wait until she’s busy at lunch, then sneak in through the door she always leaves ajar. The library is my sanctuary. It’s like the world slows down in there. Every book is a treasure, every page is a gateway to knowledge. I read. I learn. I delve deeper into the secrets of the Valdris family, the house, and the world around me.

But there’s one thing I can’t seem to find. The book. The one I was so desperate to read. It’s nowhere to be found. I’ve spent hours combing through the shelves, hoping for some clue, some sign that it’s hidden somewhere, but it’s like it vanished into thin air. What the hell? I could have sworn it was right here. Someone must have moved it.

I hear my father sometimes, his muffled voice drifting through the walls. He’s talking to his assistant. It’s clear that he’s not doing well. There’s desperation in his voice, a sense of hopelessness. My father—Erin Valdris—is a proud man, but even he can’t keep the cracks from showing. He’s holding on to the idea that things can still be fixed, that they can still be salvaged, but the reality is staring him right in the face. Things are falling apart. And I can’t do a damn thing about it yet.

But that’s not my fight. Not yet.

No, this is my fight. The fight to survive. To grow. To become something more than the child, to bring back the Valdris house from the grave. And as I sit taking in the peacefulness, one thought strikes me like a thunderclap:

Was there a Ciro in the game?. No. There was absolutely no character or even mention of me. Sure, my soon to be sister Rosa is in there as a character you can chose to ally with during the playthrough, but I’m absent. Nowhere to be found.

I strain, racking my mind, trying to dig through the endless descriptions to find something about myself. Anything. There’s a blade, an artifact, mentioned in the descriptions: “A sword crafted from the mana core of an elemental stone beast…”

But then, there’s a line that hits me like ice water. “The princess Rosa Inherited from her brother, the young prince Ciro, after his untimely death.”

My heart stops.

What?

“Untimely death.”

I freeze. I remember it all—the dread, the panic, the terror all those emotions hut you at once in moments like these, I remember now, my name in those descriptions the little lord facts I studied to try and beat the game, I double triple, hell triple check my memory to see if I'm wrong. No way. This can’t be right.

...fuck.