Being a baby was, without a doubt, the most humiliating experience of my two lives.
Poets and writers often romanticize childhood. They call it a time of innocence, of wonder, of unburdened joy. They talk about the purity of a newborn's gaze.
They are liars. All of them.
Childhood, specifically infancy, is a prison sentence where the warden is a giant who speaks in gibberish and the food is a bland, lukewarm paste.
For the first six months, I was trapped in a body that refused to obey the simplest commands. I wanted to scratch my nose? My hand would smack me in the eye. I wanted to turn over? I would flail like a turtle on its back until exhaustion set in. And the indignity of diapers… let's just say that for a twenty-year-old man used to bathroom privacy, the psychological toll was heavy.
But the worst part wasn't the physical limitations. It was the boredom.
My mind was sharp. In fact, it felt sharper than it ever had on Earth. My memories of my past life were crystal clear, accessible with a terrifying precision. I could recall the exact text of the last message I sent to my mother. I could visualize the complex magic systems of the novels I read. I could remember the atomic number of every element on the periodic table, information I hadn't thought about since high school chemistry.
It was my first clue that something about me was… different. My memory wasn't just good; it was perfect. A steel trap.
But having a supercomputer for a brain is useless when your daily routine consists of sleeping, eating, and staring at a ceiling fan that rotates by magic.
I spent those early months gathering intelligence.
My new home was a sprawling, single-story manor built in a traditional style—resembling the old Havelis of India but infused with a distinctly fantasy aesthetic. It was structured around a central open-air courtyard where a massive Neem tree grew, its leaves shimmering with a faint, bioluminescent glow at night.
My father, Vikram Varma, was the head of this household. He was a stern but kind man who smelled of ink and sandalwood. From what I gathered, he was a Baron—a low-ranking noble who managed the town of Aranyapur (City of the Forest).
My mother, Eshani, was the heart of the house. She was beautiful, with eyes that crinkled when she smiled and a voice that could soothe a raging beast. She spent her days managing the estate's finances on those stone tablets that functioned like iPads, tapping away with a stylus made of crystal.
We weren't poor, but we weren't obscenely rich either. We were "countryside rich." We had servants, plenty of food, and a large house, but the furniture was old, passed down through generations, and my father's tunic cuffs were often frayed at the edges.
"Aranyapur is quiet," I heard my father say one evening, rocking me in his arms on the veranda. "The crop yields are good this year. The farmers are happy. That is all that matters."
"The capital is restless, Vikram," my mother had replied, looking at the violet moon. "The taxes are rising again. The Elven guilds are pushing into the textile market."
Elves, I thought, my tiny ears perking up. So there are Elves.
I filed that information away. Elves were usually arrogant, rich, and magical. If they were pushing into markets, it meant this world had a developed economy, likely capitalism fueled by magic.
I was learning. Slowly.
By the time I turned one, I had mastered walking.
Most babies stumble. I observed the physics of balance, calculated the center of gravity, and executed the movement. My parents called me a prodigy. I called it basic motor control.
By two, I was speaking.
I was careful not to speak too well. I didn't want to be burned at the stake for being a demon-possessed toddler. I used simple words, but I made sure my grammar was impeccable.
"Mother, water please," was infinitely more dignified than "Mama, wawa."
But as I grew, so did my frustration.
I was now three years old. I had the run of the house, within reason. I could walk the corridors, chase the glowing butterflies in the courtyard, and sit by the koi pond.
But there was one room that called to me. The Forbidden Land. The Holy Grail.
The Library.
It was located at the end of the East Wing. Double doors made of heavy teak, reinforced with iron bands. Every time my father opened them, a waft of that intoxicating scent—old paper, leather binding, and dust—escaped into the hallway.
I needed to get in there.
I needed to know the history of this world. I needed to know the magic system. I needed to know geography. Was the world flat? Round? Was there a Demon King? Was I in a game?
I stood in the hallway, staring up at the brass handle that was three feet above my head.
I jumped. My fingertips brushed the wood, miles away from the metal latch.
I growled, a sound that came out as a cute huff.
I looked around for a tool. A chair. A stool. Anything.
I spotted a decorative vase stand nearby. It was heavy, made of solid mahogany. I dragged it across the floor, the wood screeching against the stone tiles.
Scrrrraaaape.
I froze.
"Manas?"
My mother's voice floated from the courtyard.
"Playing!" I shouted back, my voice innocent and sweet.
I pushed the stand against the door. I climbed up, my little legs working hard. I stood on my tiptoes, reaching for the handle.
My fingers wrapped around the cold brass.
Yes!
I pushed down. The mechanism clicked. The heavy door creaked open just a crack.
A sliver of the room was revealed.
It was glorious.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. Scrolls stuffed into pigeonholes. A large globe spinning slowly in the corner. Floating lights dancing near the ceiling.
It was a treasure trove of information. It was everything I needed to survive.
I pushed harder, trying to squeeze my small body through the gap.
"And what do we think we are doing?"
Two strong hands grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me into the air.
I kicked my legs, dangling helplessly. I turned my head to see my father, Vikram, looking at me with a mix of amusement and sternness.
"Papa!" I exclaimed, trying to charm my way out of it. "Book!"
"Book?" Vikram raised an eyebrow. "Manas, you are three. You cannot read."
"I look!" I insisted, pointing at the gap in the door. " pictures!"
"The books in there are not for playing," Vikram said, carrying me away from paradise. He kicked the door shut with his heel. The sound of the latch clicking into place broke my heart. "They are fragile. Ancient. And full of dust that will make you sneeze."
"I careful!" I argued, my vocabulary failing to convey the depth of my intellectual maturity. "I want learn!"
Vikram chuckled, shifting me to his hip. "I know you are curious, my little scholar. But not yet. When you are five, we will hire a tutor. Until then..."
He walked into the living room and plucked a thin, colorful book from a side table.
"Here," he said, handing it to me. "The Tale of the Brave Rabbit."
I stared at the book in my hands. It was made of thick cardboard. The cover depicted a rabbit holding a carrot like a sword.
It was insulting.
I looked at my father with a betrayed expression. I want to read about geopolitical economics and mana theory, and you give me a militaristic vegetable-eating rodent?
"Read," Vikram encouraged, patting my head. "It has very nice pictures."
I sighed, defeated. I sat on the rug, opening the book. I didn't read it. Instead, I sulked, plotting my next infiltration attempt.
Later that evening, after a dinner of spiced rice and milk—the food here was suspiciously similar to Indian cuisine, heavily spiced and rich—I wandered into my parents' bedroom.
They were in the bathhouse, the sound of splashing water echoing from the adjacent room.
I was alone.
I walked over to the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. It was a clear, silver-backed glass, framed in polished copper.
I hadn't really looked at myself in a while. Not properly.
I dragged a heavy ottoman over to the mirror and climbed on top of it so I could see my full reflection.
I paused.
In my previous life, I was average. 5/10 on a good day. I had crooked teeth, messy hair that never sat right, and a permanent slouch from gaming.
The boy in the mirror was... different.
He was breathtaking.
Even at three years old, the genetic lottery had clearly been won.
My skin was fair but with a warm, golden undertone, glowing with health. My hair was jet black, falling in soft, natural waves that framed my face perfectly, no matter how much I rolled around in the grass.
But it was the face itself that was striking. It wasn't the chubby, undefined face of a toddler. It had structure. My jawline was already hinting at a sharp definition. My nose was straight and noble.
And the eyes.
They were dark, like obsidian, but they had a depth to them that was mesmerizing. They were framed by lashes so long and thick they looked like they had been drawn with calligraphy ink. There was an intelligence in those eyes, a sharpness that contrasted with the softness of my youth.
I turned my head side to side, examining the angles.
I puffed out my cheeks. Still cute.
I frowned, trying to look intimidating. I looked like an angry angel.
Okay, I thought, a grin spreading across my face. I am going to be a problem when I grow up.
I posed, crossing my arms. I looked like a miniature prince.
"Handsome," I whispered to the reflection. "Very handsome."
This was a weapon. In a world of nobles and politics, appearances mattered. Being beautiful was a power of its own. People trusted beautiful things. They underestimated them.
"Manas?"
I jumped, nearly falling off the ottoman.
My mother stood in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her hair, looking at me with a confused smile.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
I froze, caught in the act of vanity.
"Checking... for dirt," I lied smoothly.
She laughed, the sound like wind chimes. She walked over and scooped me up, hugging me tight. "You are clean, my beautiful boy. And very vain, it seems."
She kissed my cheek. "Come. Time for bed."
As she carried me away, I looked back at the mirror one last time.
I was Manas Varma. I was a genius. I was beautiful. And I was stuck in a toddler's body in a backward village with no access to information.
But I had time.
I laid my head on my mother's shoulder as she walked through the dark corridors. The house was quiet.
I closed my eyes, accessing my memory. I pulled up the image of the library door I had seen for that brief second.
Third shelf, second row. "Fundamentals of Mana Manipulation."
Fourth shelf, bottom row. "Geography of the Central Continent."
Desk. A map. The seal on the map was a Golden Lion.
I memorized the layout. I memorized the lock mechanism.
If I couldn't go in through the front door, I'd find another way. I was twenty years old inside. I could outsmart a wooden door.
But for now, I had to sleep. My three-year-old body demanded it.
Just you wait, I thought as darkness took me. I'm going to read every single book in that room.