The first sensation that broke through the haze of my consciousness wasn’t pain—it was warmth. A gentle, all-encompassing warmth that seemed to cradle every part of my being. The second was the sound of voices, soft and melodic, speaking in tones I had never heard directed at me before.
"Oh, look at him! He’s absolutely precious, my darling little one~"
"He really is! Those eyes—they’re so alert for a newborn."
"Have you chosen a name yet, Isabella?"
"Yes," came a voice that seemed to resonate through my very soul, causing my heavy eyelids to flutter open against my will.
The world that greeted me was a blur of soft colors and indistinct shapes, but gradually, as my vision struggled to focus, I found myself staring up at the most breathtaking face I had ever seen.
She was ethereal in a way that defied description—her skin seemed to glow with an inner light, made more radiant by the fine sheen of perspiration that spoke of recent exertion. Her hair, white as fresh snow but with an almost luminescent quality, clung to her face in damp tendrils that framed features so perfect they seemed carved by divine hands. But it was her eyes that truly captured me—a soft, warm pink that reminded me of cherry blossoms at dawn, gazing down at me with an expression of such pure, unconditional love that it made my chest ache with unfamiliar emotion.
Is this heaven? The thought drifted through my mind unbidden. Have I somehow been granted mercy despite everything I’ve done?
The last thing I remembered was the cold metal of the gun against my temple, the bitter taste of my own blood, and the crushing weight of dying completely alone. I had been certain that my destination was somewhere far less pleasant than this vision of angelic beauty looking down at me with such tender affection.
"Harold," Isabella said softly, her finger gently tracing the curve of my cheek with a touch so gentle it made my heart skip a beat. "His name will be Harold."
The sound of that name—my name, apparently—sent a shock of realization through my system. My eyes widened as much as they were capable of widening, and I tried to process what was happening to me.
Instinctively, I reached upward, though the movement felt strange and uncoordinated. My limbs seemed to respond to my commands, but not in the way I expected. They felt small, weak, unsteady.
"Oh, look at that! He wants to reach for mama!" Isabella’s voice rose with delight, and I could hear the smiles in the voices of the other women present. "What a clever little boy you are!"
But I wasn’t looking at her face anymore. My attention had been completely captured by the sight of my own hand—tiny, pudgy, with fingers barely long enough to curl into a proper fist. The skin was soft and unmarked, without the calluses and scars that had marked my adult hands.
The reality hit me like a thunderbolt.
I’m a baby. I’ve been reborn.
The implications cascaded through my mind in rapid succession. Somehow, impossibly, I had been given a second chance. Not just at life, but at an entirely new life, in what appeared to be a completely different world. The James Trevills who had died alone in a pool of his own blood was gone, and in his place was Harold—a clean slate, a fresh start, an opportunity to be something entirely different.
If I could have laughed, I would have laughed until my sides ached. The irony was so perfect it was almost poetic. All those women who had cursed me, who had wished for my death and damnation, and here I was—not burning in hell, but cradled in the arms of an angel, given the chance to start over completely.
Instead of laughter, what emerged from my tiny mouth was a sound that my new mother interpreted as baby’s giggle of joy. The effect on Isabella was immediate and overwhelming—her face lit up with such radiant happiness that she gathered me against her chest in a embrace so warm and loving that I felt something inside me crack and shift.
When was the last time someone had held me like this? When was the last time someone had looked at me with pure, uncomplicated love? I couldn’t remember—perhaps it had never happened at all.
Wait, I cautioned myself, even as I found myself unconsciously nuzzling against the warmth of her embrace. Don’t draw conclusions too quickly. Observe. Learn. Understand what kind of world you’ve been born into before making any plans.
But as the days passed, observation became increasingly difficult to separate from genuine emotion.
Two Years Later
The morning sun streamed through the wooden shutters of our small cottage, casting dancing patterns of light and shadow across the rough-hewn floor. I sat in the corner of the main room, ostensibly playing with the collection of carved wooden toys that Isabella had made for me, but in reality, I was watching and listening to everything around me with the analytical mind of my former life.
Two years of careful observation had confirmed what I had suspected from the very beginning: I had not simply been reborn into a different time or place—I had been reborn into an entirely different reality. This was a world where magic flowed as naturally as water, where people could heal grievous wounds with a touch of their hands, where the impossible was mundane and the miraculous was commonplace.
And I, Harold, the child who had once been James Trevills, had been blessed with abilities that defied even this world’s generous definition of the possible.
The revelation had come gradually, pieced together from oveIsabellard conversations, careful observation, and eventually, direct experience. It began with noticing that Isabella’s hands would glow with a soft, warm light whenever she tended to injuries—my scraped knees, the neighbor’s sick chicken, even the wilted plants in her garden would flourish under her touch.
"Mama has a special gift," she had explained to me one day when I had stared too obviously at the light emanating from her palms. "It’s called healing magic, and it helps make the hurt go away."
Magic. In my previous life, I would have scoffed at such a concept. But here, in this world, it was as real and tangible as the air I breathed.
What made my situation even more extraordinary was what happened approximately one year ago, on what I would later recognize as my first birthday in this new life. I had been watching Isabella tend to a merchant who had injured his leg in a fall from his wagon. As always, her hands had begun to glow with that warm, golden light, and I had found myself completely captivated by the process.
I wanted to understand it. I wanted to feel what she was feeling, to know how she channeled that power, to comprehend the mechanism by which she transformed intent into reality.
And then, as I watched with complete focus and desperate curiosity, something extraordinary happened.
A translucent window appeared in my field of vision, overlaid across the physical world like some kind of supernatural interface. The text within it was clear and unmistakable:
[OMNI-ESSENCE ASSIMILATION ACTIVATED]
New Skill Observed: Basic Healing Magic
Comprehension Level: 15%
Mastery Requirements: Direct observation (40%), Theoretical study (30%), Practical application (30%)
I had blinked hard, certain that I was hallucinating or experiencing some kind of fever dream. But the window remained, persistent and real, updating in real-time as I continued to watch my mother work.
Over the following weeks, I had experimented carefully with this newfound ability, testing its limits and understanding its rules. The power, which I had come to think of as my "system," allowed me to absorb and replicate virtually any skill, talent, or knowledge that I encountered—but only if I engaged with it deeply and meaningfully.
Simple observation could grant me basic understanding, but true mastery required active participation, study, and practice. It was as if the universe had given me the ultimate learning tool, a way to become proficient in anything I set my mind to, limited only by my willingness to invest time and effort.
The implications were staggering. In my previous life, I had relied on natural charisma and cunning to manipulate others. Now, I had the potential to master any skill, any craft, any form of magic that I encountered. I could become anything I wanted to be—literally.
But there was one mystery that my newfound abilities couldn’t solve, no matter how much I focused on it: the question of my father.
Isabella never spoke of him, and whenever the subject came up in conversations with neighbors or visitors, she would change the topic with a skill that rivaled my own former abilities at misdirection. All I knew was that her healing abilities were considered exceptional even by the standards of our village, and that my own supernatural learning ability was something that she had never displayed.
"Your mama is special," old Henrik the blacksmith had told me one day when I had wandered into his forge, drawn by the fascinating process of metalworking. "Her healing magic is stronger than anyone’s seen in three generations. But healing magic, that runs in families, you know? Usually gets passed down from parent to child."
He had looked at me with curious eyes, clearly wondering if I would inherit my mother’s abilities. If only he knew the truth—that I had inherited something far more powerful and unusual.
But the question remained: where had my abilities come from? Isabella’s magic was powerful but focused, limited to healing and nurturing. My system was something else entirely—vast, adaptable, potentially limitless. It suggested a heritage that she either couldn’t or wouldn’t discuss.
Not that I truly cared about the mystery of my parentage. In my previous life, I had been abandoned by parents who couldn’t be bothered to stick around long enough for me to remember their faces. Now, I had Isabella—a mother who loved me unconditionally, who sang me to sleep with lullabies in a language that made my heart ache with beauty, who would move heaven and earth to ensure my happiness and safety.
For the first time in either of my lives, I understood what it meant to be genuinely loved.
And that realization terrified me more than anything I had ever experienced.
The James Trevills who had lived and died in my previous life had been a creature of pure selfishness, incapable of genuine emotional connection. He had used love as a weapon and treated human hearts as disposable commodities. The idea that I might actually care about someone—that I might be capable of the kind of vulnerability that love required—was fundamentally incompatible with everything I thought I knew about myself.
Yet here I was, at two years old, already completely devoted to a woman who called me her son. When she smiled at me, I felt genuine happiness. When she was worried or sad, I felt a corresponding ache in my chest. When she held me close and whispered how much she loved me, I believed her completely and felt something warm and precious bloom in my heart.
Was this what normal people called love? This overwhelming need to protect and please another person, this sense that their happiness was somehow more important than your own?
If so, it was both wonderful and dangerous. In my previous life, I had been strong because I had been emotionally invulnerable. I had been able to manipulate others because I had never truly cared about the consequences of my actions. But caring about Isabella made me weak in ways I was still learning to understand.
It also made me determined to be better than I had been before.
The morning continued its peaceful routine around me as I contemplated these thoughts. Isabella hummed softly to herself as she prepared breakfast, occasionally glancing over at me with that radiant smile that never failed to make me feel like the most important person in the world. The smell of fresh bread and honey filled the cottage, mixing with the herbs she dried for her healing work and the faint scent of magic that seemed to cling to everything she touched.
Through the open window, I could see other villagers beginning their daily routines. Children ran through the streets, their laughter echoing off the stone walls of the houses. Merchants set up their stalls in the small market square, calling out their wares in voices that carried the comfortable cadence of routine. Everything was peaceful, stable, normal.
It was the kind of life that the James Trevills of my previous existence would have found insufferably boring. But Harold—this new version of myself—found it comforting in ways I was still learning to appreciate.
"Harold, sweetheart," Isabella called softly, interrupting my contemplation. "Come here, my little love."
I looked up to find her kneeling beside the fireplace, her hands already beginning to glow with that familiar warm light. On the hearth sat a small bird—a sparrow, by the look of it—with what appeared to be a damaged wing.
"A little friend needs our help," she explained, her voice taking on the gentle, instructive tone she used when she wanted to teach me something important. "Would you like to watch mama help him feel better?"
I nodded eagerly, abandoning my toys and toddling over to where she knelt. This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up—not just to observe her healing magic, but to continue my progress toward understanding and eventually mastering it myself.
As I settled beside her, my system activated automatically:
[OMNI-ESSENCE ASSIMILATION]
Skill: Healing Magic
Curent Mastery: Rank 2
Progress to Rank 3: 2%
I was getting close to achieving basic proficiency. Just a few more sessions like this, and I would be able to attempt my first practical application of healing magic. The thought filled me with excitement and anticipation.
Isabella’s hands moved over the injured sparrow with practiced precision, her magic flowing into the tiny creature with careful control. I watched intently, noting how she seemed to direct the energy, how she modulated its intensity, how she focused on the specific areas that needed attention.
"Magic isn’t just about power, Harold," she said softly, as if she could sense my intense focus. "It’s about understanding. You have to feel what needs to be healed, understand what went wrong, and then gently guide things back to the way they should be."
Her words resonated with something deep inside me, and I felt my understanding of healing magic deepen significantly. This wasn’t just about applying energy to a problem—it was about diagnosis, precision, empathy. It required not just power, but wisdom and genuine care for the subject being healed.
The sparrow’s wing straightened under Isabella’s touch, and within moments, the little creature was fluttering its wings experimentally. She opened her hands, and it took flight, circling the room once before darting out through the open window.
"There," she said with satisfaction, turning to me with a smile that lit up her entire face. "All better. Wasn’t that wonderful?"
I nodded enthusiastically, and she laughed at my obvious excitement, pulling me into one of her warm embraces.
"You’re going to be such a special boy," she whispered against my hair. "I can feel it. There’s something extraordinary about you, my little Harold."
If only she knew how right she was. But as I snuggled against her warmth, breathing in the scent of healing herbs and magic that always clung to her, while mischievously resting my hands on her very generous breasts.
"You want milk again, Harold? You’re already two years old," she teased, looking down at me with amused exasperation.
I gazed up at her with my best puppy-dog eyes, the ultimate weapon I had mastered in this new life.
"Such a spoiled little thing," she sighed, but her smile betrayed her fondness.
My mother—Isabella—was utterly defenseless against this tactic. With a soft chuckle, she adjusted the strap of her dress, letting it slip just enough to free one of her full, luscious breasts. She was at least F Cup.
They were magnificent.
Even across lifetimes, I had never seen anything so perfectly sculpted by nature—voluminous yet graceful, with skin like fresh cream. I could lose myself in their beauty forever.
And taste them forever, too.
I latched on eagerly, drinking deep.
A pang of regret hit me—if only I were older. But then again, if I were, I’d never get away with this.
No matter.
I’d find a way to recreate this moment in the years to come and take things even further....
Because Isabella?
She was worth every bit of patience.