Learning the Words

The weight of the old man's power still lingered in my mind.

Since that day, something had shifted inside me. I wasn't content being idle, just lying there. Every moment became a chance to push harder, to force my body to move. My small legs wobbled beneath me, my arms trembling as I gripped the edge of my bed for balance.

I would stand. I would move. Failure meant nothing.

Each fall was just another step closer to control.

The woman—I still didn't know her name—watched me from time to time, her eyes wide with confusion and concern. She didn't say anything, but I could see the flickers of surprise whenever I pushed myself up. I failed more times than I could count, but I refused to give up.

Every time I fell, I picked myself back up.

My body trembled under the effort, but I was getting stronger, step by step. The sensation of muscles responding to my will was intoxicating. In my previous life, I had taken such things for granted—walking, running, movement itself. Now, every inch of progress felt like a victory.

But it wasn't enough.

The days turned into weeks.

During that time, I became more attuned to the sounds around me. The woman's voice was a constant presence, muttering words in a language that made no sense to me. At first, it was just noise, a jumble of sounds that held no meaning.

But over time, the sounds started to change. They began to form patterns, pieces of a puzzle that I was determined to solve.

It was frustrating at first—hearing them speak around me but being unable to understand any of it. I felt like a spectator, locked out of the world, forced to watch as others lived, spoke, and understood things that were far beyond me.

But if there was one thing I had, it was time. Endless, stretching time.

When she spoke, I listened carefully, catching the repeated words. She often used the same sounds when she moved toward the door, or when she brought me food. Basic commands and greetings. Slowly, I connected the words to actions, the phrases to intentions.

It was like pulling threads together from a tangled knot.

It wasn't easy. Every sound was foreign, and my mind was still adjusting to this infant body, struggling to piece together the structure of the language. Some days, I could only catch one or two new words. Other days, I felt like I was moving backward, the sounds slipping through my grasp like water through clenched fists.

But I wasn't going to give up. Not after everything I'd seen. Not when I knew what kind of power existed out there.

I began to mimic her.

Late at night, when the room was quiet and the world seemed far away, I whispered the words to myself. My mouth fumbled over the unfamiliar syllables, but I didn't care. It was progress. Even if my tongue couldn't yet form the words properly, my mind was starting to make sense of them.

Every day, I practiced in secret.

The woman never noticed. Or maybe she did, but she said nothing. It didn't matter either way. What mattered was that the language was becoming clearer. It wasn't just random noise anymore—it was a tool. A weapon. And I needed to master it if I was going to understand anything about this world.

In my previous life, words had been my only weapon. I had studied people, learned how to manipulate them, learned the art of reading others to survive. Now, I was faced with a new challenge. A new puzzle.

It felt almost ironic, being trapped in a child's body, learning to speak again from scratch.

But this was no longer just about survival.

It was about something bigger. If I could understand this language, I could understand the people. And if I could understand the people, I could understand the power structure of this world.

And one day, I would use that understanding to turn it to my advantage.

It wasn't long before I could pick up basic conversations between the woman and others who entered the room. They spoke about mundane things most of the time—chores, food, and tasks. But every now and then, I'd catch a word that seemed more important.

A name. A command.

I listened closely, memorizing the way the sounds rolled off their tongues, the tone in their voices. I couldn't grasp everything, but I was learning. Slowly, I was piecing together meaning where there had once been only chaos.

Months passed, and I grew stronger.

I no longer struggled to stand. Walking became second nature, my body finally beginning to obey my mind's commands. I could move around the room, my legs shaky but functional. It wasn't perfect, but I no longer had to rely on the woman for everything.

But that wasn't enough. I needed more than just the ability to move—I needed to understand. I needed to know what they were saying, what they were planning, and why I had been brought into this world.

One afternoon, the woman left the door slightly ajar. It was a rare moment, one where I could hear the sounds from the courtyard more clearly than ever before. Voices, sharp and commanding, drifted through the open space.

I crawled toward the door, my small body moving as quickly as I could manage. Peeking out, I saw the same training ground I had glimpsed before. Men and women, practicing, their bodies moving with precision and strength.

And there, among them, was the old man.

He stood at the edge of the training ground, watching the disciples practice. His presence was a looming shadow, and once again, I felt the weight of his power. Even from this distance, I could feel it. The way the disciples bent to his will, their heads lowered, their movements precise and deliberate.

I couldn't understand the words he spoke, but I didn't need to. His very presence spoke louder than any language.

Power.

That was all that mattered in this world. Power, and the ability to bend others to your will.

I retreated back into the room before the woman returned, my heart racing. I knew, deep down, that I wasn't meant to see these things. But I couldn't stop myself. Every glimpse I caught of the world outside, every word I learned, brought me closer to understanding.

The woman returned, her face flushed from whatever errand she had been running. She didn't notice my curiosity or the way my gaze lingered on the door. She simply carried on, muttering to herself as she went about her chores.

But I noticed everything.

I spent more and more time focusing on the words, pulling them apart in my head, arranging them into patterns I could memorize. Each new word was a small victory, another step toward mastering the world I had been thrown into.

There were still so many things I didn't understand, but I was getting closer.