Being Normal

Wes floated in the womb, a strange mix of anticipation and boredom settling over him. He could feel it—the subtle changes, the way his mother's body shifted and prepared. He was close. They were close. After what felt like an eternity, he was finally about to be born.

He had kept siphoning slivers of mana for himself and his sister, ensuring they were as strong and healthy as possible. He was sure of it—he had given them an edge. In his first life, he had experienced a baptism of mana, but this? This was on a whole different level.

He could only imagine the benefits of having his and his sister's stem cells stimulated by mana while still in the womb. It was like being forged in a mystical furnace before life even began. If this wasn't setting them up for greatness, nothing would. He might not know the exact effects, but he had a good feeling. His instincts told him this was something special.

But now, with freedom on the horizon, a new problem presented itself: how the hell was he supposed to act like a baby?

He'd thought about it a lot. Babies cried, right? And they pooped. And they made weird faces for no apparent reason. But how much was too much? What if he accidentally overacted? The last thing he needed was his parents wondering if their newborn was possessed.

Then, inspiration struck. He would do whatever his sister did. She cried? He'd cry. She slept? He'd sleep. She drooled? He'd drool like a champion. It was foolproof. Babies were supposed to be in sync, right? Twins even more so. It was the perfect cover.

"Just mirror her," he thought, amused by his own genius. "I'll be the world's greatest mimic. If she burps, I'll burp. If she makes that weird baby gurgle, I'll gurgle right back. She poops—well, I guess I'm pooping too."

He chuckled mentally, imagining the absurdity of it. Him—the strongest human of his past life, a warrior who had stared death in the face more times than he could count—now reduced to playing baby charades. His grand strategy boiled down to: copy the tiny, squishy person next to him.

If anyone could see inside the womb, they'd probably think he had lost his mind. But he didn't care. It was the perfect plan. Safe, simple, and completely baby-proof.

Wes looked inward, focusing on his soul. There, on his left hand, the mark remained—a remnant of the bond with his dao partner. It glowed softly, a thread of light woven into the fabric of his spirit. It was a quiet reminder of a world much larger than Earth, a universe filled with boundless possibilities. He had been so close to touching that horizon, to stepping beyond the limits of his world.

He sighed, the weight of it settling over him. He wondered if she still thought about him. Did she feel the echo of their connection, the faint pull that lingered even now? Or had time and distance severed the bond completely?

The ritual itself was ancient—older than most histories, a rite that bound two souls together. It wasn't just a promise; it was a vow etched into their very beings. He shivered, recalling the path they had walked to complete it. She had gone against the grain, against everything expected of her, to choose him. It had been a choice that defied logic and tradition, a declaration to the world that he was worthy.

But as much as she had chosen him, he had chosen her. It hadn't been a desperate grasp or a quiet acceptance—it was a claim, a decision that burned with certainty. She was his and he was hers. It was as if their souls had reached across the void and wrapped around each other, threads of fate weaving into a single tapestry.

The thought sent a spark through him, a flame that refused to die even in this dark, watery world. Their bond was not something fragile or fleeting. It was iron and flame, a truth that could not be unraveled by death or rebirth.

If the universe thought it could keep them apart, it had no idea who it was dealing with.

One thing was for certain…

Wes thought of the void-eyed bastards, and an icy rage coiled through his soul. The memory of those pitch-black eyes, hollow and consuming, sent a ripple of fury through him. Those twisted creatures—humans who had lost themselves to corruption—had taken everything from him. His family, his home, his future. Even now, nestled in the warmth of the womb, the anger simmered beneath his fragile exterior.

Unintentionally, his soul trembled, and a pulse of killing intent radiated outward. It was a sharp, cold wave that cut through the amniotic fluid, sending his sister into a fit of wriggling. He felt her tiny body jolt, the soft thrum of her heartbeat spiking in fear. The warmth around them shifted as his mother reacted, her entire body tensing, the soothing rhythm of her breath quickening.

"Oops."

He reeled his soul back in, smothering the outburst as if slamming a door shut. His sister's movements slowed, the echo of his mistake lingering in the cramped darkness. His mother's breathing remained uneven, the muted thumps of her heart a reminder of just how precarious his situation was.

"Yeah… probably shouldn't do that," he thought, cringing internally. "Note to self: don't freak everyone out before you're even born. Try not to be the weird baby."

He forced his thoughts back to calm, letting his soul settle into a state of feigned innocence. Just another sleepy baby floating in a safe, warm world. No killing intent, no dark memories. Just soft, rhythmic pulses and the steady beat of his mother's heart.

"Just be normal," he told himself, though the idea seemed absurd. How did one even pretend to be a normal baby when they had enough baggage to fill a lifetime?

Well, he had a few weeks left to figure it out.