Starting Everything from Scratch

Life wasn't easy from the start—unless you were a genius like me.

Everything begins at the most fundamental level. Helpless and vulnerable, forced to rely on others for survival—such is the reality of birth.

A frustrating reality, at that.

I was aware from the moment I took my first breath. Trapped in a body too weak to respond to my will, forced to tolerate the humiliating cycle of being breastfed, cleaned, and swaddled like some delicate creature.

Even the most rudimentary tasks, such as moving my fingers and turning my head, required an exhausting amount of effort.

But frustration was an obstacle to progress.

If my body wouldn't cooperate, I had to approach this logically. Every movement, no matter how minuscule, was a step forward. I tested my limits daily, tracking improvements in how long I could lift my hands, how quickly I could move my eyes, and how soon I could control my tiny fingers.

It was inefficient, but efficiency would come in time. I needed a foundation first.

More notably, my intelligence remained intact. I absorbed every detail despite my limitations, noting patterns in speech, facial expressions, and behaviors.

I have already distinguished three key figures in my new life—my father, my mother, and the person I assumed was my caretaker.

"She's looking right at you, dear. I think she recognizes us."

As if sensing my attentiveness, my mother's soft voice spoke up, her warmth evident.

"Hahaha," a deep chuckle followed, obviously from my father. "Herta's only a few weeks old. She's probably just staring at the ceiling."

Hmph, that's where you're wrong, old man.

"I beg to differ, Milord," the caretaker interjected, her voice tranquil yet amused. "Lady Herta has been remarkably attentive for a newborn. I have rarely seen an infant who observes their surroundings so intently."

Ah, quite an astute observation, caretaker. At least someone noticed my brilliance.

"See? She's a bright one," my mother hummed with satisfaction. "I mean, look at her face—so serious, just like her father."

"Really?" my father scoffed lightly. "No baby can be that serious. She's just being cute."

Me? Cute? As if—!

I narrowed my eyes in frustration at his underestimation. Unfortunately, all that accomplished was a slight twitch in my tiny features—pathetic.

"Fufufu~" A soft laugh escaped my mother. "I think she's trying to glare at you."

"Already?" my father chuckled, absolutely amused. "Well, if that's the case, I take it back. She truly is my daughter."

I would roll my eyes if I could. These people... they had no idea.

But then I felt the blanket shifted around me, and I heard the caretaker giggle softly. "Serious or not, Lady Herta still needs proper rest. It would be a while before she can properly glare at you, Milord."

"Hmph, we'll see," Father mused before a pause, followed by the gentle warmth of his hand brushing over my forehead. "She's going to be a handful, isn't she?"

"Absolutely," Mother agreed, her voice lulling yet resolute. "But we'll treasure every moment we spend with her."

...

Hmph, I'll let them enjoy their precious delusions for now.

They'd soon learn that I was no ordinary individual.

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I was developing faster than I had anticipated.

What should have taken several months, if not years, was unfolding in mere weeks.

Once feeble and unresponsive, my limbs now obeyed my intent with increasing precision. My fingers grasped objects with purpose. My body, though still tiny, no longer felt like a prison of helplessness and humiliation.

And my mind—it was sharper than ever.

Memories, knowledge, and even elaborate thought processes appeared to accumulate more effectively, but there was something beyond that. A sensation beyond simple intelligence, as if my mind could process and ascertain information at an absurd rate.

At first, I dismissed it as mere luck—an unexpected advantage in my reincarnation. But then I recalled the skills I had acquired from my dying wishes before I perished.

Unique skill: Achiever.

Based on the name alone, I could deduce its function. This skill could allow me to accomplish tasks effortlessly, accelerating my progress beyond normal limits. However, given the rate at which my body was developing, I suspected that the results extended beyond mere talent.

Was it instinctual mastery? A heightened sense of adaptability? Or the capability to maximize efficiency in learning?

Regardless of the specifics, it was undeniably working in my favor.

Then, there was the other skill. Unique Skill: High Intelligence.

The skill's name was self-explanatory. An enhancement of my cognitive functions, bestowing me comprehension and insight far beyond what should have been achievable. The immediate understanding of language, the ability to recognize patterns in behavior, and the clearness of thought—are all byproducts of this ability.

With these two unique skills, I wasn't merely developing. I was evolving.

Which led me to a single conclusion.

I would surpass all expectations.

The first time I flipped onto my stomach, my parents cooed over me as if I had accomplished something miraculous. A week later, I propped myself up with my stubby arms and managed to push forward. Because of this feat, confusion ensued. 

"Did... did she learn how to crawl just now?"

My father's baffled voice broke the silence. From the corner of my vision, I saw him blinking in disbelief, his arms crossed, as if debating whether his eyes had deceived him.

"But it's only been four months," my mother whispered, holding a hand over her mouth. "She shouldn't be able to do that yet."

"Marlene, should we call a healer?" My father glanced at my caretaker, as though she might have some insight into this phenomenon. 

The woman, standing nearby, simply chuckled. "There's no need to worry, Milord. Lady Herta is simply ahead of her time."

Ah, a competent assessment, caretaker. I approve.

"Ahead of her time?" my father repeated, still staring at me as I inched forward with resolve.

"Yes, Milord," the caretaker confirmed, nodding. "Some infants take longer to develop, while others show remarkable progress early on. However..."

A knowing smile graced her lip as she glanced at me.

"Lady Herta is quite exceptional."

My mother sighed in half-exasperated amusement. "I did say she was bright, didn't I?"

"You also said she was serious," my father murmured. "At this rate, she'll be walking before she even turns one."

That was the plan, actually.

My body may be weak, but it was adapting. I can still grow stronger.

And soon, I would stand on my own.

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I did it. I finally did it.

After three months of relentless effort, I had conquered yet another milestone—I could stand on my own two feet. Not only that, but I could now walk several steps without toppling over.

The initial process had been frustratingly challenging, but once I factored in my unique skill, Achiever, my progress accelerated beyond expectation.

And, as anticipated, my accomplishment did not go unnoticed.

"Oh, dear lord!"

I heard my mother gasp as hurried footsteps approached. The soft rustling of fabric signaled her nearing, but before she could reach me, I took another step—then another.

"She is walking," my father murmured. His voice was unusually quiet as if his mind struggled to process what he was witnessing. "At seven months old."

"Unbelievable..." my mother whispered. She knelt beside me, her hands hovering as if unsure whether to catch me or let me continue. "Herta, sweetie, h-how are you already walking?"

I simply glanced up at her, fully aware that reacting verbally was out of the question. Instead, I took another determined step forward, solidifying my victory.

"Honey, are we sure she's human?" my father asked, turning to my mother, incredulity etched into his features.

Mother exhaled slowly, placing a hand against her forehead. "Albrecht, she's our daughter. Of course, she's human."

"Then how do you explain this, Theresia?" He demanded, pointing at me, his expression torn between pride and sheer disbelief. "This isn't normal!"

"Fufu~" Marlene, my ever-composed caretaker, chuckled from the side. "Milord, Milady, Lady Herta is simply ahead of her time."

I appreciate your consistency, caretaker.

Father sighed, rubbing his temples. "You said that when she started crawling at four months old. Now she's walking at seven. What's next? Running by nine?"

"Perhaps," Mother mused, watching me closely, a smile formed on her lips. "But then again, we shouldn't be surprised. Herta has always been extraordinary."

Well, at least someone in this family recognized my brilliance.

Despite my growing physical capabilities, I was still limited in many ways. Walking was merely an achievement, but I couldn't exactly run yet, nor could I carry out complex movements. My body remained small and fragile, a frustrating contrast to my ever-expanding intellect.

But even in this tiny form, I was learning—observing—analyzing.

And with my newfound mobility, I could explore more of my surroundings.

To my surprise, our home was grander than I had expected. High ceilings featured elaborate carvings, while polished wooden floors and marble walls gave a refined yet inviting warmth. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, casting a soft glow across the halls.

Father's study was a clutter of books, glass instruments, and parchment—clear evidence of his work as a researcher. In contrast, Mother's garden teemed with exotic flora, filling the air with the faint scent of herbs.

Through observation, I pieced their identities together.

Albrecht, my father, was a man of science, while Theresia, my mother, was a gardener and herbalist through and through.

Two vastly different fields, yet somehow, they complemented each other.

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It was only when I peered out of one of the arched windows at the hallway that my curiosity expanded beyond the walls of our home.

Rolling hills stretched far into the horizon, their emerald greens bathed in the golden hues of morning light. Beyond the hills lay a modest city, its stone walls sturdy yet objective. The streets hinted at a quiet, steady livelihood rather than bustling grandeur.

At its center stood a castle—not an imposing fortress, but a stronghold of reasonable design, its spires simple and genuine.

"Oh, what do we have here?"

The familiar voice of my father called out. I turned around and saw him gazing at the window where I was looking.

I tugged at my father's sleeve, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

"It's only been nine months, and you're already curious about the outside world," he resumed, chuckling lightly.

I furrowed my brows at him. Of course, I was curious.

A fond sigh left his lips before he gently ruffled my hair.

"This is the Kingdom of Nasca, our homeland."