Infant Life

It had been six weeks.

How did he know that?

Because he had Perfect Recall.

Or rather, he should say Rashan Sulharen did.

It was strange at first, thinking of himself as someone else. Alexander Walker was dead. His body was gone, left behind in another world. Here, he was Rashan Sulharen. A newborn, yes, but a Redguard noble with a future ahead of him.

And counting days? That was easy.

Even as a baby, his mind tracked everything perfectly. He remembered when the sun rose and set, the patterns of movement around the house, the shifts in conversation, the rhythm of life. Time wasn't just something he experienced—it was something he recorded.

The perk was awesome sauce.

And in those six weeks, he had been playing with his Save & Load feature.

He could reload once every 24 hours—a hard reset back to the last save point. If he didn't use it, it refreshed the next day.

And his death reload?

It was like a staircase in the dark. He knew it was there, even if he couldn't see it. If he died, he'd come back. The knowledge settled in the back of his mind like a quiet reassurance, a lifeline that he knew he could count on.

And in those six weeks, he had learned a lot.

He identified his four siblings.

Based on voice, tone, and interactions, he had a general idea of their ages.

• Kamal Sulharen – The eldest. Probably fifteen or sixteen. His voice was deeper, and he spoke with the tone of someone expected to act like an adult. Others seemed to defer to him, and the way their father spoke to him suggested he was being groomed as the heir.

• Zahir Sulharen – Second eldest, likely twelve or thirteen. His voice wasn't quite as deep, but he had a confidence about him, one that suggested he saw himself as a warrior-in-training.

• Nasir Sulharen – Third son, probably ten or eleven. He spoke faster, sharper, the kind of kid who talked his way out of trouble but still got into it.

• Saadia Sulharen – His only sister, probably six or seven. Her voice was lighter, softer, but she spoke with measured care, like someone aware that others were always watching her.

One name stood out immediately—Saadia.

Even as a newborn, he recognized it.

Saadia

He was wondered if it was the same Saadia who would one day flee to Skyrim, hide in Whiterun, accused of treason, hunted by the Alik'r.

If it was that meant, without a doubt, he was in the same Hammerfell that would one day be wracked with political conflict, betrayal, and war.

Interesting if that was the case.

Then there was his mother.

She was beautiful, even in the way only a baby could perceive beauty. Her skin was a rich, deep brown, smooth and flawless. Her high cheekbones and strong jawline gave her an air of regality, a noblewoman through and through. Golden rings adorned her ears, and her dark, curly hair cascaded in thick braids, woven with delicate silver beads.

Her eyes were striking—amber, almost gold, piercing yet warm. Every time she gazed at him, he felt a sense of security, an unspoken promise that he was protected. Her full lips, often pressed into a thoughtful line, would curve into the softest of smiles whenever she held him.

She was tall, statuesque, powerful, even beneath the flowing silks and fine garments she wore. The ornate bangles that adorned her wrists jingled softly as she moved, a quiet sound that he had already come to associate with her presence.

Then there was his father.

If his mother was elegance and poise, his father was power and authority.

The man was a mountain.

Broad-shouldered, towering, with a physique carved from war and discipline. His skin was a shade darker than his mother's, a deep earthy brown with faint scars marking his arms—not flaws, but proof of battles fought and won.

His hair was shorter than most Redguards, dark and tightly coiled, but his beard was full, meticulously maintained, streaked with hints of silver despite his relatively young age.

His eyes were sharp.

Not kind like his mother's, but assessing, measuring. A deep, burning hazel, edged with something fierce, something unyielding.

When he held Rashan, it wasn't gentle—but it wasn't careless either. It was firm, steady, like the world itself couldn't shake him.

His voice—when he spoke—was a low, rumbling command. The kind of voice that carried across a battlefield without needing to be shouted.

This was not a man to be ignored.

Besides that, he had been living every day twice.

Why?

Because he could.

His Save & Load feature meant that every day was played, rewound, and played again. Physically, he was always the same as the saved state, meaning if he saved while tired, hungry, or sore, then reloaded later, he'd still be tired, hungry, or sore.

But his mind?

His mind retained everything.

So while six weeks had passed for everyone else, for him, it had been twelve.

And those extra six weeks had given him a massive head start.

He was learning the language faster—not English, unfortunately. They spoke Tamrielic, the common language of the Imperials. It made sense. The Empire had dominated the political and military landscape for centuries, and Tamrielic had spread across the continent as the standard tongue.

But Redguards had their own language once. Yoku.

He remembered reading somewhere—probably some old wiki post—that Yoku was a mostly dead language now, spoken only in fragments. Some phrases survived, embedded in Redguard culture, but the days of fluent Yoku-speaking communities were long gone.

Still, that knowledge didn't help him much now. He had no translator, no subtitles, no skill menu—just his ears and memory.

And in those twelve weeks, he had started piecing together one mystery—what had happened at his birth.

The sobbing he had heard, the tone in their voices, the way people still looked at him sometimes—it all came together.

They had thought he died at birth.

It made sense. First, he hadn't cried right away. Then, when he did, he had gone straight into what probably looked like a seizure—his body convulsing from the brain freeze-migraine combo that came with unlocking Perfect Recall.

Not exactly what you wanted to see in a newborn.

They didn't know what had really happened.

And they never would.

Anyway, life as a baby was pretty lame.

His family—or clan, as some might call it—were Forebears.

That, too, made sense. Forebears were the Redguards who had embraced Imperial traditions, siding with the Empire and integrating with Cyrodiilic culture. They weren't as isolationist as the Crowns, who still clung to old Yokudan ways, believing in a pure, unbroken lineage from their warrior ancestors.

That also explained why they spoke Tamrielic instead of preserving Yoku. The Forebears had adopted Imperial customs, so their language had naturally faded out of use over the generations.

And as far as he could tell, his father had no second wife or concubines.

That was… surprising.

Redguard nobles—especially Crown families—often practiced polygamy, concubinage, or at least had multiple heirs from different mothers. Even among Forebears, it wasn't uncommon for men of high status to have at least one concubine to secure their bloodline.

But his father? From what Rashan had observed, his mother was the only wife.

Interesting.

His first run, as he called it, was always mental.

During those first 24 hours, he focused on absorbing everything new—every sound, every interaction, every tiny detail his perfect memory captured. It was all about information gathering, processing, and piecing things together.

Then came the "Regress Run"—when he loaded back to the start of the day and focused on something completely different.

His body.

God, his infant body was weak.

No muscle control. No strength. He could barely keep his own head from flopping over like a sack of potatoes. He was supposed to be a warrior one day, and right now, he couldn't even keep his hands from twitching like a drunk squirrel.

Progress was slow, but he could tell—little by little, he was building strength.

He was willing to bet that by the time he was old enough to crawl, he'd be ahead of other kids his age.

And another cool thing about Perfect Recall?

It wasn't just this life.

He could remember everything from his past life with perfect clarity. His SEAL training, his childhood, the feel of a gun in his hands, the tactics, the skills—all of it was locked in his mind like a perfectly preserved archive.

Now that was a damn useful perk.

Otherwise, it was rinse and repeat.

Eat. Cry. Sleep.

The endless loop of infancy.

But whenever he felt wakeful, he made sure to cry—not out of hunger or discomfort, but for a very specific reason.

As soon as someone picked him up, he would stop.

Why?

Because he wanted to be where people talked.

His first run of the day was always for information gathering. If he was stuck alone in a crib, all he had was the muffled hum of life happening elsewhere.

But if he was held?

Then he was in the middle of conversations, hearing names, voices, phrases—picking up the language faster.

His mother, likely exhausted from his demanding presence, eventually resorted to carrying him everywhere in a cloth sling tied around her front.

A swaddle that kept him close while she moved about her day.

Perfect.