Chapter 3: The Silent Child

The shimmering blue rectangle slapped into existence, directly in my field of vision, the instant consciousness returned. It was my new, unwanted, and utterly unavoidable alarm clock. System Interface. Level 1. Strength 1. Agility 1. Skills: None. The mocking reminder of my 'anomaly' status, my uselessness, was the first thing I perceived, every single morning, even before the blurry outlines of my crib came into focus. My infant eyes, still struggling to make sense of this strange new world, could somehow perceive that cursed window with perfect clarity.

The faint, sweet scent of woodsmoke drifted through the air, a familiar smell that, for a fleeting moment, brought a pang of… something. Longing? Homesickness? I couldn't name it. It was a feeling quickly replaced by the ever-present knot of grief in my chest.

The morning routine was, by now, agonizingly familiar. Elara, my new mother, would lift me from the crib, her touch gentle, her eyes filled with a worried love that I didn't deserve. She'd try to feed me, and for weeks, I had turned my head away, clamping my mouth shut, the taste of the milk repulsive, a betrayal of the family I'd lost. Brenn, my new father, would watch from a distance, his strong face etched with a concern he couldn't express. He'd try to engage me, offering a wooden toy or making silly faces, but I'd remain unresponsive, lost in my own internal world.

They thought I was sick. Slow. Broken. And maybe I was. Broken in a way they couldn't possibly comprehend.

But this morning was different. I'd reached a breaking point, not of acceptance, but of… resignation, perhaps.

Days, or perhaps weeks, blurred together. I was cleaned and cared for, but I remained detached, unresponsive. Every attempt to offer me milk was met with a fierce, internal resistance. I turned my head away, clamping my mouth shut, a silent, desperate act of self-destruction. I wanted to fade away, to return to the oblivion, to rejoin my family, even if it meant… nothingness.

My new parents grew increasingly frantic. Their gentle voices became tinged with fear, their touch hesitant. They tried everything – different types of milk, different feeding methods, soothing songs, gentle rocking. Nothing worked.

I was starving myself. I knew it, even in my infant state. And, initially, I didn't care. All I could think of was how my mom felt when she realized I wasn't coming home, the crushing weight of that realization, the endless unanswered questions. I was lost in that grief, forgetting, in my self-absorbed pain, that I was now hurting another mother's heart.

Then, one evening, as Elara held me, her arms trembling with exhaustion, I saw it. Not just the worry in her eyes, but the despair. The silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks. The way her shoulders slumped, not just from fatigue, but from the crushing weight of failure. She was failing me, her child, and it was breaking her.

And in that moment, something within me shifted. The grief didn't vanish, the longing for my family didn't disappear, but… another feeling, a flicker of empathy, pierced through the darkness. I was hurting her. My actions, my refusal, my desperate attempt to cling to the past, were causing her pain.

When she offered me the milk again, I hesitated. The revulsion was still there, the feeling of betrayal, but… it was weaker. Overwhelmed by a new, unfamiliar sensation: guilt. Not the familiar guilt of my past mistakes, but a fresh, sharp guilt for the pain I was inflicting on this woman, this stranger who was trying, with all her heart, to care for me.

I looked up at her, my infant eyes meeting hers. And, with a will that surprised even myself, I opened my mouth and began to suckle.

The milk was warm, sweet, and… surprisingly comforting. A sob, a real, heartbroken sob, escaped me, but this time, it wasn't just for my lost family. It was for Elara, for Brenn, for this new, unwanted life I'd been thrust into.

Elara gasped, her eyes widening in surprise and relief. She held me closer, her tears falling onto my face, mingling with my own. She didn't understand, not really. But she felt the shift, the tiny, fragile bridge that had been built between us.

It wasn't acceptance, not yet. But it was… a beginning. A reluctant, painful step towards a future I hadn't chosen, but one I was, perhaps, starting to acknowledge.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The agonizingly slow passage of time, marked only by the changing seasons visible through the small window of our home, was a constant torment. I was growing, my infant body slowly gaining strength and coordination. I could crawl now, and even pull myself up to stand, clinging to the sides of my crib or the rough-hewn furniture. I could even take a few unsteady steps before collapsing onto my padded bottom. Each small milestone, celebrated by Elara and Brenn with joyous smiles, felt like a mockery to me, a reminder of how far I had to go.

I used this newfound mobility to train. It was still a pathetic imitation of the exercises I remembered from my past life, but it was something. I'd crawl across the floor, pushing myself to exhaustion. I'd pull myself up to stand, again and again, until my legs trembled and gave way. I'd practice walking, stumbling and falling, driven by a desperate need to feel some control over this tiny, inadequate body. At night, when the house was quiet and Elara and Brenn were asleep, I'd practice, using the walls and crib.

But it wasn't just the physical limitations that tormented me. It was the magic. I'd close my eyes, trying to recapture the sensation I'd felt during the priest's visit – the tingling warmth, the flowing golden light, the underlying emptiness. I'd try to feel it again, to draw it in, to… to do something.

Nothing.

Each failed attempt was a fresh wave of frustration, a confirmation of my own inadequacy. I was an anomaly, supposedly gifted with incredible sensitivity, yet I couldn't even manage the simplest flicker of magic. The system window, with its mocking display of my inflated stats, felt like a constant, silent taunt.

Then, I saw it. Not the priest's dramatic display, but something… smaller. More subtle.

The wind was a constant presence in Stoneroot, whistling through the gaps in the stone walls and rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. It shaped our days. But sometimes, it became a problem. One afternoon, a particularly strong gust threatened to rip the drying laundry from the line Elara had strung between two posts in our small yard.

I watched, fascinated, as Elara raised her hand, her fingers splayed. She didn't chant, didn't make any dramatic gestures. She simply… focused. I could feel a subtle shift in the air, a slight increase in the ever-present hum that I was slowly, painstakingly, becoming more attuned to. The wind, instead of buffeting the clothes, now swirled around them, holding them gently in place like an invisible hand. It was a small thing, a minor application of magic, but to me, it was a revelation. Proof. Tangible, visible proof that magic was real, and that it could be controlled.

Elara lowered her hand, the wind returning to its chaotic dance. She sighed, a faint weariness in her eyes. "It takes a lot out of me, little one," she murmured, more to herself than to Author. "I don't use magic often. It… tires the mind."

Tires the mind… so it wasn't physical. It was mental. A spark of understanding, a flicker of hope, ignited within me. It was a system. And systems could be understood.

Weeks of silent observation turned into a burning need to know. The frustration of my nightly failures, the tantalizing glimpse of Elara's control, it all coalesced into a desperate yearning. I waited till I saw my mom use her magic again.

I toddled over to her, my small legs still wobbly, and tugged on her skirt. "Mama…?" I managed, the word still clumsy. I pointed at her hand, then mimicked the swirling motion I'd seen her make, my brow furrowed in concentration, mimicking the best I could.

Elara looked down at me, surprised. She knelt, her eyes level with his. "Magic, Author? You want to… learn magic?" She sounded hesitant, a mixture of amusement and concern in her voice. It was clear, she didn't think I understood.

But I did. I nodded emphatically, my tiny fists clenched. I pointed at the air, then at my own chest, trying to convey my desire to feel the mana, to control it, to be more than just a helpless observer in this alien world.

Elara sighed. "You're still so little," she said, but there was a softening in her gaze, a flicker of something that might have been pride. "Alright, Author. But just a little. It's not easy, you know. It takes… focus. And it tires the mind. That's why I don't use it much." She held out her hand, palm up. "Feel this, Author. Feel the air?"

And so, my training began. Not with grand spells or dramatic displays of power, but with the simple act of feeling. Elara would sit with me in the quiet evenings, after my brother was asleep, her hand gently resting on my back, guiding me.

"Close your eyes, little one," she'd murmur, her voice a soothing balm against the constant hum of my internal frustration. "Feel the air around you. Feel the warmth of the fire. Feel the… hum."

I tried. I focused with all my might, pushing aside the constant whispers of my past life, the grief, the self-doubt, the overwhelming sense of wrongness. I tried to feel the hum, the subtle vibration I'd sensed during the priest's visit, during Elara's own displays of magic.

At first, it was like trying to grasp smoke. I'd strain, my tiny brow furrowed in concentration, but all I felt was… nothing. The frustration would build, a familiar burning knot in my chest.

But Elara was patient. She'd gently guide me back, her voice calm and reassuring. "Not with your hands, Author. With your… mind. Feel it here," she'd say, tapping her forehead lightly. "Think of it like... like breathing, but with your mind, not your lungs. You feel the air around you, don't you? Mana is like that, but... deeper."

Slowly, gradually, over many frustrating nights, I began to perceive it. A faint, tingling warmth, a subtle vibration that seemed to emanate from… everywhere and nowhere at once. It was like a hidden layer of reality, a secret language whispered on the wind.

"That's it," Elara would whisper, her voice filled with a quiet pride that warmed me more than any fire. "That's mana, Author. It's all around us, in everything. Now… try to touch it. Not with your hands, but with your… mind."

This was the true challenge. Touching it with my mind. It was like trying to hold water in my cupped hands, like trying to catch the wind. The mana was there, I could feel it, but it slipped through my grasp, elusive and intangible.

Weeks bled into a month. I could, with intense concentration, feel the mana, but even when i tried to draw it in, nothing happened. My control was unstable, chaotic. The energy remained stubbornly outside me, refusing to be manipulated. I still couldn't do anything with it, couldn't replicate even the simplest of Elara's gentle manipulations of the wind. The frustration was a constant, gnawing presence, a reminder of my limitations. I needed more, I needed to learn, I needed to be Stronger. I needed a distraction. One night, Elara told me a story, one she probably told all the children in the village. The Hero Story.

"Long, long ago, little Author, before even your grandpa's grandpa was born, this world was covered in shadows. A terrible Demon King, with eyes like burning coals and a heart as cold as the Void, wanted to claim Veridia for his own. He sent his monstrous armies to destroy everything good and kind. People were scared, hiding in their homes, but then… a hero arose. His name was… hmm… let's call him Arlan. Arlan wasn't the strongest warrior, nor the wisest mage, but he had a brave heart. He knew he couldn't defeat the Demon King alone. So, he traveled far and wide, asking for help. He spoke to the tall, graceful elves of the forest, who knew the secrets of ancient magic. He spoke to the sturdy dwarves in their mountain halls, who could forge weapons stronger than any steel. And he spoke to the people of the land, who, though frightened, were willing to fight for their homes. Arlan united them, a shining army against the darkness. They fought many battles, and Arlan, with his clever mind, always found a way, sometimes with a special sword that shimmered with starlight, and sometimes with his brave words that gave everyone hope. Finally, they faced the Demon King himself. It was a terrible fight, and many good people were lost… even Arlan was hurt, very badly. But, with a final, mighty effort, he banished the Demon King back to the darkness, saving Veridia. But the world was changed, forever. Scars remained, reminders of the darkness. But also, hope remained, like a tiny seed waiting to sprout."

I'm missing something,* I thought, staring up at the ceiling one night, my tiny fists clenched in frustration. There has to be a… a trick. A key. Something Elara isn't telling me, or maybe… something she doesn't even know herself. The system window, with its tantalizing stats and its cryptic trait, offered no answers, only a silent, mocking reminder of my potential, a potential I seemed utterly incapable of unlocking. I needed more, I needed answers It was a long time till night but the time has finally come. I got up and went to my dad, "Papa?" Brenn looked at me with a confused look," Yes, Author?" Author pointed to himself, "Mana," he said, trying his hardest. Brenn look at him with confusion, "Mana? What are you talking about lil guy?" Author got up from his bed, he sat down and closed his eyes, acting like he was sleeping. "Sleep?" Brenn asked, and Author shot up."No!" he said, and sat back down and closed his eyes, he did this a couple of times. After the third time Brenn understood, " you want to learn how to, absorb mana?" He said it with a slight chuckle. Happy that he was able to convey what he meant, he gives his dad a big smile. Brenn, thinking that it was good for Author to show a emotion other then sadness was happy to help, " Okay, but only a little, your mother is better at teaching magic, but for now will do what I do." Brenn when outside to grab his weapon. When he came back he sat infront of Author. "Watch this." Author's eyes where glued to hes fathers body, and the axe he had, he saw as his dad slowly brought in mana, he could sence that it was slow. He cant control it, not like mom. Author was a little disapointed, but he knows his dad will help him. "I cant control mana, but I can put it into my body, making me stronger, you see." Brenn swings the axe, making a loud thud. Author almost jumped, he did not expect that. He then looks back at his baby hands. I need to try "Okay lil guy lets go to sleep, you can start when your a little older." Brenn then puts Author back to bed, then leaves. Author then tries what his dad did, he felt mana go in all over, he felt like he was gonna explode.

[Warning: Mana Overload Imminent. Reduce Mana Density.]

Author then tried to slowly remove mana from his body but, before he knew it he passed out.

[Skill Acquired: Mana Compression (Level 1)] [Skill Acquired: Mana Control (Level 1)] [Due to your unique trait, you gained the sub-skill, Combat Analysis (level 1)]

The system windows vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving Author in the darkness of his crib, his tiny body trembling. He didn't understand what had just happened, not fully. But he felt it. A subtle shift within him, a… a denseness, a feeling of slightly increased substance, as if the air within his lungs had been replaced with water. It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but it was also… exhilarating. He'd done something. He'd pushed too far, yes, but he'd pushed past a barrier, a limitation. He hadn't just felt the mana; he'd changed it.

Compression… The word echoed in his mind, a concept gleaned from… somewhere. From the system? From his past life? It didn't matter. It was knowledge. And knowledge was power.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, his infant body unable to cope with the strain he'd placed upon it. Fragments of dreams, memories of a life he couldn't quite grasp, mingled with the strange, new sensations of this world, of mana. He saw flashes of his mother's face, her smile, her worried frown. He saw Liam and Sarah, their faces blurry and indistinct, yet undeniably them. He heard his father's voice, a comforting rumble in the darkness. And then, he saw… nothing. The Void. Not the terrifying emptiness he'd expected, but a swirling canvas of infinite potential, a space where anything was possible.

He woke to the familiar intrusion of the system window, and he groaned internally. Great, the alarm clock from hell. But this time, there was something new. Three new lines of text, shimmering beneath his meager stats. Skills.

He'd acquired skills. Mana Compression. Mana Control. And… Combat Analysis? That last one felt… out of place. What was he supposed to analyze, the best way to gum his food to mush? But the other two… those were real. Proof that he wasn't completely helpless, that he could learn, that he could grow.

The next couple of days were a blur of routine, punctuated by moments of intense internal struggle. Elara and Brenn were clearly worried about him, hovering over him, their eyes filled with a mixture of love and concern. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was causing them pain, but he couldn't bring himself to connect, not fully. He was still too raw, too lost, too trapped in the memories of the life he'd lost. He wasn't their Elias. He was Author, an imposter, a stranger in a strange land.

He tried to interact with the other children, driven by a vague sense of obligation, a half-hearted attempt to fit in. But it was excruciating. Their games were meaningless, their conversations inane. He couldn't relate to them, couldn't bridge the chasm that separated his adult mind from their childish innocence.

"Hey Author, what's wrong?" a short girl with pigtails asked, her brow furrowed in concern. He later learned her name was Lily.

He looked around, taking in the two other children standing behind her. A boy, slightly taller than Lily, stood with his arms crossed, a guarded expression on his face – Kael. And behind him, another boy, younger and smaller, peeking out from behind Kael's legs, his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth - Finn.

Sigh, what do you guys want? he thought, the familiar frustration rising.

But all that came out was a garbled, "Pway?"

He wanted to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never come out. Pathetic.

"See! I told you he could talk!" Lily exclaimed, jumping up and down with excitement.

Kael, the boy with the crossed arms, stepped forward. "So," he said, his voice surprisingly deep for his age, "wanna hang out with us?"

Great. Just what I needed. A social obligation. He tried to shake his head, to convey his disinterest, but his traitorous body, still learning to coordinate its movements, betrayed him. A clumsy nod.

"Yes," he mumbled, the word barely audible.

And so, Author found himself reluctantly drawn into the orbit of the village children. It was… awkward. He'd sit on the periphery of their games, watching them with a detached, almost clinical interest, his mind miles away, analyzing their movements, their interactions, searching for patterns, for systems. He was a ghost, a silent observer, trapped in a world he didn't understand, playing a role he didn't want.

One afternoon, as he sat by the well, listlessly tracing patterns in the dust, he heard a knock. Not on the well, of course, but on the door of his… their… home.

Elara opened the door, and a new voice, a man's voice, deep and resonant, filled the air.

"Well now, little one," the voice said, "you're not quite like the others, are you?"

Author looked up, his heart pounding with a sudden, inexplicable sense of… dread? Anticipation? He couldn't tell. Standing in the doorway was a tall, lean man with a weathered face and eyes the color of aged steel. An outsider.

Oh no.