Six months.
I had been alive in this world for six months now, and I was finally starting to feel like a person again rather than a sentient potato.
The improvements were small but significant. I could hold my head up consistently. I could roll over (though I still occasionally got stuck on my stomach like a turtle). I could grasp objects with moderate success. And most importantly, I had much better control over my facial expressions, which meant I could actually communicate basic emotions to our parents beyond "I am crying because something is wrong, please fix it."
It wasn't much, but after three months of near-total helplessness, I'd take any victory I could get.
Arthur was developing at a similar pace—which was to say, faster than normal babies but not so fast as to alarm our parents. We'd both apparently come to the unspoken agreement that drawing attention to our abnormal intelligence would be a terrible idea. At least for now.
The problem was that being stuck in a baby's body with an adult's mind for six months was slowly driving me insane.
I'd tried to keep myself mentally stimulated by observing everything around me, analyzing it with my System, and storing information for future use. Our house was modest but comfortable—a two-story building on the outskirts of a small town called Ashber, if the conversations I'd overheard were accurate. Reynolds worked as an adventurer, taking on relatively safe dungeon expeditions and escort missions to support the family. Alice stayed home with us, though she occasionally took on healing work for neighbors.
They were good people. Great people, even. The kind of parents anyone would be lucky to have.
Which made what I was about to do feel somewhat terrible.
But I was desperate.
It was late afternoon, and Alice had put both Arthur and me down for a nap in our shared nursery. Arthur had actually fallen asleep—lucky bastard—but I was wide awake and staring at the mobile hanging above our cribs. It depicted various animals I didn't recognize, probably creatures native to this world.
I'd been thinking about my System constantly over the past three months. The Quest System would unlock when I turned one year old, which was still six months away. Six. More. Months. Of this.
I wasn't sure I'd survive with my sanity intact.
But I'd noticed something interesting in my Status window recently. My stats had changed slightly:
[STATUS]
Name: Elina Leywin
Age: 6 months
Race: Human (?)
Level: 1
HP: 80/80
MP: —/— (Mana Core not formed)
Strength: 3
Agility: 4
Endurance: 5
Intelligence: 29
Wisdom: 25
Charisma: 16
Luck: 12
My physical stats had increased naturally as my body grew and developed. Intelligence and Wisdom had each gone up by one point—the Intelligence from general observation and learning, the Wisdom from that hidden achievement three months ago.
But what caught my attention was the complete lack of Skills.
In every System-based story I'd read, Skills were crucial. They were the primary way users became stronger, more versatile, and more capable of handling threats. And right now, I had exactly zero.
The Skill Creation function wouldn't unlock until Level 10, which seemed impossibly far away when I was still at Level 1 with no clear way to gain experience.
But, I thought, a plan forming in my mind, what if I don't need the Skill Creation function to develop skills?
In TBATE canon, people didn't have a System, yet they still learned and mastered various abilities through practice and training. Sword techniques, spells, combat strategies—all learned through effort and repetition.
What if I could do the same thing? What if I could train my body and mind even in this limited state, and maybe—just maybe—the System would recognize those efforts and codify them as Skills?
It was worth a shot. The alternative was six more months of mind-numbing boredom.
I focused on my body, trying to sense... something. Anything. In canon, mana was everywhere, ambient in the atmosphere and flowing through all living things. Children typically didn't form mana cores until they were older and underwent specific training, but the mana was still there, waiting to be acknowledged.
Could I sense it?
I closed my eyes and tried to feel beyond my physical form. At first, there was nothing. Just the darkness behind my eyelids and the soft sounds of Arthur's breathing nearby.
Then—
There.
It was subtle, like trying to see a star in a bright sky, but I could feel something. A gentle warmth that seemed to permeate everything around me. It wasn't quite a physical sensation, more like an awareness at the edge of my consciousness.
Mana.
My heart rate picked up with excitement. I could actually sense it. Not well, not clearly, but it was there.
[User has detected ambient mana.]
[Beginning preliminary analysis...]
[Analysis complete: User's sensitivity to mana is approximately 15% above average for current age and development stage. This is insufficient to form a mana core but indicates potential for accelerated growth once conditions are met.]
I wanted to pump my fist in celebration, but my motor control wasn't quite that good yet, so I settled for wiggling my toes enthusiastically.
Okay, so I can sense mana. What can I do with that?
The answer, I quickly discovered, was: not much.
I spent the next hour trying to manipulate the mana I could sense, to pull it toward me or push it away or do anything with it. But it was like trying to grab water with a fork. The mana simply flowed around my attempts, completely unaffected.
[User lacks the necessary foundation to manipulate mana. A formed mana core is required for conscious mana control.]
Helpful as always, System, I thought dryly.
Still, sensing mana was better than nothing. It was progress. And if I could sense it now, maybe I could train that sensitivity, make it sharper, so that when the time came to form my mana core, I'd have an advantage.
I filed that away in my mental notes and moved on to my next experiment.
Physical training.
Now, I was aware of how ridiculous it sounded to think about "physical training" as a six-month-old baby. But I wasn't talking about doing push-ups or running laps. I was thinking smaller scale.
Babies naturally built strength and coordination through regular movement and play. What if I was more intentional about it? More focused?
I started with my hands. Opening and closing them, flexing my fingers, trying to improve my grip strength and fine motor control. It was tedious work, and I probably looked like I was having some kind of seizure, but I persisted.
Then I moved to my arms, lifting them up and down, holding them extended for as long as I could manage (which was about ten seconds before my muscles gave out).
My legs were next. Kicking, flexing, trying to strengthen the muscles I'd need for crawling and eventually walking.
Every movement was difficult. My infant body tired quickly, and I had to take frequent breaks. But I kept at it, determined to make some kind of progress.
[User is engaging in deliberate physical training.]
[Current training is inefficient due to bodily limitations but shows determination.]
[Continue current training regimen? Y/N]
Yes, I thought emphatically. Track everything. I want to know if this is actually helping.
[Acknowledged. Beginning to track physical training data.]
[Note: Significant stat increases are unlikely until User's body develops further. However, small incremental improvements are possible, and establishing training habits now will provide foundation for future growth.]
That was good enough for me.
Over the next few weeks, I established a routine. Whenever I was awake and alone (which admittedly wasn't often, given how attentive Alice was), I practiced.
Sensing mana. Moving my body deliberately. Observing my surroundings with my Analysis ability. Organizing information in my mental storage.
It wasn't exciting. It wasn't dramatic. But it was something, and that was infinitely better than nothing.
I also spent a lot of time watching Arthur.
My twin brother was an interesting study. In public—or as "public" as life got for a six-month-old—he acted like a normal baby. Crying when appropriate, smiling at our parents, doing all the things babies were supposed to do.
But when we were alone, or when he thought no one was watching, his facade slipped. I'd catch him staring at his hands with an expression of deep frustration, or looking at objects around the room with an intensity that no normal infant possessed.
He was just as trapped and bored as I was.
I wished I could talk to him. Actually talk, not just make eye contact and hope he understood my meaningful glances. We were both reincarnators, both stuck in this situation, and we could have been helping each other.
But communication was impossible, and I wasn't even sure he'd be open to it if it were possible. In canon, Arthur had been pretty secretive about his past life, even with people he trusted. He might not appreciate his twin sister suddenly revealing that she also remembered a previous existence.
Better to wait. Observe. See how things developed naturally.
Still, I made sure to use my Analysis ability on him regularly, watching for any changes.
[Analysis: Arthur Leywin]
Age: 6 months
Race: Human (?)
Status: Healthy, Frustrated
Mana Core: Not formed
Notable Traits:
Exceptional cognitive ability for age (Reincarnator confirmed)
Shows signs of attempting to sense/manipulate mana
High determination despite physical limitations
[Additional information locked]
So he was trying to sense mana too. That tracked with canon—Arthur had started his magical training early, forming his mana core when he was just three years old, which was considered absurdly young.
I needed to form mine around the same time, or I'd fall too far behind. The thought of being weak and useless while my brother became a prodigy was... unacceptable.
Which meant I needed to get serious about my training, baby body or not.
It was during one of my solo practice sessions—I was working on holding my head steady while lying on my stomach, which was harder than it sounded—that something unexpected happened.
[Through repeated practice and focused effort, User has developed a new skill.]
[Skill Created: Infant Body Mastery (Lv. 1)]
[Effect: Increased control over current physical form. Reduces penalty from age-related physical limitations by 5%.]
I froze, my head wobbling slightly before I caught myself.
A Skill. I actually created a Skill.
And not through the System's Skill Creation function, which was still locked, but through my own efforts. The System had simply recognized and codified what I'd already been doing.
Holy shit, this is huge.
If I could create Skills through practice before the Skill Creation function even unlocked, that meant I had way more agency than I'd thought. I wasn't limited to what the System gave me—I could develop abilities on my own, and the System would support and enhance them.
[Congratulations on creating your first Skill through independent effort.]
[This demonstrates User's ability to grow beyond System-provided functions.]
[Continue to explore and experiment. The Adaptive System will recognize and support genuine achievements.]
I felt a grin spread across my face—an actual, genuine smile, not the random baby expressions that sometimes crossed my features involuntarily.
Okay, System. I see you. You're not just a cheat tool. You're a partner.
[Correct. This System exists to adapt to and support User, not to replace User's own agency and growth.]
I can work with that.
With renewed vigor, I returned to my exercises. Holding my head up was easier now—just barely, but noticeably. That 5% reduction in physical limitations wasn't much, but it was a start.
And if I could create one Skill, I could create more.
The rest of the month passed in a blur of practice and observation.
My Infant Body Mastery Skill leveled up to Lv. 2, then Lv. 3. Each level made movement slightly easier, gave me slightly more control. By the time I was seven months old, I could hold my head up without any wobbling, roll over smoothly in both directions, and even scoot backward a little bit when lying on my stomach (forward scooting was still beyond me, unfortunately).
Alice was delighted by my progress, praising me constantly and showing off to Reynolds whenever he came home.
"She's so advanced!" she'd say, clapping her hands. "Look at how steady she is! And Arthur too—they're both developing so quickly!"
Reynolds would smile indulgently, clearly proud but also slightly overwhelmed by the reality of having twin infants. "They're Leywin children," he'd say. "Of course they're exceptional."
If only they knew the truth.
I also made progress in my mana sensing. It was still rudimentary—I couldn't do anything with the mana I detected—but my awareness of it grew sharper. I could feel it more clearly now, like a gentle current flowing through and around everything.
[Mana Sensitivity has increased to 23% above average for current age.]
[At this rate of improvement, User will be capable of forming a mana core approximately 6-8 months earlier than average.]
Good. I need every advantage I can get.
I'd also been using my Analysis ability constantly, building up a mental database of information about the world around me.
Most of it was mundane stuff—furniture, household items, the plants visible through our window. But I'd managed to analyze a few interesting things when visitors came by.
One of Reynolds' adventurer friends, a man named Durden, had stopped by to visit. Analysis revealed:
[Analysis: Durden Walker]
Age: ~28 years
Race: Human
Status: Healthy, Light Mana Exhaustion
Mana Core: Orange Stage (Solid)
Notable Traits:
Augmenter specialization (Earth element)
Experienced dungeon explorer
Friendly disposition, loyal to companions
So the Analysis function could give me information about mana cores and magical abilities, at least at a basic level. That would be incredibly useful once I started interacting with more people.
I stored that information away carefully, along with everything else I was learning.
By the time my seventh month rolled around, I'd established a solid routine:
Morning: Mana sensing practice (30 minutes)
Mid-morning: Physical training—body control and strength exercises (20 minutes, or until exhaustion)
Afternoon: Observation and Analysis of surroundings (ongoing)
Evening: Mental organization—sorting information in my mental storage, planning future actions (15 minutes)
It wasn't a glamorous schedule, and I had to work it around naps, feeding times, and my parents' attention, but it was progress.
My Status had updated accordingly:
[STATUS]
Name: Elina Leywin
Age: 7 months
Race: Human (?)
Level: 1
HP: 95/95
MP: —/— (Mana Core not formed)
Strength: 4
Agility: 5
Endurance: 6
Intelligence: 30
Wisdom: 26
Charisma: 17
Luck: 12
[Skills:]
Infant Body Mastery (Lv. 3): Reduces penalty from age-related physical limitations by 8%. Improves body control and coordination.
Mana Sensitivity (Lv. 2): Enhanced ability to detect and sense ambient mana. Current sensitivity: 23% above average for age.
Two whole Skills. I was basically unstoppable now.
Yeah, right, I thought sarcastically. Watch out , agrona. A seven-month-old who can roll over really well is coming for you.
Still, jokes aside, I was genuinely proud of what I'd accomplished. I'd taken a frustrating situation and found a way to make it productive. And more importantly, I'd proven to myself that I could grow and develop even without the System handing me power.
That confidence would matter later, when the real challenges began.
It was a quiet evening when the incident happened.
Alice had put us down in our cribs for the night, singing a soft lullaby before dimming the mana-powered lamp (a fascinating piece of technology I'd analyzed extensively) and leaving the room.
Arthur fell asleep almost immediately. I'd noticed he slept more deeply than I did—probably because he was actually using his sleep time to rest, whereas I often lay awake thinking about my plans and observations.
Tonight was one of those nights. I was running through my mental checklist of canon events, trying to remember the timeline.
Arthur forms his mana core at three years old. Shortly after, we move to Xyrus City for his education. At five, he awakens Sylvia's beast will. At eight, he enters Xyrus Academy. At—
A sound interrupted my thoughts.
It was faint, barely audible—a creaking floorboard downstairs.
I froze, my infant heart suddenly racing.
That wasn't normal. Our house didn't creak like that. Reynolds and Alice were careful and quiet when they moved around at night, knowing that sudden noises might wake us.
This sound was different. Stealthy. Wrong.
I strained to listen, wishing desperately that I had better hearing. More sounds drifted up—whispered voices, too low to make out words. Multiple people.
Intruders.
My mind raced through possibilities. This wasn't supposed to happen—not in canon, not this early. Arthur's family didn't face any major threats until much later, after they'd moved to Xyrus.
But I was here now. I existed. My presence had already created a deviation from canon.
Butterfly effect, I thought with rising panic. This is my fault. My existence changed things.
I heard footsteps on the stairs—slow, careful, but definitely there.
What do I do? What can I do? I'm a seven-month-old baby. I can't fight. I can't even stand up.
I could scream. Wake up Arthur, wake up our parents. But what if that made things worse? What if the intruders panicked and someone got hurt?
My Analysis ability—could that help? If I could see what we were dealing with, maybe I could figure out the best course of action.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. I heard the sound of a door opening—our parents' room, based on the direction.
Come on, Elina. Think. Use that supposedly high Intelligence stat for something.
Then I heard it—Reynolds' voice, sharp and commanding: "Who the hell are you?"
The sound of steel being drawn. Alice's gasp. Muffled curses and the thud of bodies colliding.
They're fighting. Reynolds is fighting them.
And suddenly, I knew what I had to do.
I opened my mouth and screamed.
Not a normal baby cry. I put everything I had into it—all my fear, all my desperation, all my seven-month-old lung capacity. The sound that came out was earsplitting, a wail that echoed through the house.
Arthur jerked awake instantly, and within seconds, he was crying too—whether from my scream startling him or because he understood we were in danger, I wasn't sure.
The effect was immediate.
"The babies!" Alice's voice, panicked. Footsteps running toward our room.
More cursing from downstairs. The sound of people retreating in a hurry.
The door to our nursery burst open, and Alice rushed in, her face pale and her hands shaking. She grabbed both Arthur and me, holding us close.
"It's okay, it's okay," she whispered, though her voice was anything but steady. "Mama's here. You're safe."
Reynolds appeared in the doorway a moment later, a sword in his hand and blood on his shirt—not his own, I realized with relief after a quick Analysis.
"They're gone," he said, breathing hard. "Ran off when they heard the babies crying. Must have thought we'd wake the whole neighborhood."
"Who were they?" Alice demanded, still holding us tight. "Why would anyone—"
"Probably thieves," Reynolds interrupted, but his expression was troubled. "Looking for easy targets. They won't be back."
I wasn't sure I believed him. The way those intruders had moved, the coordination in their whispers—that wasn't typical burglar behavior.
But I was a seven-month-old baby. There was nothing I could do about it now except store the memory away and stay alert.
[Critical situation successfully navigated through quick thinking and use of available resources.]
[Achievement Unlocked: First Crisis]
[Reward: +2 Wisdom, +1 Intelligence]
Great, I thought tiredly as Alice rocked us both, humming a shaky lullaby. My first life-or-death situation in this world, and I handled it by screaming like a baby.
Which, to be fair, I am.
Arthur had calmed down and was staring at me with those unnervingly intelligent blue eyes. There was something in his gaze—recognition, maybe? Understanding?
Did you know what was happening too? I wondered. Did you understand the danger?
I'd never know for sure. Not until we could actually talk.
But as I lay there in Alice's arms, feeling her heartbeat slowly return to normal, I made myself a promise.
I'm going to get stronger. Strong enough that I never have to just scream and hope someone saves me.
Strong enough to protect the people I care about.
Strong enough to face whatever this world throws at me.
Even if it took years. Even if it meant endless boring training as an infant, a toddler, a child.
I would do it.
Because this world was dangerous, and I was part of it now.
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