He felt his heart stop as he slumped to the floor.
Only one word escaped his lips.
"Damn..it."
And so, Light Yagami closed his eyes for the final time. For a few moments, it felt as if he were asleep. Then, a light pierced the darkness, faint at first, growing nearer. An unseen force propelled him toward it, relentless and unyielding.
This isn't the void I expected, he thought, his mind already churning. Ryuk claimed there was no heaven or hell for Death Note users—only nothingness. Yet here I am, caught in some transition. Is this reincarnation? A new game? If so, what are its rules, and how do I bend them to my will?
A scream shattered the silence, sharp and primal. A flicker of fear gripped him. Did that smug shinigami lie? Is this hell after all? Grunting followed, then more screams, chaotic and close. He clawed at the nothingness, desperate to resist the pull, but his efforts were futile.
No… I refuse to be dragged into the unknown like some pawn!
The light swelled, engulfing him until he emerged on the other side. His vision blurred—black and white shapes swam before him, indistinct and useless.
Sounds filtered through the haze—muffled voices, human, speaking a language he couldn't yet grasp. A sudden chill seized him, and he gasped, his cry emerging as a pathetic wail.
He tried to speak, to demand answers, but only infantile sobs came out. What is this absurdity? Where am I? His thoughts raced, cutting through the confusion. My voice, my body—they're not mine. This weakness… it's intolerable.
Something lifted him—soft hands, reminiscent of Misa's tentative touch during their calculated outings. Then he was passed to firmer hands, calloused and steady. Who are these people? What's their intent? He strained to move, to assert some control, but his limbs flailed uselessly.
Damn it, why am I so powerless? I need to understand this—now.
He was brought closer to a figure, and as his blurry vision adjusted, he saw her: a woman. Why is she holding me? What purpose does this serve?
"Alaric, do you want to see him? He's beautiful," she said, her voice warm.
Alaric? Who's that?
Another set of hands took him—rougher, confident.
"He's got your hair, Alayne," a man replied, his tone buoyant. "What will you name our son?"
"Petyr. He'll be a fine boy and grow up strong, just like you."
Petyr? Son?
The realization struck like lightning. Reborn. Not heaven, not hell—just as Ryuk promised, something else entirely. But where? When?
A laugh bubbled up, meant to echo his triumph over L, but it emerged as a baby's giggle. The man—his father, apparently—tickled him, amplifying the sound, then returned him to the woman's arms.
"He's quite a cheerful boy, Alayne," the man said.
She swaddled him, rocking him gently. Light's mind resisted the lull.
Cheerful? They misjudge me already. This body may limit me, but my mind remains unbound. I'll use their assumptions to my advantage.
Sleep tugged at him, but he fought to strategize. A noble family, perhaps? That offers leverage. I'll observe, learn, and when I'm ready, I'll seize control.
Exhaustion won, and he drifted off.
Light awoke hours later, every sensation alien: his tongue clumsy in his mouth, his limbs sluggish, each breath a conscious effort. To think being a newborn could be this inconvenient—disgraceful.
As the woman breastfed him again, he focused on the voices around him. The language resembled English, but its cadence and vocabulary were off—archaic, perhaps. He caught fragments: lord, lady, Baelish, keep.
A noble house. Petyr of House Baelish.
He pieced it together with clinical precision. The primitive birthing conditions, the crude furniture—this is no modern era. Feudal Europe, likely. A world of lords and vassals, ripe for manipulation.
She finished feeding him, and he closed his eyes, plotting.
I'll bide my time. Mastery of their tongue comes first—every word, every nuance. Then the hierarchy: who wields power, who can be swayed. As a noble, I start with influence, but I'll climb higher.
A smile curved his tiny lips. No L, no Near, no meddling geniuses to thwart me. This time, victory is mine to sculpt.
His thoughts deepened as sleep loomed. This world is primitive, malleable. With my intellect, I'll forge it into my image—a god among men, unchallenged. Last time, I was impatient, brash. I underestimated my foes, let pride blind me. Not again. I'll be methodical, flawless. This is my second chance to perfect my new world.
He tried to laugh, to seal his resolve, but only a yawn escaped as slumber claimed him once more.