Six months have passed since my birth. Complicated.
In short, I've been reborn. But not just anywhere or as an animal, like some theorized, but as a baby.
What are the odds of someone being reborn as a newborn? Zero, right?
Damn. This situation might have its downsides, but I'll admit it's not half bad. Though there's a slight issue: a blonde baby clings to me like gum. Isolde.
It's… nice.
Mostly because she climbs on top of me when we sleep, and we end up forming a little baby hill, or because she follows me everywhere, no matter where I go.
I recently learned to crawl. So did she. Now I can move with some freedom. Or rather, I could move freely if it weren't for the ridiculously tall wooden crib that keeps us locked up like fancy prisoners.
The world around me is… strange. Or maybe the right word is new.
No computers, no decent phones. In fact, they don't even call them phones—they're electrophones.
This is definitely the Victorian era.
I confirmed it after inspecting every room. Come on, no one in the modern era uses rooms with authentic Victorian decor unless they're insanely obsessed with Gothic romanticism. Plus, there's my father's suits and my mother's dresses. They don't look comfortable… or so I thought, until they dressed me in linen and cotton pajamas.
Comfortable, sure. But way too loose.
I crawl across the floor while Isolde stays glued to me, as always. It's annoying. And at the same time, it isn't. When we're too far apart, we both end up crying in unison, as if our bodies are programmed to stay together.
Is that normal for twin siblings?
I guess so.
My parents, Erika and Elías, are… good parents.
They carry us, feed us. When Mother breastfeeds, she does it for both of us at the same time.
Isolde latches onto her chest like it's her last meal in years.
It doesn't bother me.
I thought, with my memories of my past life intact, I'd reject the idea of being breastfed. But I didn't.
In fact, I accepted it surprisingly well.
I just confirmed that this is definitely not my era.
There are things I'm still struggling to process.
Our first outing from home with Mother was eye-opening. She carried us both in baby carriers: me on her back, Isolde on her front. We were going shopping. Something routine. Or so I thought until I saw it.
I was reborn in a world of magic and swords.
But not in a medieval era like novels and anime depict—right in the middle of the Victorian era.
I confirmed it when I saw people casting fire with their hands, wielding swords, using magically enhanced revolvers, and even performing healing. A mother healed her son's scraped knee with a single touch.
Fascinating.
Hypnotic, even.
Isolde shared my awe. I saw her reach out her tiny hands toward a man making a sphere of water float. Without thinking, I did the same.
Instinctive.
---
At night, Mother would tell us stories of heroes. I didn't listen. The moment they laid me down, I'd fall asleep. Not out of boredom, but because expending energy leaves me exhausted.
That doesn't stop Isolde from waking me up, though.
When I'm about to drift off, she climbs on top of me. Without fail.
I don't hear hero stories, but Isolde and I have found a particular liking for reading. We can't read fluently yet, but we're learning fast.
The books on the shelf are mostly boring.
Except for two.
Guide to Magic and Combat and The Paradox Scriptures.
The first is thin, barely 200 pages.
The second... Absurdly thick.
I'm not exaggerating. That book easily equals four 1,000-page volumes.
And yes, it was heavy.
It nearly crushed us when we pulled it off the shelf. Luckily, it only grazed us before falling to our side.
The Guide to Magic and Combat was covered in dust. I tried blowing it off to clean it… but ended up spitting a bunch of drool onto Isolde.
I laughed.
She, proving her superiority, blew the dust back into my face.
She laughed.
I'll admit it: I deserved that.
We opened the book.
And well… as expected: words.
What else was supposed to be there? Fairy tales? Cookbooks? Please.
The guide contained basic information about magic and combat. Nothing surprising.
But The Paradox Scriptures…
That was a different story.
It didn't just contain information about this world but also combat techniques. Techniques that felt too familiar.
Karate and its variants.
Kung Fu and all its styles.
Jiujitsu.
Taekwondo.
Fencing.
Boxing.
Judo.
Muay Thai.
I recognized it all.
Why the hell does a book from this world document disciplines from my past life with such absurd detail?
Isolde tilted her head, trying to make sense of the described movements.
I did the same.
Flexibility.
Speed.
Strength.
Wit.
No way this is going to be easy.