Being a baby was indeed strange...
The first thing Prince noticed in this new life wasn't pain, or silence, or regret.
It was warmth.
A heartbeat. The soft, rhythmic sound of his mother's chest. Her hands cradling his tiny form. Her breath catching as she cried softly, whispering words only half meant for him.
"Bibin... look," she said, trembling. "He's here. He's really here."
Prince didn't respond—not with words. He couldn't. But deep inside, something in him exhaled. The guilt, the shame, the unbearable waste of his previous life—none of it was erased. It had followed him here. But it was quieter now. Not a screaming monster, but a shadow. A reminder.
He had been given another chance.
And this time, he would not ruin it.
From the earliest days, Prince was different.
He didn't cry for no reason. He was alert, calm, strangely responsive for a newborn. When his mother spoke, he followed her voice with wide, curious eyes. When his father cradled him with clumsy hands, Prince didn't squirm or wail—he settled, as if choosing to trust him.
Bibin and Maria thought their child was a miracle. Not just because he was born after years of trying, but because he was so... present. It was as if he saw them—really saw them.
Maria spent her days humming lullabies while stroking his hair. Bibin, who was often away managing his liquor business, found himself coming home earlier, lingering longer at the door, just to watch his son babble nonsense at the ceiling fan.
Prince absorbed everything. Every moment of love, every gentle touch. He had wasted this once. Thrown it away in his past life under layers of arrogance, addiction, and ego. Not this time.
At two years old, he was stringing together sentences. At three, he was helping Maria measure ingredients while she cooked. He never threw tantrums, never hit other kids at day care. He laughed often, hugged easily, and asked questions that startled his parents with their insight.
One afternoon, Maria was folding laundry when Prince walked over and asked, "Amma, do you ever get scared?"
She blinked. "Scared of what, monu?"
"Of being alone. Or losing something."
She stared at him for a moment. Then pulled him close and kissed his forehead.
"I don't think I'll lose anything," she whispered, "as long as I have you."
He didn't respond aloud, but inside, his heart cracked. That had already happened once. And he'd never let it happen again.
When he turned four, Prince started kindergarten at a small private school near their hilltop home in Idukki. Most of the kids were noisy and distracted, but Prince quickly stood out—polite, clever, and unusually mature. His teachers praised his memory and focus. But Prince never acted superior. If anything, he went out of his way to help the quiet ones. Especially one boy.
Benny.
Chubby, soft-spoken, and perpetually nervous, Benny was a target for teasing. But he loved cricket. Knew everything about it. The kind of obsessed that made his eyes light up whenever he talked about stats or strategy.
Prince noticed this during lunch one day when Benny was sitting alone, flipping through a crumpled sticker book filled with Indian cricketers.
"Who's your favorite?" Prince asked, sitting beside him.
Benny jumped. "U-Uh... Dravid. But... he's old."
Prince smiled. "That's a good pick. Classic. My favorite's Tendulkar."
Benny's eyes widened. "Really? M-Me too!"
They talked until lunch ended. From then on, they were inseparable. Benny would bring match data printouts, and Prince would sketch fantasy teams in their notebooks. Their friendship was pure. The first true one Prince had ever had.
Maria started packing extra snacks for Benny. Bibin chuckled when Prince dragged Benny to watch highlight reels on weekend visits.
"He's a good boy," Maria said one night while doing dishes. "Very sweet."
Prince just nodded. He knew how rare real friends were. In his past life, people had surrounded him for status, money, and access. Not Benny. Benny was real.
By age six, Prince's fascination with cricket had fully bloomed. But unlike his last life, it wasn't about ego. It wasn't about being better than others. It was about the craft. The science. The discipline.
"Why does swing work differently in England than in India?" he asked Bibin one afternoon.
Bibin blinked. "You're asking about... humidity and seam angle?"
"Exactly!"
Bibin laughed. "You're too smart for your own good."
They started training casually in the garage—a few bowling drills, catching exercises, basic footwork. Nothing serious. But Prince soaked it up like a sponge.
One Sunday, they watched a match together. Bibin was reclined on the sofa, Prince nestled beside him, his small hand clutching a bowl of banana chips. On the screen, Kohli smashed a boundary, the crowd erupting.
Maria brought in dinner—parottas, steaming chicken stew, and a dish of jackfruit halwa.
"Special for my birthday boy," she said, setting the plate down. "A day early."
Prince looked at the food.
It hit him like a punch.
This exact meal—he remembered it. In his past life, Maria had come to his condo once. Crying, begging to make peace. She had brought this same meal, cooked with trembling hands.
And he had thrown it in the trash.
"Amma," he said, voice tight.
She turned. "Yes, monu?"
"I love you," he said.
Maria laughed. "Now what do you want, ah?"
"Nothing," he whispered. "Just... thank you."
They ate together, the three of them. And when Prince looked up at his father, who was smiling at the screen and teaching him about leg-side field placement, he swore he'd never waste this family again.
The Night Before His 8th Birthday
He couldn't sleep.
The ceiling fan creaked above him, cutting lazy circles in the air. The curtains danced softly in the breeze. Benny had called earlier to say he was bringing a new ball to school. Maria had hidden something big in the fridge. Bibin had teased him all week about a surprise gift.
Prince felt happy. Genuinely happy. But beneath that happiness, something stirred.
A tingle in his fingertips. A heat in his chest. A knowing.
At midnight, he sat up in bed.
And that's when it happened.
A glowing blue screen materialized in front of him, casting pale light on his sheets.
Life System Booting...
Host Age: 8
Reincarnation Type: Remorseful | Redemption Tier
Loading Personal Buffs...✔ Muscle Growth & Regeneration – INACTIVE (Activates upon puberty)✔ Full Control Over Bodily Systems – PARTIAL (Basic emotional/energy control unlocked)✔ System Interface – ONLINE
Welcome, Host.
Prince stared.
The small cricket-ball icon blinked on the bottom corner of the screen. A robotic, yet friendly voice echoed faintly in his head.
"Hello, Prince. It's time."
He smiled.
It had begun.