He began to open his eyes, vision blurry and unfocused. He could feel again. The sensation of having a brand-new, ridiculously small body was... odd. Everything felt too light, and the air smelled faintly of milk—like he'd been freshly unwrapped from a hospital-branded gift basket.
He blinked hard, trying to make sense of the large, moving shapes looming above.
A woman. Stunningly beautiful, with elegant features, striking violet-obsidian eyes, and long, flowing violet-black hair. A small beauty mark sat just to the right of her mouth, like it had been painted there by a god with an eye for dramatic flair. She gazed down at him with a soft, maternal expression, her eyes shimmering with warmth.
Beside her stood a man—square-jawed, broad-shouldered, his hair a blazing mane of bright blonde. He was making exaggerated faces at Daiki, his lips puckered into impossible shapes, eyebrows doing a dance of their own. It was the look of someone very confident that babies found him hilarious.
"Guess… these must be my new parents" Daiki said inward, his infant brain already kicking into overdrive. Mother: elegant, refined, terrifyingly beautiful. Father: looks like a pro wrestler got isekai'd into a daycare and decided to stay.
His mother held him with practiced grace, arms steady yet impossibly gentle. He was being cradled like a precious artifact. Which, technically, he now was.
But then, it hit him.
Not the sudden urge to cry (though that was bubbling under the surface), or the lack of motor control. No, it was the hair.
His eyes—still new, still adjusting—locked onto the glowing golden halo atop his father's head. That heroic, gravity-defying mop of blonde fantasy-RPG protagonist energy.
A cold dread settled over Daiki.
No. No. Please, no. Not the hair. I don't want to look like I just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Give me something manageable. Normal. Something like this elegant lady's hair. Please. For the love of shampoo, let me have that hair."
Despite the extreme fragility of his new noodle-neck, Daiki attempted a daring maneuver. He moved his head.
Well—tried to.
It was less of a turn and more of a slow, wobbly swivel, like a marshmallow on a stick that someone half-heartedly tried to rotate. But still—a victory.
And what he saw made him pause.
There was another creature nearby. Big-ish, but not parent big. No, this was a youngling. A tiny human girl?, maybe four or five years old, with a face that could only be described as "chibi-cute." Enormous, sparkling eyes. Ridiculously puffy cheeks. An aura of unfiltered, cartoon-grade clumsiness radiated off her in waves.
Oh. Right. She's actually a child.
She had short, messy golden hair and bright golden eyes—clearly her father's mini-me, but in smaller, more hyperactive form. She was tugging insistently on their mother's sleeve, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Mama, Mama, hold him! Can I hold him? Pleeease?"
Their mother smiled down at her, amused and patient. "Styx, you know you'll get a turn. Just be gentle, okay? He's very small."
Styx? Daiki blinked slowly. Wait. They named the chaotic goblin child after the river of the dead? This family is already on another level.
The mother turned her attention back to him, her expression softening into something achingly gentle. She leaned in, brushing a strand of her shimmering hair behind one ear, and whispered with a warm breath against his forehead:
"Hello there, little one. Welcome to the family… our little Piers."
Piers?
Daiki's tiny fingers flexed slightly, and if he had any real motor control, he might have facepalmed right there.
A dramatic name. Of course. At least it's not 'Blade.'
Meanwhile, the father—finally done with his clown routine—was watching with a fond smile.
Styx declared in a booming yet oddly gentle voice, "That's right, you're one of us now! We're gonna have so much fun together! You and big sis are going to be the best of siblings!"
She nodded enthusiastically, her short, messy golden hair bouncing with each motion. "Yeah! We can play Crown Smashers, and I'll teach you all my best jump-kicks, and we can even build a super-duper amazing fort in the living room!"
A lot of thinking was happening in Daiki's tiny, newborn brain.
Is she my sister?
Is she always this sparkly?
Am I seriously going to have to deal with sibling rivalry this early in my new life?
Existential dread crept in like an old friend.
But beneath the layers of cynicism and reincarnation trauma, something stirred. A flicker. A warmth. The thought of having a family again—of being wanted—did something strange to him.
Or maybe, just maybe, all the blood was rushing to his head from the monumental effort of turning it.
Either way, he was tired. Really. tired.
Maybe it was the storm of "baby thoughts" swirling in his head—mostly milk, sleep, and why can't I control my limbs?
Or maybe it was just the comfort. The overwhelming, all-consuming comfort of being held in warm arms that smelled like home.
He didn't want to think about hair genetics.
Or chibi-cute siblings.
Or fate.
He just wanted… to sleep.
For now.
After long suffering, maybe that was enough.
———
After a period of truly blissful, uninterrupted sleep (seriously, best nap ever), he was abruptly woken up.
Not by crying, or a wet diaper, or any of the other indignities of newborn life, but by… a sudden buzzing in his head.
The sensation wasn't pain. It was intrusion—like a river of jagged words carving themselves into his vision, branding his mind with fire.
[Hathor commanded: Claim the name]
He furrowed his tiny brow.
Are you serious? he muttered inward.
I'm a baby. A literal infant. I'm supposed to be figuring out how to blink properly or maybe discovering my own fingers. Instead, I've got divine graffiti plastered across my brain.
Even for an isekai, most babies are more concerned with, you know, not drooling on themselves.
He shut his eyes. Turned his head.
Even attempted the ancient defense technique of if I can't see it, it can't see me.
No dice.
The words pulsed harder. Faster. Until the sound in his skull sharpened into a high-pitched beeping—like his newborn brain was being hacked by God's least competent IT department.
Oh, wait a minute… he muttered mentally.
already seeing the image of a certain pink-haired menace flicker into his head like a cursed pop-up ad. That glitter-happy, air-headed goddess. Of course.
With a weary sigh, he yielded.
Piers
Fragment of S
Curse of Fate
Curse of Chronos
Blessing of Hathor
Mana – ∞
Unique Skill: Soul Binding
Skill: Perfect Nap
Piers stared at the list, his tiny newborn face blank.
Curses? Two of them? And a "fragment" of something ominously labeled S? Yeah, not exactly thrilling.
But then his eyes snagged on the last one.
Perfect Nap: A blessing for the truly exhausted: immediate, profound, and uninterrupted sleep, no matter the surroundings or chaos.
For the first time since waking in this ridiculous body, his face cracked. Infant neutrality melted away; his eyes widened, and the faintest, beatific smile tugged at his lips. A single tear of pure, unfiltered joy welled up.
Finally—a skill that actually mattered.
The ominous curses, the creepy "Soul Binding"—all forgotten. For now, nothing existed but the blissful promise of eternal sleep. That alone felt like a real fresh start. Outwardly, his face smoothed back into calm composure, but inside? He was fired up. Kind of.
With newfound determination, Piers narrowed his eyes.
Alright, let's see. Lying in this wooden cradle isn't doing me any favors.
His gaze swept the room, pale curtains filtering soft light, wooden beams overhead, rustic furniture carved with elegant detail. For a moment, it almost looked cozy—homey. Almost.
"Still doesn't change the fact that I'm stuck in a baby body," he thought bitterly.
Resolute, he wriggled. He pushed at the mattress with shaky limbs, marshaling all the strength a sack of noodles could muster. His legs trembled like newborn fawns and gave way instantly, dropping him flat.
Flop.
"…Right. Baby legs. Forgot about that."
Attempt two. He squirmed forward, inch by painful inch, like a worm with far too much pride to quit. His tiny arms gave out halfway, and he collapsed again.
Flat on the mattress.
Straight over the side, like a sack of very determined potatoes.
"God, this body sucks."
"Ugh… this is frustrating."
Alright. Attempt number three.
He shifted his arms, planted his tiny palms, and pushed with everything an infant could possibly muster. His baby butt lifted—briefly—before collapsing with the grace of a dropped jellyfish.
This is the worst. And exhausting.
He channeled every ounce of grit he had left. Slowly—painfully—he inched forward. Like a worm. A really determined worm. And this time, he made it.
"Okay… I got this."
And then he failed again.
Right out of the cradle.
His baby instincts kicked in, and he began to cry. Hard.
"Damn it," he thought bitterly as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I can't stop it. This is so embarrassing."
Suddenly, a soft voice called out from the stairs, warm and full of concern.
"Oh, there, there, my poor little one! Mama's here!"
She rushed into the room, eyes wide with worry, and knelt beside him. Her hands were gentle as she lifted him from the floor, holding him close. The warmth of her touch, the rhythm of her heartbeat—it was almost enough to make him forget the fall.
Then he saw it. Over her shoulder. A mirror.
And there it is—the face.
Just like that, the crying stopped. All thoughts of discomfort vanished. He blinked at the reflection, momentarily stunned
Holy moly. I'm… actually adorable!!
Objectively cute. Big, slightly sleepy eyes. Soft cheeks. His heart fluttered a little.
His hair was mostly golden blonde—his father's—but a striking streak of deep violet-black swept across the front. A bold slash of color. His mother's legacy.
And his eyes—violet-obsidian. Just like hers. They gleamed, catching the light, full of mystery he didn't yet understand.
A small, content smile spreads across his lips.
"That's good. I'm not only a copy of Dad, I'm a perfect mix of both my newfound parents."
His mom cradles him close, nuzzling gently. Her worry fades into a soft, glowing warmth. For a moment, everything is perfect.
* * *