A year passed faster than I expected—full of baby babbling, unsteady steps, and way too many near-disasters involving Styx's growing stash of "monster parts." (Mother's nerves took more damage than I did.)
I'd finally figured out how to walk… though calling it "walking" was generous. It was more of a determined wobble. Honestly, I moved like a baby penguin who'd had one drink too many. Not very dignified—but I wasn't taking this milestone for granted.
I'd already lived two lives before this one, and both ended terribly.
So this time… I wasn't going to waste a single day.
I have a family now.
A real one. Loving—if mildly chaotic—parents. A sister with the energy of a caffeinated gremlin.
A home. So yeah, I am going to make the most of it.
That meant training. Not the sword-swinging, spell-slinging kind at least not yet. First, it was all about control. I practiced threading mana, refining it to the width of a hair. Not to impress anyone, but to stop Mother and Father from panicking again. The memory of their faces when I collapsed, fevered and pale, still lingered.
They'd looked at me like I was slipping away. That… stuck with me.
And then there were the souls.
Somewhere along the way, I realized I could see them—faint, glimmering figures drifting between the trees like wisps of smoke.
Beautiful, sure. But also insufferable.
Constant chatter.
Endless laments.
Like being trapped in a nursery where every ghost thought I owed them free therapy.
At first, I listened. I really did. I nodded along, tried to care, tried to make sense of whatever they were mumbling about.
But it was always the same thing over and over—regrets, unfinished business, someone they missed, someone who didn't miss them back… it just never stopped.
Eventually, I stopped paying attention. Let them talk to the air while I focused on the important part: trying to stay standing for longer than five seconds.
One thing was certain: this wasn't soul-binding. I'd know that curse anywhere.
No, this was different.
Something tied to that cryptic "S" I still didn't understand. Important, definitely. Dangerous, probably.
And the strangest part? The curses that once clung to me like shadows gone.
No more twisted luck, no more lingering doom. Just quiet days, Styx's antics, and the occasional need to dodge her latest attempt to crown me with a halo made of monster teeth.
Don't get me wrong—I hadn't forgotten about revenge. That was still there, sitting in the back of my mind, sharp and stubborn, not going anywhere.
But for now, it sat just below "learn to walk without faceplanting" and "convince Styx that gnawing on bones doesn't count as playtime."
For the first time in… ever, maybe, I am content. I have warmth. A roof. A family. And, best of all, no one was trying to kill me in my sleep.
I took a deep breath, pushed myself upright—wobbling a little—and announced to the empty room with as much dignity as I could manage:
"Goo goo ga ga."
Gotta keep it humble.
———
It was midday. Sunlight poured over the family garden, warm and bright.
Xylia moved through the greenery with the careful grace of someone who handled rare things every day.
She plucked a glowing sprig from a tangle of foliage, fingers precise and practiced — herbs, or some exotic magical flora that pulsed faintly in her palm.
From his perch on the house steps, Piers watched everything unravel with the perpetual curiosity of a child learning the rules of a new world.
In the yard, Rigas practiced with Styx, who wielded a practice blade that looked more like a trimmed tree trunk than a weapon.
"Alright, Styx! Feel the weight of the blade—yes, just like that! Now, imagine it's a giant carrot. You're starving. You want that carrot. And—WHAM!" Rigas announced, sending a shower of leaves into the air.
Styx planted her feet, brow furrowed in the concentration only a four-year-old could sustain. She swung—
And hits the ground. Hard.
"Good effort!" Rigas calls cheerfully. "Again, but try not to fight the lawn."
She tried again. The sword slipped from her grip and sailed toward the garden.
Xylia didn't look up. Her hand snapped out and caught the blade mid-spin between two fingers as if it were an annoyance.
"Styx, darling," she said, calm and firm, "perhaps a little less force, and a little more focus, hmm? We don't want any accidental beheadings of the magnolias, do we?"
Styx nodded sheepishly. "Yes, Mama. I'm sorry."
Rigas clears his throat. "She's got the spirit, though! That's important, right?"
Xylia merely raised an eyebrow: maternal judgment in a single motion.
Rigas chuckled, scratched his neck, and adjusted Styx's grip.
"Alright, this time imagine the carrot is… smaller. And significantly less explosive."
He turned back to Styx with a grin and adjusted her grip on the practice sword.
Piers watched, not out of hunger for food, but for understanding. He wanted to know the rules of strength and combat here—the history, the lore. Their house had few books; knowledge was something he craved but hadn't found yet. He clenched his small fists. There was more to this world, and he needed a way to unlock it.
The earth shuddered.
A deep rumble rolled beneath their feet, sending cracks splintering across the garden soil. The air thickened with the sharp scent of crushed leaves and sap, and shadows lengthened unnaturally across the yard.
Then the ground split open.
A mass of thorned vines erupted upward, lashing out with terrifying speed. Their surfaces bristled with jagged barbs, their movements unnervingly deliberate—as though guided by some unseen will.
Before anyone could react, they coiled around Xylia.
"one clamping her wrists together, another locking down her legs. A third crushed her torso, and the last coiled menacingly at her neck, thorns grazing her skin as if daring to press deeper."
In a blink she was yanked backward, slammed onto the dirt beside the herb beds. The roots writhed over her like hands, groaning as they tightened their grip.
Her controlled mask shattered. Her eyes went wide, breath jerking in her throat, shock slipping through before anger took over.
"Rigas!" she snapped, voice strained. "Do something!"
For a heartbeat, Rigas just stared. Then his grin vanished, replaced by a fierce snarl.
"You dare," he roared, drawing his blade. "You dare bind what is mine?!"
The vines cinched tighter, thorns cutting thin lines across Xylia's skin. Green ichor leaked from their tips, the roots twitching like they wanted more.
Behind him, Styx leapt in place, her fists pumping with gleeful bloodlust.
"Go, Papa! Chop the ass off that weed monster!"
Rigas charged.
His sword hacked through vine after vine, each strike sending shredded leaves and barbed pieces flying. The roots shrieked—raw, splintering sounds, like wood tearing under too much weight—as they thrashed, trying desperately to keep hold of their prey.
It didn't last long.
With a final brutal swing, Rigas split the thickest root clean down the middle. The others jerked back instantly, ripping themselves into the soil with a sharp hiss and leaving the garden scattered with torn vines, thorns, and splinters.
He turned, triumphant, chest puffed. Relief and pride shone in his grin; he expected praise.
Perhaps even a passionate kiss, from his wife.
He sheathed his sword with a showy flick, then shot his wife a smug, expectant grin.
"See, honey? Handled. No need to thank me>>> just doing my job as a loving husband and protector of... well, you know."
The last of the vines slid off Xylia and fell lifeless at her feet. She stepped forward, dusting her gown as if she hadn't just been bound by nature's wrath. Her gaze fixed on Rigas>>>cool and utterly unforgiving.
"Rigas," she says, her voice low, calm, and far more terrifying than a shout.
"You defended my honor… admirably. Truly. Almost makes me forget that you taught our daughter a word that would make a priest choke on his prayers."
Her smile curved upward, sharp and terrible. Dark mana shimmered at her fingertips like the promise of retribution.
Rigas's grin faltered.
"Ah. About that love... I can explain. It just sort of slipped out. heat of battle—"
She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a velvet purr that promised nothing good.
"Oh, I'm sure it did. Just like that vines dared to slither between my… Well, that's a discussion for later."
Her hand clamped onto his collar, dragging him toward the house with merciless grace.
"Come, my foolish husband—Corrupting our child's tongue comes with consequences."
Rigas managed one final glance at the children, his face caught between dread and misplaced pride.
"Heh. Kids—wish me luck."
Then the door slammed shut behind them.
Later that night, he would discover that luck wasn't on the menu.
———
The next day dawns with an air of hushed excitement. Dad, usually loud enough to rattle windows, reins in his booming laughter to a contained rumble. Mom's graceful movements hold a subtle tension, a quiet anticipation she doesn't bother hiding.
Today, they've decided, is the day we go to the nearby town for an "appraisal."
A strange ritual, but one that feels deeply rooted in this Isekai world's culture.
The creak of wooden axles and the jingle of metal harnesses signal the arrival of our transport. A sturdy horse-drawn carriage rolls up to our modest home, its frame carved with simple, practical designs. Nestled in Mom's arms, I stare in wordless awe.
The carriage feels like a bridge—real, heavy, undeniable.. between the safe cradle of the barrier and the vast world beyond it. My eyes drink in every detail: polished wood catching the morning light, thick wheels coated in dust, the steady sway of the horses as they shift.
A thrill buzzes through my tiny body.
An instinctive need to explore. To know.
Styx vibrates beside us, barely containing her excitement. Her golden hair bounces with every step, bright as scattered sunlight.
She grabs my small hand with surprising strength.
"Come on, Piers!" she chirps, her voice bubbling over with joy. "Let's go see the town! Big sister Styx will protect you! You don't have to worry about anything when I'm around!"
She throws a heroic pose, puffing out her little chest like a tiny knight preparing for battle., full of valiant determination.
Mom smiles, brushing a tiny curl from Styx's forehead.
"Oh, my little warrior," she murmurs.
"Just remember—protecting someone also means staying calm. And listening when I tell you not to kick anything twice your size."
Styx salutes with deadly sincerity.
"Got it, Mama! No super-duper kicks unless it's absolutely necessary!"
Mom laughs under her breath and hugs me closer. "You two really are my little stars."
Dad's voice thunders across the yard.
"Alright, everyone! Carriage is all set. Let's move!"
He swings the carriage door with dramatic flair and gestures like he's presenting a royal chariot.
"Your ride awaits, my lady," he adds with a wink to Mom.
She rolls her eyes, but there's a small smile she doesn't bother hiding.
Styx scrambles in first, nearly tripping over her own enthusiasm, while Mom climbs in after her, still cradling me.
And just like that, we're Off to see what lies beyond the barrier.
The carriage eventually lurches to a stop, wooden wheels groaning as they settle into the packed earth of Jenora Town. Mom holds me close against her chest, and I peek out with wide, hungry eyes.
The air pulses with a kind of life I've never felt before.
Styx, perched atop Dad's shoulders like some tiny queen, points at everything she sees. Her golden hair flashes like a signal in the crowd, earning amused glances from passing strangers.
Mom's heartbeat is steady under my cheek. Dad walks beside her, his large hand resting on Styx's back, keeping her stable as she twists around in awe.
The town overwhelms me—a storm of colors, sounds, and smells nothing like the calm of our home.
People bustle along cobbled streets, talking, shouting, haggling.
Some are short and broad, beards woven with beads.
Others tall and elegant, ears long and pointed.
A few walk on digitigrade legs, fur covering their wolfish or bearlike faces, eyes sharp yet not unkind.
A blacksmith's hammer cracks against metal somewhere nearby.
Spices saturate the air—sweet, bitter, smoky, sharp.
Voices clash in a dozen tongues, rhythms rising and falling with deals made or arguments sparked.
It's chaos.
Alive. Wild.
And impossibly beautiful.
A world brimming with life I've only dreamed of.
And I drink it in greedily, every detail seared into memory.
Somewhere in this blur of strangers and noise, I can feel it—the answers I've been waiting for.
* * *