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The rest of the following days was… boring.
I was trapped in this damn baby body and there wasn't much I could do. Breathe, consume oxygen, and turn milk into shit, basically.
The woman came often to feed me. Occasionally, she tried to put the wrappings on me again, but she had already learned: if I made a loud enough fuss, she'd get nervous, mumble something, and leave the room in a hurry. Probably still scared from the outburst the man—who seemed to be my father—had thrown at her.
And meanwhile, there I was. Just baby consuming oxygen. Shitting myself had become a daily routine.
I couldn't do anything to stop it. No control over my bowels, bladder, or anything. I just felt it coming—and then it happened. Afterward, I had to endure someone cleaning me up like I was some useless sack of meat. A humiliating experience, three times a day.
It took me a while to get used to it. At first, every time it happened, I wished I had died for real.
Most of the time I was confined to what seemed like a wooden crib. I could feel the bars with my fingers when I managed to stretch them out.
Several days passed—or so I think—until my vision finally began to clear. At first, just less blurry shadows. Then shapes. Eventually, colors. And then I started to really see where the hell I was.
The room was large, only meant to house a crib, some furniture, and a fireplace that was frequently lit to keep the place warm. The maid or a man would often come in to throw more firewood into the hearth.
The woman who took care of me had stopped talking to me much since the incident with the bindings. Now she kept it minimal: feed me, clean me, leave. She didn't say much, but with what little I observed, I managed to deduce something important:
My family had status. Or money. Or even better: both.
We had at least two servants. A room of my own. Decent clothes—though uncomfortable. And that woman who cared for me like her life depended on it. Maybe, in all my fucking bad luck, I at least won the social-class lottery.
I'd been reborn. But this time, it looked like I'd landed in the top one percent. Sounds nice—on paper. Until you realize that even someone with average income in the modern world lives far better than a medieval noble. Cold water, disease, superstition, and shitting yourself were all completely normal. So no, this wasn't exactly a prize—but within the bad, I was in the best position.
Days passed quickly. I slept a lot, for obvious reasons. Each day I gained more control over this body, and it became much easier to move it at will.
With time, I began noticing the patterns of those who entered the room.
The servant who fed me came in several times a day. Always nervous. Always looking over her shoulder.
A rough-looking man, wearing worn leather armor, kept watch over the room. Sometimes he stayed at the door; other times he entered and tossed more firewood on the fire.
And then there was him.
A large man. Imposing. He came only once a day. He would approach the crib silently. Stand there, staring at me for several minutes. Then cover me with a blanket and leave.
He never spoke a word. But sometimes… when our eyes met, he would smile.
That was how several days went by. Aside from those three people, no one else entered the room. I was completely isolated.
Finally, after what felt like several days of repeating the same routine, the large man broke the pattern.
He came at the usual time, with the same firm step and stern expression. But this time, he brought something with him: a wooden box.
Without a word, he lifted me from the crib with more gentleness than I expected, and sat me on the floor, on a thick blanket. It was the first time I'd been freed from that damned wooden prison. The floor was cold, hard, but I didn't care. It was freedom. Even if only brief.
He took out four objects from the box and placed them in front of me, one by one, in an almost ritualistic order
First, a small figurine of a dog. Then, a rattle—simple, but well made.
Next, a wooden warhammer. Small, but recognizable: thick head, short handle, no decorations. And finally, a carved horse.
Once everything was in place, he sat across from me. Silent. Watching me.
But this time, it wasn't the same empty silence as before. This time he was expecting something. A decision.
And it didn't take a genius to figure out what kind of answer he was looking for.
He came in every day wearing armor. Plate covering his chest. Greaves on one leg only. Red clothing underneath. It was a uniform. Everything about him screamed soldier.
Now he was looking at me with those firm, calculating eyes, like he could read me.
He didn't say it out loud, but the message for me was clear
Who are you going to be?The loyal dog?The soft child?The warrior?The noble horseman?
Without thinking too much, I reached for the most obvious choice: the hammer. It was small, but it fit perfectly in my hand. The wood was rough, but solid. As soon as I grabbed it, I looked up at him.
He met my gaze.Serious. Reserved. Like something inside him was about to crack. He didn't smile… but he nearly did.
Then he moved his hand, slowly, and pointed at the box again. He wanted more. A second answer.
His intentions were crystal clear—strength alone wasn't enough. He wanted to see what else I could be.
I looked back at the objects and went with the logical choice: the horse. I grabbed it with my other hand and started moving it, as if playing, trotting. The gesture was clumsy, but clear enough to be understood.
I looked at him again.
He let out a long, deep breath. Closed his eyes for a moment. And when he opened them, I saw an expression I hadn't seen before—relief.... Pride.
"Thank you, Sigmar… thank you…" he murmured, barely audible, but with a wave of emotion that filled the room.
And that's when everything clicked.
Sigmar… SIGMAR.
No fucking way.
A noble invoking Sigmar with that kind of devotion… that could only mean one thing: I was in the Empire. In the goddamn world of Warhammer Fantasy. Even without seeing beyond this room, I knew it for certain.
Out of all the possible places to reincarnate, this was one of the worst. Then again, at least it wasn't Warhammer 40k. Small consolation, barely avoiding one of the absolute worst fates.
While I tried to process it, I felt the large man's hands wrap around me again. He lifted me with the same care as always and placed me back into the crib, as if I had just done something worthy of respect. For him, I probably had.
For me, I was stuck somewhere between shock and terror.
The realization hit harder than any explosion I'd experienced in combat. This wasn't just any fantasy world. Here, gods walked unseen. Whispers could twist your mind. Desires could summon horrors. In this place, if you felt too much, something might notice—and once it did, you were screwed.
And here I was. A baby. Defenseless. With a consciousness I couldn't turn off. An adult mind trapped in new, young, uncontrollable flesh. Vulnerable.
And with a mental record that wasn't exactly clean.
Rage. Lots of it. A whole life swallowing anger. I always wanted to climb, to control my own life. Excess. Drinking and violence.
Khorne, Slaanesh… even Tzeentch, if he focused on how much I schemed or my love for knowledge. I was a damn silver-platter offering for the gods of Chaos.
The fear crept in like a disease. I started paying closer attention to everything—the ceiling, the shadows, the sounds behind the walls. I became paranoid. I waited for a whisper only I could hear. A deformed figure in a corner. A dream that didn't belong to me.
But nothing came.
And there wasn't anything I could do anyway.
Too young to make decisions. Too weak to protect myself. Completely at the mercy of those caring for me. And if one of them was already marked, or if there was a crack in this household… I'd go down with them.
Several hours must have passed before I finally calmed down. Nothing happened. No demonic apparitions, no twisted voices in my ear, no signs of corruption. Everything went back to the usual routine: the quiet room, the wooden crib, the same fire fading with the sunset.
With time, the initial fear dulled. The paranoia didn't go away, of course, but it became part of the mental background noise. Just another silent alarm ringing in the distance.
Days kept passing. The sun and moon crossed the window over and over, marking the rhythm of an infant's life that had nothing to do with my previous one. But unlike a normal baby, I didn't need to discover the world from scratch. I didn't have to crawl by instinct or learn how to move my fingers.
I just needed to wait for the body to reach the minimum threshold for my mind to take over.
It didn't take long.
After a few weeks of patience, I regained full control of my limbs. At first, I crawled—clumsy and slow—but with purpose. Then I managed to stand, holding onto the crib bars. My muscles responded. My legs trembled, but I didn't give up.
The large man—the one who seemed to be my father—watched me with pride every time he saw me moving. He would smile, just barely, whenever I played with the hammer or the horse he had given me. But it wasn't an empty smile. It was genuine satisfaction at what he was seeing.
He watched me closely. He expected things from me.
In less than a month, I managed to control my lower body too. No more shitting myself like some damned animal.
With a more stable body, I began escaping the crib. At first, I only tried when the maid or the guard weren't present. But soon I learned to slip out quietly, sliding through the bars and dropping carefully onto the blanket. If they heard me, the guard would catch me and put me back in without saying a word.
The stone floor, though cold and hard, was far better than the soft mattress in the crib, which felt like it swallowed you if you stayed still too long. Down there, at least I could practice walking. Balancing. Measuring my steps.
Time passed. I grew.
I was already walking with some stability, even if I was still clumsy. My gums itched like hell, like something was tearing the flesh from the inside. Teeth were coming in, and it kept me in a bad mood constantly.
But what really struck me was the lack of intellectual stimulation.
No one tried to teach me how to speak. No one showed me symbols, letters, books. Not a single written word. Was it normal in this time period to wait so long before starting a child's education?
I just needed to identify how the German I knew diverged from the Reikspiel spoken here. That alone would be enough to begin mastering the language. I only needed to hear more natural conversations. If I managed that, I wouldn't take long to understand it fully—and if I could get my hands on a book, even better.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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