MC POV
The door shut behind him with a dull thud.
Just like that, the only person in the room who had looked at me as if I were more than meat was gone.
That thought was sobering.
Not because my father had seemed kind—he hadn't. There was nothing soft about that man. Even in the few moments he held me, I felt it in the way his arms stayed tense and in the way his gaze scrutinized me instead of welcoming me. He didn't see me as a son. He saw me as a problem that might grow teeth later.
And somehow, he was still the least unsettling person here.
I was lifted again, this time by hands that were far less steady. The healer holding me was careful—like prey near a sleeping predator. His fingers trembled against the cloth wrapped around me. Though I couldn't fully understand the words being exchanged in the room, I understood enough.
Tone.
Posture.
Fear.
Those things needed no translation.
My mother lay against the bed, pale and beautiful, like polished steel. Not warm. Not gentle. Just sharp enough to cut with a glance. She didn't look at me right away after Zen left. Instead, she extended one slim hand toward a servant, and the girl practically threw herself forward to place a silver cup in her palm.
Seraphina drank, then finally turned her head.
Her eyes landed on me.
I had thought the worst thing a mother could feel toward her child was hatred.
I was wrong.
Hatred at least required some investment.
What looked back at me from her face was colder than that. Assessment. Irritation. The detached displeasure of someone forced to inspect a stain on expensive fabric.
"So this is the one," she said.
I didn't know the words exactly, not yet. But something in me stirred when she spoke. A strange pressure moved through my mind, as if invisible gears were clicking into place. The sounds she made stopped being meaningless noise. Not fully. Not clearly. But enough.
Enough to understand.
It was the systems, I realized dimly. Or maybe some effect of rebirth itself. Either way, the language of this world was beginning to loosen inside my skull.
The healer bowed lower. "Yes, my Lady."
She studied me for several long seconds. I did my best not to react. It wasn't physically difficult—my body was too new, too weak, too unfinished for meaningful expression—but mentally, every instinct I had screamed at me to look away.
Her gaze was worse than my father's.
Father had seen me like a threat.
Mother looked at me like a failed investment.
"He has your husband's eyes," she said at last, her tone flat.
No one replied.
That silence told me more than words could have.
Zen Worldheart might be a lord in title, but the real center of gravity in this room—perhaps in this town—was lying in that bed, wrapped in expensive sheets and fresh blood, speaking like a queen inconvenienced by lesser beings.
She clicked her tongue in disgust. "And my hair. Unfortunate."
The servants lowered their heads even further, as if failing to laugh could be a crime.
I felt something bitter stir within me.
In my last life, I had longed for family with a desperation so quiet it had almost become prayer. Other children had complained about overbearing parents, strict fathers, and nagging mothers. I had lain in my hospital bed and envied every one of them. Even scolding or suffocating affection had seemed beautiful from a room filled with machines.
Now, after all those empty years, I had received what should have been a miracle.
A healthy body.
A second chance.
A family.
And, naturally, the world had twisted all three.
Seraphina's gaze lingered on me for a moment before losing interest. "Take him away. I've had enough of the sight of him."
The healer hesitated. "My Lady... where should he be placed?"
"Wherever infants are put," she said coldly. "Must I manage breathing for all of you too?"
The room moved at once.
That was another thing I learned quickly: fear made people efficient.
I was carried toward a smaller chamber adjoining the birth room, some sort of nursery perhaps, though that word felt too gentle for this place. It was warm, clean, and richly furnished, but none of that softened the feeling. This wasn't a place built for love. It was storage for heirs.
A narrow cradle waited near the wall, carved from dark wood and lined with pale fabric. I was placed inside it with extraordinary care, as if my body were made of fragile glass.
No.
Not care.
Caution.
There was a difference.
The healer checked my breathing twice, then backed away. A pair of servant girls stayed nearby, whispering in low voices once they thought they were alone.
I listened.
That, at least, I could do.
"Those eyes..." one of them murmured.
"Don't say it," the other hissed.
"He didn't cry."
"Neither did Lady Seraphina when her mother died."
Silence.
Then, even softer: "Do you think he's cursed?"
I nearly laughed.
Not because the idea was ridiculous, but because "cursed" might be simpler than the truth.
I was a dead man in a newborn body.
I had two systems sealed within me.
One of them apparently let me build labyrinths from soul power.
And I had been reborn into a noble household where my mother saw me as disposable and my father looked at me as if he expected me to become dangerous.
So yes, from a certain point of view, "cursed" covered it well.
The servants drifted farther away, their whispers fading.
At last, I was alone.
Or as alone as anyone could be in a world where strange voices handed out supernatural systems before reincarnation.
I tried to move my arm.
Nothing.
Or rather, not nothing—there was movement, but it was clumsy, weak, and wildly imprecise. My hand twitched free of the blanket for half a second before dropping back down like dead weight.
Pathetic.
Still, that answered one question.
This body was healthy, but health didn't mean capability. I wasn't trapped in a failing shell anymore, but I had traded one kind of helplessness for another. Back then, I'd had an adult mind and a body that betrayed me. Now I had an adult mind and a body that hadn't finished being built.
A dry sort of amusement touched me.
At least this time there was potential.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, toward that familiar mental space where the screen had appeared before.
Status.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the darkness behind my eyelids shimmered, and the translucent panel returned.
[NAME]: Unnamed
[PRIMARY SYSTEM]: Hard Work System
[SECONDARY SYSTEM]: Dungeon Maker System
[STATUS]: Sealed
[BODY CONDITION]: Infant
[SOUL CONDITION]: Stable
[WARNING]: Excessive mental activity may hinder physical development
I stared.
That last line annoyed me more than it should have.
So thinking too hard could actually hurt me right now. Fantastic. Reborn, gifted with two absurd systems, and my first enemy was apparently baby fatigue.
Still, one line stood out.
That meant something. If the system bothered to distinguish body from soul, then the two weren't linked as simply as this world probably believed. Which fit what I had already been told. Soul cultivation was dismissed here. Underestimated.
Good.
Nothing was more valuable than a power everyone else thought was useless.
I dismissed the screen and opened my eyes to the dim nursery ceiling.
Unnamed.
The word felt strange in my chest.
In my previous life, I had been known, however briefly, however pitifully. Nurses had said my name. Doctors had said my name. Even when my world had narrowed to four walls and a bed, I had still had that much.
Here, I was less than that.
A child not yet considered worthy of being called anything at all.
I let the feeling settle.
Then I buried it.
Self-pity was a luxury for people who expected rescue.
No one was coming.
Not in this life.
Not in the last one either, if I was honest.
So be it.
If this house was full of monsters, then I would grow fangs.
If this world only respected strength, then I would become strong enough that no one could decide whether I was worth naming.
My father had seen me as a future threat.
My mother had looked at me like a thing that might not survive the season.
Fine.
Let them.
I had been given a healthy body, two impossible systems, and a second life in a world rotten to its core.
This time, I would not spend my years staring at a ceiling and waiting to die.
I would survive.
I would grow.
And one day, when this house finally learned to say my name, they would say it carefully.
(The reason why mc knows their parents name is because I just feel weird to write mom or dad towards my novel's characters.)