The Chosen Pervert

Chapter 3: The First Milestone

A year.

I'd been alive—or re-alive, or whatever the f**k this was—for an entire year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of being trapped in a body that couldn't walk, couldn't talk, couldn't even control its own bladder. Three hundred and sixty-five days of being fed, burped, changed, and coddled like the helpless infant I technically was.

And apparently, that was cause for celebration.

"Master Wyatt's first birthday!" Marta announced cheerfully as she bustled through the main hall, her arms full of linens. "Can you believe it? A whole year already!"

Another servant—a younger woman named Elise with blonde hair and a figure that my adult brain couldn't help but notice—laughed as she arranged flowers on the long wooden table. "It feels like just yesterday Lady GreyFox was in labor. And now look at him! Walking already!"

Walking was a generous term. I could stumble around like a drunk toddler for about five steps before my legs gave out. But yeah, sure, let's call it walking.

I was currently sitting on a cushion near the fireplace, watching the preparations with the detached amusement of someone who'd spent thirty-five years on Earth and knew exactly how ridiculous all of this was.

A birthday party. For a one-year-old.

Except... it wasn't really a birthday party, was it?

"Do you think the Harringtons will bring their boy?" Elise asked, adjusting a ribbon on one of the flower arrangements.

"Little Thomas? Oh, I'm sure they will," Marta said. "He's two now, isn't he? Survived his first milestone as well. The Harringtons must be so relieved."

Relieved.

That word stuck with me.

I'd been hearing it a lot lately. Servants whispering it when they thought I wasn't paying attention. My mother saying it in quiet prayers by my bedside. My father muttering it after a few too many glasses of wine.

Relieved that I survived.

At first, I thought it was just normal parental anxiety. But the more I listened, the more I realized it was something else entirely.

This world was dangerous. Not just in the "goblins might raid your village" way—though that was apparently a thing—but in the "your baby might just die for no reason" way.

Infant mortality was high. Really high. High enough that making it to your first birthday was considered a genuine achievement.

Jesus Christ, I thought, watching Marta hang colorful banners from the rafters. They're celebrating the fact that I didn't die. That's f*****g morbid.

But I got it. I mean, I didn't like it, but I understood. This wasn't modern Earth with vaccines and antibiotics and helicopter parents who sanitized everything. This was a medieval fantasy world where a bad fever could kill you, where goblins raided villages, where magic existed but medicine was still in the dark ages.

Surviving your first year was an accomplishment.

Still felt weird, though.

"Wyatt!"

I turned—well, wobbled my head in the general direction of the voice—and saw my mother approaching. She was wearing a deep green dress that complemented her dark hair and emerald eyes, and she looked radiant.

Stop it, I told myself. That's your mother. Do not be weird.

"There's my birthday boy," she said, scooping me up and spinning me around. I let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-squeal, because apparently my infant body had no control over its reactions.

She kissed my forehead and held me close. "One year old. My miracle baby."

There was that word again. Miracle.

I still didn't fully understand why I was a miracle. Something about my mother being told she was barren, that she'd never have children. But she'd never stopped hoping, and then I came along.

Lucky me, I thought. Reincarnated into a body that shouldn't exist.

"Lady GreyFox!" Marta called from across the hall. "The Harringtons have arrived!"

My mother's face lit up. "Wonderful! Wyatt, you're going to meet another little boy today. Won't that be fun?"

Oh boy. Playtime with a two-year-old. I can barely contain my excitement.

But I didn't have a choice. My mother carried me toward the entrance, where a middle-aged couple stood with a small boy clinging to his mother's skirts.

"Lady GreyFox," the man said, bowing slightly. "Thank you for inviting us."

"Lord Harrington, Lady Harrington," my mother said warmly. "I'm so glad you could come. And this must be Thomas!"

The boy—Thomas—peeked out from behind his mother's dress. He had messy brown hair and wide eyes, and he looked about as thrilled to be here as I felt.

"Thomas just turned two last month," Lady Harrington said, gently nudging her son forward. "We're so grateful he made it to his second milestone."

Milestone.

There was that word.

I'd been hearing it more and more lately, but I hadn't fully understood what it meant until now.

"Two years old already," my mother said, smiling. "How wonderful. Wyatt's just reached his first milestone today."

"A momentous occasion," Lord Harrington said. "The first milestone is always the hardest. You must be so relieved."

There it is again. Relieved.

My mother nodded, her grip on me tightening just slightly. "Every day I thank the gods that he's healthy and strong."

The Harringtons nodded in agreement, and then Lady Harrington crouched down to Thomas's level. "Why don't you go play with Wyatt? He's a nice boy."

Thomas looked at me with the kind of suspicion only a toddler could muster, then slowly shuffled over.

My mother set me down on the floor, and Thomas and I stared at each other.

This is awkward, I thought. I'm a thirty-five-year-old man trapped in a one-year-old's body, and I'm supposed to play with a two-year-old.

Thomas picked up a wooden block and held it out to me.

Fuck it. When in Rome.

I took the block and banged it against the floor. Thomas giggled.

Nailed it.

The party continued, and more families arrived. Most of them were from the village—farmers, craftsmen, a few minor nobles. They all brought small gifts: wooden toys, blankets, jars of honey. Nothing extravagant, but thoughtful.

And they all said the same thing.

"Congratulations on reaching the first milestone."

"Such a relief to see him healthy."

"The first year is always the hardest."

I was starting to get the picture.

Birthdays—at least in the traditional sense—weren't really a thing here. Or at least, not the way they were on Earth. You didn't celebrate every year. You celebrated milestones.

And from what I could gather through eavesdropping on conversations, there were five major milestones:

Age 1: Surviving infancy. The first and most dangerous milestone.

Age 5 (or 6): Childhood. You were old enough to start learning, working, contributing.

Age 13: Teenage years. A major life transition. Puberty, training, responsibility.

Age 18: Young adulthood. You were considered mature enough to make your own decisions, marry, fight.

Age 24: Full maturity. You were a complete adult, fully recognized by society.

So basically, I thought, you only get five birthday parties in your entire life. And the first one is just celebrating the fact that you didn't die.

It was depressing as hell, but it also made sense. In a world where survival wasn't guaranteed, every milestone mattered.

I watched the adults mingle, sipping wine and chatting, and I couldn't help but compare this to Earth.

On Earth, kids got birthday parties every single year. Cake, presents, balloons, the whole nine yards. Hell, some parents threw elaborate themed parties with bounce houses and clowns and enough sugar to put a small army into a coma.

Here? You got five parties. Total. And the first one was basically a funeral that didn't happen.

This world is f****d up, I thought.

But at least I was alive.

As the afternoon wore on, I found myself sitting near the fireplace again, watching the festivities. My mother was talking with Lady Harrington, my father was charming a group of village women (of course), and the servants were bustling around, making sure everyone had food and drink.

And then I noticed something.

The way people addressed my parents.

"Lord GreyFox."

"Lady GreyFox."

Not "Your Majesty" or "Your Highness." Just "Lord" and "Lady."

Nobles, I realized. We're nobles. But not, like, royalty royalty.

I'd been so focused on surviving and adjusting to this new life that I hadn't really thought about my family's status. But now, watching the way people interacted with my parents, I started to piece it together.

There was respect, sure. But it wasn't the kind of groveling, boot-licking respect you'd expect for royalty. It was more... polite deference.

So we're nobles, but not the top-tier kind.

I thought back to all the fantasy novels and games I'd consumed in my past life. Nobility was usually ranked, right? Dukes, earls, barons, that kind of thing.

But this world seemed to do things differently.

"Lord GreyFox," one of the village men said, approaching my father. "Thank you again for your generosity. The new well has made a world of difference."

My father clapped the man on the shoulder. "Think nothing of it, Garrett. A GreyFox takes care of his people."

GreyFox.

I turned the name over in my mind.

Grey. Fox.

Color and animal.

It hit me like a lightning bolt.

The ranking system wasn't based on titles like "duke" or "earl." It was based on names.

Specifically, the color and animal in your family name.

I didn't know all the details yet, but I could feel it in my gut. The way people said "GreyFox" wasn't the same as how they might say, I don't know, "GoldenDragon" or something.

Grey was... lower. Not the lowest, but definitely not high.

And Fox? Foxes were clever, sure. But they weren't lions or dragons or eagles.

So we're lower-mid nobility, I thought. Respectable, but not powerful.

It made sense. Our house was comfortable but not extravagant. We had servants, but not an army of them. We had land, but not a kingdom.

We were... middle management.

Fucking great. I got reincarnated into a middle-management noble family.

But then I thought about my mother.

The way people looked at her was different. There was more reverence, more awe. Like she was something special.

"Lady GreyFox was a Silverwing before she married," I heard Marta whisper to Elise as they passed by. "Can you imagine? A Silverwing marrying into the GreyFox family?"

Elise gasped. "A Silverwing? But that's—"

"I know," Marta said, her voice hushed. "She married down. Way down."

Oh s**t.

My mother was from a higher-ranking family.

Silver. Wing.

Silver was definitely higher than Grey. And Wing—like a bird, something that could fly—was probably higher than Fox.

So my mom was nobility royalty, and she married my dad, who was... not.

I looked over at my father, who was currently making a group of women laugh with some story about his adventuring days.

Of course, I thought. He's a Bard. He probably seduced her. Charmed her right out of her fancy Silverwing family and into his lower-tier GreyFox bed.

It was almost impressive, in a sleazy kind of way.

And it explained a lot. Why my mother was so kind and graceful. Why my father seemed like he'd won the lottery. Why people treated my mother with extra respect.

She was slumming it. And she didn't seem to care.

Good for her, I thought. Marry for love, not status. Very romantic.

Of course, the fact that my father was a serial cheater kind of ruined the romance, but whatever. Not my problem.

Yet.

The party continued into the evening, and I was passed around like a trophy. Everyone wanted to hold me, pinch my cheeks, comment on how "alert" and "aware" I seemed.

If only they knew, I thought as some village woman cooed at me. If only they knew there's a thirty-five-year-old pervert in here.

But they didn't. And they wouldn't.

At one point, I was sitting on my mother's lap while she talked with another noblewoman—Lady Something-or-Other, I didn't catch the name.

"He's so calm," the woman said, smiling at me. "Most children his age are fussy and crying. But Wyatt just... observes."

My mother stroked my hair. "He's always been like that. Even as a newborn, he seemed to understand more than he should."

Uh oh.

"Do you think he's gifted?" the woman asked, lowering her voice.

My mother hesitated. "I don't know. But... there's something special about him. I can feel it."

Double uh oh.

I kept my face neutral—well, as neutral as a one-year-old's face could be—and tried not to give anything away.

But the truth was, my mother wasn't wrong.

There was something different about me.

I'd noticed it over the past few months. Little things. Weird things.

Like the time a toy had rolled across the floor toward me, even though no one had touched it.

Or the time a candle had flickered out, and then reignited a moment later when I'd stared at it.

Or the time I'd wanted my mother to come to my room, and she'd appeared seconds later, saying she'd felt a sudden urge to check on me.

I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know if it was magic, or some kind of psychic ability, or just coincidence.

But it was there.

And my mother had noticed.

Shit.

By the time the party wound down and the guests started leaving, I was exhausted. Not physically—my one-year-old body had plenty of energy—but mentally.

Being around people, pretending to be a normal baby, listening to conversations I wasn't supposed to understand... it was draining.

My mother carried me to my room and laid me down in my crib. She kissed my forehead and smiled.

"Happy first milestone, my sweet boy," she said softly. "I'm so proud of you."

Proud of me for not dying, I thought. What an achievement.

But I didn't say that. I just looked up at her and made a happy baby sound, because that's what she needed to hear.

She stroked my cheek one more time, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

I lay there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling.

One year.

I'd survived one year in this world.

Four more milestones to go.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.

That whatever I was—whatever I was becoming—was going to change everything.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

The question echoed in my mind, just like it had a year ago.

But this time, I didn't have an answer.

All I knew was that I was alive. I was loved. And I was trapped in a world I didn't fully understand.

One year down, I thought as sleep started to pull me under. Let's see what the next milestone brings.

And with that, I closed my eyes and drifted off, wondering what kind of life awaited me in this strange, dangerous, beautiful world.