REINCARNATED WITH THE BOOK OF SUPREME LAWS

Still powerless

Morning came slow, soft, warm like sunlight had forgotten urgency and decided to stretch lazily across the world. Dust floated in the golden beam spilling through the window, dancing as Rina moved about the room.

Her voice hummed again, not a tune but a habit — the sound people make when peace is fragile and they want to hold it a little tighter.

I lay wrapped on a small blanket, watching her grind herbs. Not potions, not magic — simple medicine for ordinary people. A mortar, a pestle, a bowl. In another life it would be mundane.

Here?

It was love, disguised as routine.

Aran stepped in from outside, wiping sweat and dust from his brow. He looked at me first — always first — before placing chopped wood by the door.

“He’s awake,” he said softly, like stating the weather but secretly relieved.

I blinked up at him. He smiled. I gurgled — intentionally dignified, thank you very much.

And then… I tried.

Just a small shift at first. Arm pressing down. Tiny muscles trembling. A breath, a push, a wobble — and I rolled from my back to my side.

A monumental, heroic, earth-shaking feat.

Except my arm got stuck halfway and I froze like a confused potato.

Rina gasped and hurried over.

“Oh! Did you see? Elior rolled!”

Aran blinked like he had just seen a dragon confess its feelings. “He—he did? Already?”

I squeaked in triumph. Bow before me, mortals, I declared silently.

But my body, traitor that it was, immediately flopped back like an overcooked dumpling. Dignity? Dead. Again.

They laughed, warm and bright, and I found myself smiling too — not the baby reflex kind. Something deeper. Real.

Tiny victory. Tiny life. Huge meaning.

A knock sounded at the door.

Aran's smile faded. He exchanged a glance with Rina — one of those silent adult conversations filled with worry and caution.

He opened the door.

A villager stood outside, bow in hand, quiver slung across his back. Broad shoulders, weather-worn skin. Suspicion sharpened his eyes.

“Aran,” he said curtly. “Heard wolves again last night.”

Aran nodded. “I stayed on watch. They didn’t come close.”

“They’re bold lately.” Eyes drifted toward me. “Still keeping the foundling?”

Cold word.

Foundling.

Like I was a stray animal, not a life.

Rina’s hand tightened around my tiny fingers. “He’s our son.”

The hunter’s jaw ticked. “Forest spirits don’t just abandon infants. Strange times already — beasts stirring, seasons shifting… and then a baby appears from nowhere.”

The air felt colder. For a moment, I tasted danger — not claws or fangs, but human fear and ignorance.

Powerless again. Unable to speak, to defend, to explain.

The hunter stepped back. “Just be careful. Strange things bring stranger luck.”

He left.

Aran shut the door slowly, jaw set, voice low. “We can’t hide him forever. People talk.”

Rina only lifted me higher, as if daring anyone to take me. “Let them. We know who he is.”

You don’t. Not yet.

But someday… I would earn it. Not demand it.

I blinked up at them and, with monumental effort, forced my body to roll again.

I did it. Clumsy. Shaky. But mine.

Aran knelt, awe melting his tension. “Little warrior, hmm?”

Warrior.

Not yet.

But the word planted itself in me like a seed drinking sun.

The day moved slowly. I practiced small movements.

Grip. Release. Wiggle toes. Lift head. Fail. Try again.

Pain sparkled through muscles that barely existed. My arms trembled like fragile twigs. More than once, frustration clawed at me.

In my old life, weakness meant invisibility. Here, it meant power waiting to grow.

Afternoon drifted in with warmth and village chatter outside:

Laughter.

A cart rolling.

A dog barking.

Life.

A shadow stretched across the window. Something moved beyond the fence — slow, deliberate. Not a villager.

My breath caught.

A grey shape, low and silent, gliding through tall grass.

A wolf.

Lean, ribs sharp beneath fur, eyes too intelligent. Watching the house.

Watching us.

It froze when our gazes met — predator recognizing life. Then it faded back into brush, silent as a memory.

My heart hammered hard enough to shake my limbs.

Not a threat yet. But soon.

Rina didn’t see. Aran didn’t see. But I did.

Weak body, sharp mind.

Helpless doesn’t mean blind.

Night returned. Fire crackled again. Shadows danced again. But warmth held.

As I drifted in Rina’s arms, her heartbeat steady beneath my cheek, I whispered into the quiet of my soul:

Grow.

Not desperate. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just… determined.

Every roll. Every lift. Every breath.

All steps toward standing.

Walking.

Fighting.

Becoming.

Not to rule. Not to dominate. But to protect the hands holding me now — the ones that chose me before the world ever knew my name.

Sleep tugged at me gently. Before it pulled me under, a faint glow pulsed inside my chest again — tiny, gentle, pure, as if my bloodline exhaled in approval.

Not awakening. Not yet.

A promise. Patience. Future.

I closed my eyes, clutching Rina’s shirt with my tiny fingers.

I will grow.

I will stand.

And when wolves come — beasts or men — I will not cry for help.

I will be the one who protects.

Someday.