About a year has passed since I came to this world, and I can understand the language now.
Though honestly, I had most of it figured out by the three-month mark.
“Medieval era, huh…”
Our house is a two-story wooden structure with five rooms, and the family keeps a maid.
That alone tells me we’re not scraping by.
In fact, we’re probably sitting comfortably in the wealthy tier.
Every day I watch that man called Paul training with a sword in the yard.
A knight of some kind, most likely.
If this is the medieval period, though, which part of the medieval period?
Looking at the woodwork and construction, I’d guess somewhere around the 12th century.
The design fits.
Hmm.
The 12th century.
I turned that over in my head.
What could I actually do here?
Undermine theology early and fast-track the Renaissance?
Become a merchant and chase maritime adventures?
Both completely impractical.
I gave up on the thought and started crawling toward the second floor.
The study up there had books, real books from this era.
Not that I could read them.
That was the strange part.
In my previous life I only knew languages from East Asia, but as the saying goes: even if you’ve never eaten pork, you’ve at least seen a pig run.
I recognized the common scripts of most European languages.
Yet these books held nothing familiar.
Not a single character I could place.
The words I did understand all came from overhearing Father and Mother’s daily conversations, then hunting through the books to confirm them.
That didn’t make sense.
Unless writing in the early medieval period hadn’t fully standardized yet?
I stared at the bookshelf.
Five books.
That was all it held.
I pulled one from the bottom shelf.
“Hmm…”
I lay flat on the floor and studied the pages carefully.
No matter how long I looked, I couldn’t make it out.
Right.
This was something completely different from any language I’d ever learned.
Fine.
I’d have Zenith teach me.
I closed the book and pushed myself upright, and caught a sharp pain across the top of my head.
A book had dropped from the shelf.
Thank goodness the whole thing didn’t topple over.
That would’ve ended this life of mine before it really started.
“Ow — ow — ow…”
One year old.
Getting clocked by a single book and it feels like the world is ending.
I reached back to rub my head.
From downstairs came the sound of hurried footsteps, climbing fast, getting closer, until the door to the study burst open.
Zenith.
The woman who plays the role of my mother in this world.
She took one look at me and let out a shriek.
Then she crossed the room and scooped me up in both arms.
“Rudy, are you okay?”
I nodded.
She didn’t notice.
Still flustered, Zenith carried me downstairs and set me down on the bed.
Watching how wound up she was, that little accident must genuinely be dangerous for a one-year-old.
A book to the skull could leave real damage.
Could scramble you permanently, even.
“Now hold still~” she said softly, and closed her eyes.
She placed her hand on my head.
“Just to be safe…
Sacred Power, nourishing grain — grant the strength to stand once more to those who have lost their vigor.
[Healing].”
Some kind of prayer?
A teaching from this world’s gods, maybe, recite the right words over a wound and receive divine blessing in return?
That thought didn’t survive long.
Because I noticed the faint light gathering in Zenith’s hand.
And then the pain was simply gone.
What?
“There, all better now.” Zenith smiled at me, looking pleased with herself.
“Don’t let Mama’s looks fool you, I used to be a pretty famous adventurer, you know.”
I stared at her.
Adventurer.
Healing magic.
The sword drills outside, a genuine swordsman.
What was that just now?
What did she just do?
➤ Next: Mother — Heartbreak