Six months have passed since my birth. Complicated.

  To sum it up, I’ve been reborn. But not just anywhere or as some animal, like some theories suggest, but as a baby.

  What are the odds of someone being reborn as a newborn? Zero, right?

  Damn. This situation might have its downsides, but I have to admit it’s not so bad. Though there’s one small inconvenience: a blonde baby clings to me like gum. Isolde.

  She’s… nice.

  Especially when she climbs on top of me while we sleep, turning us into a little baby hill, or when she follows me everywhere no matter where I go.

  I recently learned to crawl. So did she. Now I can move around with some freedom. Or rather, I could move freely if it weren’t for the ridiculously tall wooden crib that keeps us locked up like luxury prisoners.

  The world around me is… strange. Or maybe the right word is new.

  There are no computers, no decent phones. In fact, they don’t even call them phones—they’re electrophones.

  This is definitely the Victorian era.

  I confirmed it after inspecting every room. Come on, no one in the modern era uses rooms with actual Victorian decor unless they have an insane obsession with gothic romanticism. Plus, there’s my father’s suits and my mother’s dresses. They don’t look comfortable… or so I thought, until they dressed me in linen and cotton pajamas.

  Comfortable, yes. But way too loose.

  I crawl across the floor while Isolde sticks to me, as always. It’s annoying. And at the same time, it’s not. When we’re separated for too long, we both end up crying in unison, as if our bodies are programmed to stay together.

  Is that normal for twins?

  I guess so.

  My parents, Erika and Elías, are… good parents.

  They carry us, feed us. When mother breastfeeds us, she does it for both of us at the same time.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Isolde clings to her chest as if it’s her last meal in years.

  I don’t mind.

  I thought that, with my memories of my past life intact, I’d reject the idea of being breastfed. But I didn’t.

  In fact, I accepted it surprisingly well.

  I’ve just confirmed that this is definitely not my era.

  There are things I’m still struggling to process.

  Our first outing with mother was eye-opening. She carried both of us in baby carriers: me on her back and Isolde on her front. We were going shopping. Something routine. Or so I thought until I saw it.

  I’ve been reborn into a world of magic and swords.

  But not in a medieval era like the novels and anime suggest, but smack in the middle of the Victorian era.

  I confirmed it when I saw people shooting fire from their hands, wielding swords, using magically enhanced revolvers, and even applying healing. A mother healed her child’s scraped knee with a simple touch.

  Fascinating.

  Hypnotic, even.

  Isolde shared my amazement. I saw her stretch her tiny hands toward a man making a sphere of water float. Without thinking, I did the same.

  Instinctive.

  At night, mother would tell us stories of heroes. I didn’t listen. As soon as they put me to bed, I fell asleep. Not out of boredom, but because expending energy leaves me exhausted.

  Though that doesn’t stop Isolde from waking me up.

  When I’m about to sleep, she climbs on top of me. Without fail.

  I don’t hear stories of heroes, but Isolde and I have developed a particular fondness for reading. We’re not fluent yet, but we’re learning fast.

  The books on the shelf are mostly boring.

  Except for two.

  "Guide to Magic and Combat" and "The Scriptures of Paradox."

  The first one is thin, barely 200 pages.

  The second one…

  Ridiculously thick.

  I’m not exaggerating. That book easily equals four volumes of 1000 pages each.

  And yes, it was heavy.

  It almost crushed us when we pulled it off the shelf. Luckily, it only grazed us before falling to our side.

  The Guide to Magic and Combat was covered in dust. I tried to blow on it to clean it… but I just ended up spitting a bunch of drool on Isolde.

  I laughed.

  She, demonstrating superiority, blew the dust back into my face.

  She laughed.

  I have to admit it: I deserved it.

  We opened the book.

  And well… the expected: letters.

  What else was supposed to be there? Fairy tales? Recipes? Please.

  The guide contained basic information about magic and combat. Nothing surprising.

  But The Scriptures of Paradox…

  That was another story.

  It didn’t just contain information about this world, but also combat techniques. Techniques that were all too familiar.

  Karate and its variations.

  Kung Fu and all its styles.

  Jiujitsu.

  Taekwondo.

  Fencing.

  Boxing.

  Judo.

  Muay Thai.

  I recognized it all.

  Why the hell does a book from this world document disciplines from my past life with such absurd detail?

  Isolde tilted her head as she tried to understand the movements described.

  I did the same.

  Flexibility.

  Speed.

  Strength.

  Ingenuity.

  There’s no way to say this will be easy.