NOVEL WEB Chapter 2: Born Tired
The first thing Ezrel noticed was the chandelier.
It dangled above his crib like a golden spiderweb - gaudy, glowing, and just threatening enough to make a baby like him consider reincarnating again.
There Magical crystals sparkled across the ceiling, which responded to noise by projecting dancing stars in pastel constellations.
Ezrel blinked once.
Then again.
Still there.
Still alive.
Wonderful, he thought.
Reincarnated into a magical nursery.
Looks like I still don't get to have a proper rest.
Damn i got tricked by that entity.
While contemplating how he got tricked he heard maid voice. "Look at those eyes! So calm."
"Like a sage in a baby's body," another maid whispered.
Ezrel, formerly known as Julian Everan a 48 years old diplomat, war negotiator, and professional insomniac patient, had been reborn.
Not as a cloud. Not as a mushroom. Not even as a convenient rock where no one will care about.
As a noble baby, in the most obnoxiously pampered household any world could offer.
In another there even a noble who dont want to share air with commoners.
House of Dormir.
A minor noble in this country.
Even the name sounded troublesome.
He turned his head slightly, saw expectations in maid eyes that clearly spell out "GREATNESS," and immediately closed his eyes.
The Dormirs were one of the Five Pillars .
A noble house with a reputation for producing powerful mages, brilliant tacticians, and legendary heroes.
But that was history.
Now it just a minor noble household.
Ezrel wanted nothing to do with any of it.
But no one asked the baby what he wanted.
Instead, they fussed. Constantly.
Every sniffle triggered an enchantment. Rose mist. Lullabies. Cooling spells. Warming spells. Self-fluffing pillows.
He hated it.
Once, the crib tried to rock him without asking. He kicked the edge, rolled onto the floor, and curled into the nearest towel basket.
A maid found him hours later and whispered, "He seeks lower ground... to feel humble. So profound."
No, Ezrel thought. I just want silence and warm towels.
Whenever things became too much — the noise, the attention, the pressure — he slept.
Not lightly. Not politely.
Full-faced, limp-limbed, existential retreat.
When his mother presented him with ceremonial robes lined with phoenix silk?
He closed his eyes mid-threading.
When the high priest blessed him with ancient rites and thunderous chants?
He dozed off during the "O" in "Omnipotence."
When his father placed a miniature ceremonial dagger in his crib, whispering, "May you grow into this steel with pride"?
Ezrel sucked on the sheath, rolled onto his side, and passed out.
Every time they tried to shape him, he slept.
And every time he slept, they praised him more.
"He's so calm."
"So disciplined."
"A true Dormir."
They thought it was serenity.
They thought it was depth.
But Ezrel? Ezrel was just done.
In his old life, he'd sacrificed youth, relationships, and joy chasing peace through politics.
And now he'd been reborn into a world that still wouldn't leave him alone.
At six months, things got worse.
More tutors. More rituals. One of the maids began documenting his "soulful expressions" with a floating photo orb.
The toys in his room recited Dormir family history when squeezed. The walls were enchanted to murmur his achievements as he crawled past.
"Ezrel Dormir," the wall would say softly, "stood up unassisted today. A sign of future leadership."
He curled into his towel basket again. It was the only place where no one applauded his breathing.
By the time he was ten months old, even his naps became legendary.
"Look how still he is!"
"He must be exploring the dream realm!"
"He's already meditating!"
I'm hiding, Ezrel thought, from all of you.
And then, one morning, it reached a breaking point.
He woke to find the nursery filled with robed priests and high-ranking mages. Magical glyphs danced across the floor. Someone was chanting.
"We believe the child may be awakening early," one said.
"It's extraordinary," another murmured. "Perhaps even a sign of divinity."
His mother stood proudly nearby. "He's always been special."
Ezrel looked up.
A floating relic hovered over his head.
The air pulsed with power.
They were trying to trigger his blessing.
He was ten months old.
He couldn't walk properly.
And they were trying to make him a messiah, saviour.
Ezrel blinked once.
Then, with practiced determination, he turned away from the ceremony, crawled past the shocked onlookers, and climbed into his old towel basket.
A long sigh escaped him.
He curled up, tugged the fluff against his cheek, and closed his eyes with the full weight of a man who once ended wars and now wanted nothing but a moment of peace.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
"…He's choosing his path," someone finally whispered.
A quiet sniffle echoed across the room. It wasn't Ezrel.
It was his mother, holding back proud tears. She was smiling with her eyes while crying.
They all watched in reverent silence.
Ezrel, of course, was already asleep.
When he saw thing going to be troublesome. He straight away closed his eyes and relaxing his mind.
If I keep my eyes closed long enough, maybe they'll forget I exist. Maybe I will get my peace.
They wouldn't.
They never would.