He was now three and half.
And in that time, he had developed a quiet character.
Part of it was an old habit from his past life. After his injury, he hadn't really had anyone, so he had naturally been anti-social—not in the sense that he hated people, but he had learned to rely on himself.
The other part was calculated.
He didn't want to stand out too much.
From everything he could remember, Hammerfell had some real cloak-and-dagger shit going on.
Redguards loved to talk about honor, loyalty, and warrior tradition—but there was always someone in the room willing to break the rules.
And in a world like this?
Those people were the dangerous ones.
He had learned that lesson the hard way in his last life. When you had nothing, even less than nothing was still more than you'd had before. His disability had forced him into the background. He had been overlooked, ignored—and in a way, that had been a blessing.
But here?
He was a noble. A young heir to a powerful family. That put a target on his back.
And the worst part?
He had to hold back.
It was frustrating as hell.
His mind was ready for schooling, for physical training, but no one expected that from a three and half year-old.
Instead, he was stuck with small games meant to develop coordination and basic problem-solving. Games that, to him, felt like pointless busywork.
At least those games served a purpose—helping to train reflexes, dexterity, and mental agility. Still, it wasn't enough.
But he had learned a few things.
The first?
Tamriel was massive.
The world wasn't just a handful of cities connected by small roads, filled with an endless number of bandits. No, Tamriel was a true continent, full of life, full of complexity.
In the game, the bandits had seemed to outnumber the people in the main cities.
Here?
That was an insult to reality.
Taneth was alive.
The streets were packed, not with the handful of wandering NPCs Skyrim had trained him to expect, but with hundreds—maybe thousands—of people moving through the city at all hours.
Merchants hawked their goods from beneath colorful awnings, the scent of spiced meats, dried fish, and exotic incense wafting through the air. Laborers hauled crates from docked ships, their voices calling out in the rhythmic chants of dockworkers coordinating their lifts. Children wove through the crowds, barefoot and laughing, darting between stalls as they played.
And the people—so many people.
Scribes hunched over parchment in shaded doorways, recording ledgers for merchant lords. Redguard warriors clad in flowing desert robes stood guard near the palace district, curved swords gleaming at their waists. Imperial envoys, their armor polished and pristine, moved through the streets with an air of importance, flanked by local soldiers.
The clamor of horses, carriages, and market haggling filled every street corner.
And above it all, ships loomed in the harbor.
Great vessels of Redguard, Imperial, and even Breton make bobbed in the Abecean waters, their sails stark against the deep blue sea. Taneth was a trade hub, and it showed—everywhere, people of different nations brushed shoulders, their languages mixing in a chaotic symphony of commerce.
But the city was more than just a market.
It was a fortress.
One of Hammerfell's strongest southern defenses. A city with walls of sunbaked stone, gates that could withstand sieges, and warriors trained from childhood in the art of war.
And that was the problem.
Because one day, Taneth would fall to the Aldmeri Dominion.
That was trouble for the future, he supposed.
For now?
He had maps.
And from what he had pieced together, Tamriel was a much larger, much more intricate place than the game had ever made it seem.
He was three and a half years old now.
And right now?
He was sneaking off to the library. Again.
It wasn't like he wasn't allowed in here—he just wasn't supposed to be messing with the books.
Normally, he made sure to leave before anyone found him, but the few times he had been caught, he had mastered the art of deception.
A super cute smile, a lighthearted toddler giggle, and a perfectly timed innocent blink—and just like that, all he got was an inquisitive look and a half-hearted scolding.
Because, at the end of the day, he hadn't broken anything.
Not yet.
He was currently looking at a big book of maps of Hammerfell—the kind of thing that was probably very valuable for any noble family.
A three-year-old flipping through maps might have seemed adorable to everyone else.
To him?
It was critical information.
He made it seem like he was just fascinated by the artwork, pointing at the illustrations with the wide-eyed wonder of a cheesy toddler.
But what he was really doing?
Studying.
Sure, he had Perfect Recall, but recalling something wasn't the same as comprehending it.
He could store every river, mountain range, and coastline in his memory, but that didn't mean he could navigate it in real-time.
Muscle memory applied to the mind too.
He needed to train himself to see a map and instinctively understand the terrain.
He wasn't sure if they had detailed maps of Skyrim in this book—and he sure as hell wasn't brave enough to ask.
His mother and siblings already gave him questioning glances.
He tried to act normal, to behave like a typical three-year-old, but he wasn't stupid.
They thought he was odd.
Oh well.
All of a sudden, he heard his mother, Mira, calling his name.
He sighed and closed the book.
The library wasn't the Mages' Library by any means, but there was knowledge here—waiting to be explored.
Even at his age, he understood the value of that. Books held history, strategy, and secrets. They were more than ink on parchment—they were the key to understanding the world.
He had spent weeks sneaking into the library, flipping through whatever pages he could without drawing attention.
And yet, it wasn't enough.
He needed more.
Still, he knew how to play his role. He hopped off the cushioned seat, making sure to look like an excited child rather than a studious scholar, and ran toward the doorway.
"Ada!" he called, using the Redguard word for mother—one of the few words still used that wasn't Tamrielic.
Mira met him at the entrance, arms crossed.
She was wearing a long, flowing robe of deep crimson, embroidered with golden thread along the sleeves and neckline. Her usual jewelry—delicate golden rings on her fingers and ornate bangles on her wrists—jingled softly as she moved.
Her amber-gold eyes settled on him with that look she sometimes gave him.
The one that made him feel like she could see through him.
"What were you doing?" she asked. "You weren't touching the books again, were you? If your father found out you were playing with them…"
He was ready for this.
It was time to display just a tidbit of talent. He had hidden it long enough.
He straightened a little and spoke carefully, his words clear and deliberate—not too advanced, but just enough to be impressive.
"I was not playing, Ada," he said. "I was reading. I know books are important."
Mira blinked, her expression unreadable.
"Oh."
She studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp, calculating.
She was testing him now.
"And what were you reading?"
"I was studying maps."
Mira raised an eyebrow.
You were studying?"
Her tone was soft, gentle, the way one would humor a small child playing pretend.
He inwardly sighed.
She was babying him.
But he played along, offering a bright, eager expression, the kind that made him look like a little boy trying so hard to be taken seriously.
She was a good mother—better than his first. Much better.
"Yes! Study!" he chirped, his small voice high and enthusiastic, his face lighting up in exaggerated excitement as if he had just discovered something amazing.
Mira chuckled, amusement clear in her golden eyes.
"And one day, when you are older, we shall test you," she said, her voice warm. "In the meantime, do not touch the books, okay?"
Time for the next move.
He let his shoulders droop slightly, his lower lip pushing out just a little, his eyes dropping toward the floor.
"Okay, Mother…" he mumbled, his voice small and reluctant, as if accepting a great disappointment.
Mira smiled, placing a soft hand against his cheek.
"My little star," she murmured, tilting his face back up, "come, let's go and eat, okay?"
This was it.
Time to go for it.
"Mother," he said, hesitating just enough to seem uncertain, "may I ask something?"
Mira tilted her head slightly.
"Of course, my little star."
He took a small, deliberate breath, as if gathering courage.
"Can I be tested now?" He looked up at her, eyes wide with innocent determination. "I see Saadia study and test… I studied really hard and can do it too."
Mira paused.
She didn't respond right away, her expression pensive, assessing.
She was actually thinking about it.
A moment passed.
Then, she turned, walking over to a cupboard.
He watched as she reached inside, pulling out a small wooden board and a stick of charcoal.
Success.
It was a common item used to teach children how to write—far cheaper than ink and paper.
She turned back to him, holding it out with a knowing smile.
"Okay, my little star," she said, handing him the board.
"Tell me, what have you studied?"
"Maps of Hammerfell and home!" he said excitedly.
His mother gave him a look—not of suspicion, but of curiosity.
He knew why.
He was usually quiet, reserved, watchful. But this? This was knowledge. And he wanted to show passion.
Mira's expression softened slightly.
"Okay," she said, tilting her head. "Home as in Taneth?"
She was referring to the detailed map of the city.
He nodded. "Yes, Mother."
She studied him for a long moment before finally saying,
"Alright, then. Draw me a map of our city."
Now, he was only three and a half, but that didn't mean he was helpless.
He had been training.
He wasn't stuck inside all day—he ran every chance he got when outside, but an actual workout routine? That was something he had to do in secret.
So he worked with what he had.
He had started his own modified version of the One Punch Man workout—minus the run, since he already ran every time he could.
Push-ups? He barely lifted his chest off the ground.
Sit-ups? Momentum was his best friend.
Squats? Wobbly and slow, but getting better.
It was frustrating, but he kept at it.
Even small efforts added up.
And while his overall strength wasn't anywhere close to where he wanted it, his hand coordination was already far ahead of a normal toddler's.
Of course, he hid that fact well.
Right now, he needed to hold back—just enough to impress, but not alarm.
So he sat down and drew.
The result?
A very basic map.
The outlines were clean, surprisingly neat for a child, but still had the wobbly imperfections of a three-year-old's hand.
He marked the key landmarks—the palace district, the main market, the docks, the city walls. The streets were roughly positioned, but not precise, and he left out a lot of the smaller details.
A home run was fine, no need for a grand slam.
Smiling inwardly, he handed it to his mother.
Mira studied it carefully.
She traced the lines with her fingertips, her expression unreadable.
Then, after a long moment—
"This is… this is actually very good, my little star…"
And just like that, he got access to the library.
And when his father found out?
He got a tutor.
Mission success.