It wasn't shock or disbelief that flooded Nathan. Maybe if he had just woken up in this body, it would be different—but he had seen everything. The whole journey. There was no question in his mind about whether this was real, how it had happened, or where he was.
He was reborn.
No. That word didn't feel right.
Nathan didn't feel like he had gone through birth. He didn't feel like a new being. This was just another step, another phase. A continuation of the journey he had already been on. The only thing that had changed was the body he now inhabited. And even that barely clung to life.
He was running on fumes.
No matter how clear-headed he felt, how logical his thinking remained, he knew it wouldn't last. It wasn't stability keeping him together—it was sheer force of will. The moment he had time to stop—to actually process everything—he'd probably break down. Cry, drink, punch something. Maybe all at once, if given the choice.
But that wasn't his goal right now.
"So I really am an infant now."
The thought settled as he closed his eyes, focusing inward. He had done this a thousand times before—mapping out every inch of his body, memorizing its limits, its strengths, its weaknesses. It had been a necessity in his past life. And now? Now he had to do it all over again.
He started with sensation.
The cold skin of other corpses pressed against his. The soft fabric of the clothes draped over his tiny form. The still, stagnant air that carried the scent of decay—faint but undeniable. These bodies hadn't been dead for long.
His vision, though unfamiliar, was sharp. The light overhead burned vibrantly, sterile and clinical, illuminating every detail of this grotesque place. His hearing was just as precise—each shift in the air, every distant creak, his own shallow breaths.
His senses weren't just functional. They were heightened.
Sure, he had never been an infant with the mind of a forty-year-old before, but even in an unfamiliar world, he doubted newborns had this level of awareness.
"Alright. Senses intact. Perfect. Can't move or control this body yet—not surprising."
His mind was sharp, untouched, unbroken. But his body? Weak. Helpless. Trapped.
And worst of all? He needed help.
"Shit."
With nothing else to do, he continued assessing his new body. In his old world, military and medical professionals used a technique called Body Scanning Meditation—a method designed to systematically scan the body for sensations, injuries, or irregularities. It was a combination of breathing control and mindfulness, a way to map one's internal state with precision.
Nathan focused on the rhythm of his breathing—the pauses, the intensity, the duration. Each inhale felt like a cold drink on a sweltering day, crisp and invigorating. He could feel the air traveling down his throat, expanding into his lungs, filling every inch of his frail form.
"This is easier than it used to be… and way more precise," he thought. "Before, I could only vaguely sense my lungs. Now, it's like I'm looking at them from a third-person perspective."
Something had changed. Ever since he entered the void, he had been nothing but a cluster of senses, disembodied and drifting. He didn't know how long he had existed like that, but it had done something to him. His connection to his own sensations was different now—deeper, sharper, more attuned.
Nathan wasn't the type to dwell on it. Right now, all that mattered was that it worked. And in his current situation, any advantage was a gift he wouldn't question. Time passed as Nathan continued his internal inspection. Next was the heart. It felt healthy, strong, alive—nothing like what he'd expect from an infant who had been dead just moments ago. But the longer he observed, the more oddities he uncovered. On the surface, everything seemed familiar. Lungs, heart, liver, kidneys, intestines, spleen. Ten fingers, ten toes, and—yes—genitals. The human body in this world was strikingly similar to the one he had known.
Yet, there was one crucial difference. Another organ.
Just below his liver sat a black lump, its presence immediately unsettling. At first, he assumed it was necrotic tissue, something dead and rotting, but that wasn't it. He could feel it working, pulsing, shifting something—not just within his body, but around him as well.
"A new organ? In an infant?" Nathan thought. "So something in this world forced humans to evolve this. But survive what?"
If he wanted answers, he needed to understand what the organ did. Did it pump blood like a heart? Process oxygen like lungs? Maybe it produced waste like the kidneys, or functioned as a filter like the liver. He honed his awareness, directing his full focus to the foreign lump as he maintained steady, controlled breathing.
The first thing he noticed—it wasn't connected to any veins, arteries, or known tissue structures. It was independent. Yet, it still absorbed something and distributed it throughout his body. There was a clear pull and push happening inside it.
"Maybe it functions like a second liver?" He considered the idea. Maybe it was a secondary filter, processing something necessary for survival. But unlike the liver, this organ didn't respond to him—it didn't expand or contract at will. It wasn't an organ he could control.
"Then it's not like a lung. It's more like the liver." A filter. That made sense. The organ was absorbing something, processing it, then releasing it back into his body. But what exactly was it filtering? Then it hit him.
"Magic!"
It was the only major unknown he had encountered so far. The only tangible difference between this world and his own. And since he had nothing else to go on, he trusted his instincts. "So this lump is... a magic liver?" He stopped himself, shaking his head mentally. That sounded ridiculous, even for him.
"Alright, whatever. Assuming that's what it is, then it should function like a liver—pulling in magic from the surroundings, refining it, and making it usable… or at least safe for the human body." A thought struck him like a slap. Magic must be toxic. Humans here likely evolved this organ to survive its effects. The fact that the lump worked passively—constantly processing something without his control—suggested it was an ongoing, automatic process. Unlike the lungs, where one could control the intake of non-toxic oxygen, this organ had to be active all the time, continuously filtering out the magic to make it safe.
"Maybe it's like radiation," he mused, "constant, inescapable. Adapt or die."
If that was true, then understanding it was crucial. He shifted his focus back to the lump, but this time with a new perspective. He followed the flow of magic as it entered the organ, then left it—changed, purified. It was no longer raw and invasive but refined, stripped of whatever toxic element made it dangerous.
It was no longer the world's magic. It was his.