You'd think that as the former sovereign of Hell, master of a thousand infernos, I'd snap my chubby fingers and — boom — mana core. Done.
Right?
Wrong.
Turns out, this baby body is basically a magic potato.
An adorable, highborn, silk-diaper-wearing potato.
The first sign something was wrong came a few weeks after my birthday, when I was trying to set a blanket on fire with the sheer force of my will.
Millie caught me glaring ferociously at my bunny-patterned quilt, tiny fists clenched, a red puff gathering between my eyebrows.
She tilted her head. "Sweetie... are you pooping?"
What?! No!
I furiously gurgled in protest, waving my arms in indignation.
She laughed—laughed!—at the Lord of Darkness.
"Oh, what a serious little face! Are we concentrating?"
Yes, woman! I am performing ancient arcane techniques older than your ancestors' dust! Have some respect!
She scooped me up and blew a raspberry on my stomach.
All my concentration scattered like demon dust in holy water.
"Well," she said brightly, "even if you're just working on your digestion, that's important too!"
Digestion?! I am trying to ignite the Fifth Element!
Still, even Millie couldn't deny that something weird was happening.
At night, when the nursery dimmed and Millie snoozed in her chair (drooling on a crochet blanket), I could feel it.
Tiny, delicate threads of mana, swirling inside my veins.
It was pathetic compared to my old power—like trying to rebuild a castle using wet sand and a baby spoon—but it was something.
Sometimes, when I concentrated really hard, a small, soft glow would appear at my fingertips.
And then promptly fizzle out with an adorable pop noise.
One night, frustrated beyond words, I attempted a fireball.
Result?
A very alarming baby sneeze.
Millie jolted awake, her hair sticking out like a startled cat's.
She rushed to my crib, half-asleep and babbling.
"Oh heavens, Fuoco, bless your heart, are you sick?! Did you catch a cold?! Oh no, the Third Wife will have my head!"
She cradled me in her arms, frantically checking my forehead.
Meanwhile, inside my head:
No, Millie, that wasn't a cold. That was an accidental burst of demonic mana compressed through nasal turbulence. Thank you very much.
She fussed over me all night, pressing cool cloths to my forehead, feeding me lukewarm milk, humming worried lullabies.
And me?
I lay there, humiliated beyond mortal comprehension.
Once, when the gods trembled at my name, I forged storms that shattered continents. Now, I am being spoon-fed mashed pears by a crying teenager.
Life comes at you fast.
Training Sessions: Baby Mode
Determined to advance my progress, I developed a rigorous mana training schedule:
06:00: Wake up. Stare at the ceiling. Contemplate existence.
07:00: Breakfast. Attempt to enchant porridge into a tactical weapon. Fail.
08:00: Mana channeling practice (in crib).
09:00: Nap, because apparently babies are fragile biological jokes.
10:00: More mana practice. Accidentally teleport a rubber duck two feet to the left.
11:00: Cry, not because of emotional weakness, but to manipulate Millie into giving me sugar water.
12:00 onward: Freestyle chaos.
And let me tell you: mana gathering as a baby is pure pain.
Every time I tried to gather mana from the surrounding environment, it felt like trying to suck an ocean through a coffee straw.
Millie often walked in on me during "training," her hands on her hips.
"Now what are we up to, little flame?"
She started calling me little flame after she noticed the warm aura that flickered around me when I got really mad.
"Are you trying to lift your blocks again?"
I narrowed my eyes, summoning every ounce of eldritch willpower I had left.
The block floated...
...wobbled...
...and crashed squarely on my own forehead.
Dignity? I don't know her.
Millie rushed over with a gasp.
"Oh nooo! Poor sweetie!"
She kissed my forehead three times and bundled me in a ridiculous amount of blankets.
"There, there. You don't have to be strong yet. You're just a baby!"
Lady, I've been strong since before your gods learned how to spell 'lightning.' Let me suffer in peace.
One afternoon, as Millie chatted with the head maid about what an "exceptionally quiet" baby I was (liars, all of them), I discovered something miraculous.
Mana threads... they didn't need to be forced.
They wanted to move, like tiny rivers searching for a path.
So I stopped shoving them and started guiding them instead.
A thin wisp of mana coiled around my stubby finger.
I nearly shrieked in triumph, but remembered: dignity.
Instead, I gurgled ominously.
Millie peeked into the crib.
"What're you doing, huh?"
I blinked innocently at her.
Just casually manipulating the fundamental energies of existence, nothing suspicious here.
She smiled so wide I thought her face might crack.
"You're really something special, Fuoco," she said, stroking my hair. "I just know you're going to grow up and make this world better."
Yeah, I thought. Or at least a little more interesting. Preferably on fire.