A year had passed.
Technically.
In truth, I hadn't been fully awake until just recently.
I let my subconscious pilot this tiny baby body until it was strong enough for my conscious mind to take over. I figured it was better to let my instincts and base processes develop naturally, rather than risk forcing advanced thoughts into a half-formed brain. Smart, right?
But once I woke up—really woke up—I received everything my subconscious had recorded. Every sound. Every feeling. Every word spoken around me. All stored and passed to me like a flash drive full of baby surveillance data.
And from those memories... I learned a lot.
First, about my mother.
She was, in a word, stunning.
Raven-black hair that shimmered in the sunlight, a tall, model-esque figure that made her stand out even in public, and those eyes—bright crimson, filled with warmth, love, and strength. They were the kind of eyes that told you everything would be okay.
She was my rock.
But she was also... alone.
Apparently, the man responsible for my biological creation—my "father," though I hesitate to even use the word—bailed.
I pieced it together from one specific memory. Two days after I was born, a woman came into our hospital room. Mid-thirties, kind of sharp-faced, clearly not thrilled to be the bearer of news. I remember the tone of her voice—low, bitter, forced.
She had a message from my "dad."
And it went something like this:
"He said he's not coming back. He... he said he can't see himself raising a child. He said since you brought it—him—into this world, you can raise him."
She looked furious. At him, not at Mom.
"I'm so sorry, Yua. You deserve better than this."
Yua. That was my mother's name.
She didn't respond immediately. Just held me a little tighter and let the tears fall in silence.
But she didn't crumble.
Even through her pain, she kept moving forward.
Apparently, in this world—this planet called Terra—single mothers are treated with more dignity than on Earth. Social programs, flexible jobs, and housing options made sure people like my mom had a fighting chance.
And my mom?
She wasn't just fighting.
She was thriving.
She told me once, while cradling me during a quiet afternoon, that her employer gave her two full years off to raise me. After that, she could bring me to work with her, since her job involved Pokémon.
She didn't explain much more. Just gave me a smile and said, "You'll see soon enough, little star."
That name stuck.
She calls me her little star.
Yeah. I love her already.
But let's shift gears.
While my subconscious handled all the goo-goo-ga-ga nonsense, I stayed busy in my mindscape. And I wasn't just meditating this time.
I was trying to unlock the secrets of my system.
At first, nothing happened.
Then one day, out of nowhere, it happened.
A black fire ignited beneath my feet, swirling through the sky like ink in water. My serene mental domain darkened. Day turned to dusk. The very fabric of my mind seemed to stretch, groan, and reshape itself.
Then a glowing violet screen formed in front of me.
[System Integration Complete.]
[Welcome, Host.]
[You are now recognized as the Sole Heir of the Void Dragon.]
The voice that followed was deep, neutral, and oddly comforting. It reminded me of the calm between thunderclaps.
[This unit is the Void Dragon System. I will assist your growth, evolution, and path to ascension. However... I've taken the liberty of installing a small knowledge pack into your consciousness. Why? Because let's face it... it'd be embarrassing if my future Void Heir couldn't speak like a proper toddler.]
I snorted.
"System with sass. I like it."
[Due to Terra's unique planetary energy, children here develop faster—both physically and mentally. You, host, are now capable of using limited vocabulary to express basic thoughts. In other words... You can talk. A little.]
That... was a gift I didn't realize I missed until now.
The system faded back into dormancy after that—but it had left a seed behind. A small spark in my mind. And with that spark came an idea.
It was time to speak.
Time to connect.
That afternoon, my mother was sitting on the floor beside me, playing with a small plush of a Dratini. Her laughter was soft, genuine, as she held my tiny hands and made the toy wiggle around.
She didn't know that I—her one-year-old baby—was watching her with fully aware, intelligent eyes behind a mask of innocence.
So I decided to do it.
The most powerful word a child could ever say to their mother.
"Mama."
The sound was soft. Careful. But clear.
She froze.
The plush in her hand dropped.
Her entire body tensed like she'd just been zapped by a Thunderbolt.
And then... she slowly turned her head.
Her eyes were wide.
Mouth slightly open.
Like a Magikarp on dry land.
I blinked up at her.
Innocently.
"Mama."
The word was soft but unmistakable.
My mother froze like she'd been hit by a full-power Ice Beam.
Her eyes—those warm, glowing crimson eyes—went wide. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at me like I'd just evolved into a Charizard on the spot. I blinked up at her, doing my best innocent baby face.
Then it began.
"A-A-AH!! You just said—! You SAID it! You said Mama!"
She scooped me up with the strength of a Machoke, spinning in a dizzy, laughing circle as she squealed in excitement.
"I can't believe it!" she gasped. "You said Mama! You actually said it!"
She hugged me close, practically vibrating with happiness, bouncing on her heels while whispering the word to herself over and over.
Then her smile faltered—just a bit—and she gasped.
"Wait... that's not normal, is it? Is it?!"
She plopped me into her lap and snatched her bag off the nearby table, rifling through it like a Rapidash on espresso until she pulled out a bright yellow book titled:
"How to Raise Your Baby Future Trainer to Greatness!"
I tilted my head, mildly amused.
She flipped through the pages at rapid speed until she landed on the section about speech development.
I saw the moment her jaw dropped again.
"It says—" she pointed at the page dramatically, "—children are supposed to say their first word around a year and a half?!"
She looked at me, then back to the book, then back to me.
"But you're only just one—!"
More squealing.
This time louder.
"I have a genius baby! I knew you were going to be amazing!"
She hugged me again, then pulled out her phone and opened the video app.
"Say it again. Come on, say it again for Mama."
I gave her a tiny smirk—barely perceptible—and then reached for her, repeating it softly.
"Mama."
She squealed again, this time almost dropping the phone.
"That's it! You're gonna be so handsome when you grow up, but more importantly..."
She held me up like a prized trophy and said with absolute conviction:
"You're going to respect women. You hear me? I don't care how good-looking or talented you turn out—you're not gonna be like that man who walked out on us. No sir."
I giggled softly, which only made her squeeze me tighter.
Then she looked at the phone, shaking her head in disbelief.
"I need to call Mom later. She's going to lose her mind when she hears this... My little genius..."
Grandmother, huh? That'll be interesting. I wonder what kind of woman raised someone like this.
But I couldn't dwell on that long.
Because my mom was now holding me under the arms and dancing in place with me. Swaying, laughing, spinning—singing some little nursery rhyme that didn't quite rhyme, but I didn't care.
It was... fun.
Really fun.
Her joy was contagious, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. For the first time in two lives, I felt a kind of peace I couldn't describe.
In that moment, I made a decision.
"I'll be the best at everything. For her. No matter what it takes."
But then something popped up in the back of my mind.
A system notification.
[Void Dragon System - Update Alert]
Oh no.
I opened it with a sigh.
The voice echoed in my mind, smug and unrepentant:
[Oops~ Looks like I came online a little early, huh? My bad! Hehehe~ Good luck, Host!]
I deadpanned internally.
"You lied to me, system."
I considered being mad.
Really, I did.
But then I looked up at my mom again, her eyes sparkling like starlight as she rocked me back and forth.
And just like that... I didn't mind.
"...Mama."
Her entire face lit up again.
She scrambled to get her phone, recording as I reached for her and repeated it—again and again.
"Mama."
"Mama."
"Mama!"
Each time I said it, she got more emotional.
"I don't care if we're not rich," she whispered, clutching me to her chest. "I'll work as hard as I have to. You can become a trainer, a coordinator, a breeder, a professor—I don't care what you choose. Just know this."
She cupped my tiny cheek.
"You're going to be great. And I'll support you no matter what."