Chapter 4: Little Genius

Time was the most critical resource in any operation, and Nikolai spent his first year in this new world calculating how to buy more of it.

He was fully aware that he had been reincarnated. The conclusion had become absolute after twelve months of observation.

There were no hidden cameras, no electronic displays, and the massive stone architecture of the estate belonged to a civilization completely separate from Earth.

He was now Sigurd Di Zierghardt.

He knew that displaying abnormal traits in an unfamiliar territory was a primary tactical error. A high-level hitman survived by blending into the background, not by drawing the attention of potential adversaries.

For the first twelve months of his new existence, Nikolai did exactly that. He played the role of a standard infant, sleeping for long hours, staring blankly at the ceiling, and offering no indications that a thirty-two-year-old killer occupied the small body.

But the physical limitations of infancy eventually wore his professional patience thin.

It happened on a rainy afternoon shortly after his first birthday.

Sylvia and Aunt Mira were sitting near the massive stone hearth, discussing the logistics of the inner estate, while Sigurd was confined to a wooden playpen in the corner.

He wanted a cup of plain water. His throat was dry from the dry heat of the fireplace, and the small wooden cup he usually used sat exactly four feet out of his reach on a low table.

For ten minutes, Sigurd pointed his small finger at the table, keeping his expression neutral.

Sylvia looked over, smiled widely, and hurried to the playpen. "Oh, look at my little puppy. Are you pointing at the window? Do you want to see the rain? Let mommy show you the rain."

She lifted him up, carrying him away from the table and pressing his face against the cold iron bars of the window.

Sigurd closed his eyes. Incorrect target, he thought.

He remained silent, letting her carry him back to the playpen after a few minutes. Once back on the wooden floorboards, he pointed at the table again, specifically targeting the low table.

Aunt Mira walked over this time, inspecting the area. "Perhaps the young master wants his toy blocks, my lady. The wooden ones carved from the ash tree."

She reached into a basket, pulled out three heavy wooden blocks, and dropped them into the playpen.

One of the blocks struck Sigurd’s small foot.

Nikolai’s internal thermostat clicked. He had spent his entire previous life executing complex directives based on absolute precision. He had calibrated wind speeds across hundreds of meters and predicted security patrols down to the exact second.

The sheer operational inefficiency of this household was becoming a threat to his mental stability. He couldn’t spend another year dealing with this level of administrative incompetence just to get a drink of water.

He lowered his hand, looked directly at Aunt Mira, and spoke.

"Bring me the water cup on the table."

The sentence was delivered in a flat, even tone, completely devoid of the high-pitched modulation standard for a one-year-old child. His vocal cords were still unformed, making the words sound slightly thick, but the pronunciation of each syllable was perfectly distinct.

Aunt Mira froze mid-motion, her hand still hovering over the toy basket.

Sylvia, who had been pouring tea by the hearth, stopped immediately. The silver teapot remained tilted in her hand, sending a steady stream of hot liquid directly onto the stone floorboards.

Neither woman moved. Neither woman breathed. The silence in the chamber became absolute, broken only the sound of the tea pooling on the rock.

Sigurd stood in the center of the playpen, his dead-grey eyes moving from the maid to his mother.

.....Perhaps I miscalculated, Nikolai thought.

The cover was blown. He had broken the primary rule of espionage: he had exposed his capabilities before establishing a viable extraction route.

But the word was already out, and he couldn’t pull it back.

It took Sylvia three full seconds to drop the teapot and scramble across the floor, her face pale with an intense mix of shock and terror. "Mira... did you hear that? Tell me you heard that."

"I heard it, my lady," Mira whispered, her sharp eyes staring at Sigurd as if inspecting a rare, dangerous artifact. "The young master... he spoke in a clear voice."

Sylvia looked back at her son.

Sigurd looked back at her.

For several uncomfortable seconds, neither moved.

Then Sylvia suddenly grabbed him.

"My baby is a genius!"

Sigurd’s face disappeared against her chest before he could evade her.

"He’s a genius, Mira! Did you hear how clearly he spoke? He’s barely a year old!"

Sylvia laughed as she lifted him into the air and kissed both of his cheeks in rapid succession. "Say something else. Sigurd, say ’Mother.’ Come on, say it for Mommy."

From that single afternoon, the trajectory of Sigurd’s daily life shifted completely. He had tried to restrain himself, but the household adapted around his slip instead of punishing him.

By the time he reached his second year, the rumors had already breached the inner walls of the estate.

At two years old, Sigurd discovered that the estate was merely where his mother reside, a small part of the Zierghardt territory. The Zierghardt itself is a gigantic sprawling groups of palaces, mansions, estates etc.

The family he had been born into was the Zierghardt Clan, recognized as one of the most powerful martial families in the world.

They were an absolute power, a lineage whose influence extended across bordersthrough sheer strength and ancient blood. His reputation grew entirely without his consent.

The servants within the inner palace began calling him The Little Genius.

To Nikolai, the title was an annoyance. He wasn’t a genius; he was simply an adult with basic literacy skills who preferred reading over playing in the mud with the branch family children.

But to the maids and the low-ranking knights, a two-year-old child who didn’t cry and spent hours staring at written documents was an anomaly.

The domestic staff adored him because he required zero maintenance. He didn’t throw food, he didn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and he took care of his own basic needs the moment his physical height allowed him to reach the handles.

He is so quiet," one of the junior maids whispered one morning, thinking Sigurd was asleep on the divan in the study.

"I passed the library last night at midnight, and the young master was sitting on the stool, just turning the pages of the old historical ledgers. He didn’t even use a candle. He was just reading in the dark."