Chapter 2: Lessons
After Mother stopped paying much attention to me, I began practicing the first reward I had received from the system—a sword manual. It wasn't anything grand, but after browsing through it in my mind, I could confidently say one thing: if I trained in it to its limit, I might just become a force to be reckoned with.
But before that, I had to build my body. Fortunately, I still had time. Nothing terrible had happened yet; we were still young… or at least, that's what I hoped. My memories from my past life were hazy, fragmented at best.
At the very least, this wasn't a cultivation or supernatural world. Normal human strength was enough to get by—but for my plans, I needed more than just "enough."
The maids had laid me down on the Turkish carpet and, seeing me wriggling around trying to stand, didn't interfere. They simply watched with faint smiles. Unfortunately, my muscles were still underdeveloped. I could hear them trying to hold back their laughter. Well, I couldn't blame them. If I were them, I'd probably have pinched a baby's cheeks too if he were rolling around like this. Honestly, I commended their willpower in restraining themselves from kissing or cuddling me because of my overflowing cuteness.
At a distance, Mother was busy nursing Mustafa, who had his eyes closed as he suckled. She looked tired, struggling to stay awake. I tried crawling toward her bed, but no matter how much I squirmed, my fragile baby limbs and body weight made it impossible to move even an inch.
Suddenly, the system screen appeared before me.
[Choose one of the following options:]
— Attempt to crawl toward your mother — Reward: +30 Favorability with Mahidevran
— Keep staring at your mother — Reward: +1 Attribute
— Make your mother feel guilty by ignoring her — Reward: She starts paying attention to you
By now, I had begun to understand how the system worked. Based on my experience from the past year, the option with the greatest reward always carried the most risk.
Take Option 1, for example. Attempting to crawl toward my mother could result in me injuring myself. I was still far too fragile for such effort.
Option 2 was the safest—a guaranteed +1 Attribute, random but always beneficial.
Option 3? That was a definite no. Why would Mother feel guilty? She was the one who had started paying less attention to me in the first place. Besides, she now had a new toy—my younger brother—to coddle. I was only an extra here anyway, someone who would vanish from the story soon enough.
So, I chose Option 2. I kept my gaze fixed on her.
Eventually, Mother became visibly uncomfortable with my persistent stare and broke eye contact. Moments later, I heard the familiar system chime.
Ding—Reward: Attribute +1 Speed
"Baah... Baaah…" I babbled softly, raising my arms toward the maid standing nearby. She had been keeping her distance, likely afraid I might injure myself again. Understanding my gesture, she stepped forward to pick me up and gently placed me on the bed.
By now, all the maids attending to me had come to the same conclusion: I was an unusually intelligent child. I didn't cry unnecessarily, didn't throw tantrums, and obediently ate whatever I was given. Though, admittedly, I sometimes had to pretend to act like a normal baby because the system demanded it.
I laughed inwardly whenever I saw Mustafa—the "good boy"—wailing his lungs out during bath time, while changing clothes, or whenever someone tried to clean him after he soiled himself. I didn't blame him. I was the same, after all. Despite my efforts, some things were still out of my control—like my bladder and bowels. That would take time to master.
It was slightly embarrassing to be stripped naked in front of so many strange maids, but I could only close my eyes and endure it, silently wishing the moment would pass faster.
Two Years Later—1518
Now three years old, while my younger brother Mustafa was two, I had begun to speak a little and could understand the meanings of certain words. Mustafa stuck close to me like glue, which naturally led to Mother being around me more often as well. I assumed it was because children of his age preferred playing with others close to their age—and I was his only playmate.
Whenever we played, I would act like I was enjoying myself, but Mother's gaze was always watching, like a hawk eyeing its prey. She was probably afraid I might accidentally hurt Mustafa. So, I always let him win whatever game we played—not out of fear, but because I felt it was my duty as the elder brother to set an example.
When Mother wasn't around, I engaged in small acts of kindness—like sprinkling wheat for the ants. I carefully reviewed every action in my mind to ensure I didn't do anything that would upset the story's balance or make Mustafa jealous.
I was trying to nurture him into a kind-hearted person. I made a habit of respectfully greeting even the two new maids—Akile Hatun and Belkis Hatun—who had recently arrived to help take care of us. Judging by how much Mother trusted them, I assumed they had been close to her even before she became one of Şehzade Suleiman's favorites.
The first time they saw me bow my head respectfully and lower my gaze, they were flustered and tried to discourage me from doing it again.
But I didn't listen.
I also made Mustafa do it with me.
This was something Islam had taught me—to show respect to others regardless of your status. Even if someone didn't respect me, I could still respect them. That was my principle.
When Mother returned from her walk a few hours later, the two maids reported everything to her. Furious, she summoned a tutor to begin teaching me royal etiquette and proper behavior.
Normally, such lessons began at age seven, but mine started at three. Quite the irony.
As a result, Mustafa and I spent less time together, but I made sure to sneak in moments to play with him so he wouldn't feel neglected. I was also wary of Mother planting strange ideas in his head while I wasn't around.
To her surprise, I turned out to be a genius. Within a week, I had learned to write my own name using a sand slate and my index finger. I was first taught Ottoman Turkish—the language of administration. It seemed odd, considering most members of the royal family were more focused on scheming, backstabbing, and indulging in vice than handling governance.
Next, I was taught Arabic—the language of religion and law. For now, these two languages were the focus of my studies.
When Mother heard that I had learned to write so quickly and was enjoying the lessons she had ordered out of anger, she was shocked.
One day, after class, I greeted everyone I passed with a cheerful "Assalamu Alaikum"—something I already knew from before but had formally learned from my tutor. Even the palace guards, used to being ignored every day of the year, responded with joy and surprise. After all, the son of Prince Suleiman was greeting even the servants.
When Mother heard about this, she immediately summoned the tutor, assuming it was her influence. She was seconds away from striking the young woman—who couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen—when I rushed over to intervene.
Now able to walk steadily, I stood before Mother and explained everything. That it had been my own decision, not the tutor's doing. I was acting out of my own will.
Mother hesitated, her hand frozen mid-air. Then, thinking deeply, she stomped her foot in frustration and ordered the maids to take the tutor away.
I sighed. I could only imagine what she was thinking. Probably afraid that if Father returned and saw me frightened or hurt, she wouldn't be able to explain herself.
Ibrahim Uncle took me and Mustafa to play around the palace, as Mother was busy managing minor matters within Prince Suleiman's harem, and Father was occupied with overseeing the territory. It was said that every crown prince was first sent to Manisa to test the waters, and this place could also become their grave—as many princes throughout history had lost their lives here. It was less secure than the main palace, where, as a young şehzade, one only had to deal with palace troubles while the Padishah and Pashas handled the greater affairs.
"Prince Orhan, do you want to learn the sword?" Ibrahim asked as he gently held my hand, making sure I wouldn't get lost. Mustafa was in the arms of a maid following behind us.
"Yes, Uncle. And please call me Orhan when we're alone," I said, exaggerating my movements as I waved my arms in the air in the shape of a sword slice. Though it looked like a child's play, it was actually Move One from the Sword Manual: Slice.
Ibrahim stopped in his tracks, loosening his grip. I took the chance to break free.
"Prince, who told you to call me Uncle?"
"I learned from my tutor. She taught me what to call whom. Since you're my father's brother, shouldn't you be my Uncle? And isn't it right for elders to call the younger ones by name?"
I feigned innocence and put the blame on the tutor—who had already been fired after only teaching me for a week.
The maid walking behind us froze when she heard my reasoning. She was a stranger to me, and as I had resolved not to draw unnecessary attention, I let her reaction slide. Besides, I was doing this partly for young Mustafa to observe and learn from.
"Dada…" Mustafa called out, waving his arms toward me.
"But Prince, I'm not your father's blood sibling. I cannot be your uncle. And even more so, I can't call you by name in private."
"Blood sibling?" I acted like the term was new to me. Ibrahim shook his head slowly.
I could tell he was thinking, How could someone so young understand what 'blood sibling' means?
Ibrahim decided to let the matter rest for now. He would report the incident to his lord and let him decide how to address it.
Still, he couldn't deny he liked being called Uncle. It made him feel like he belonged—like he was part of the small, sacred world of his Prince.
"Here, Prince—" he started, but when I pouted and feigned offense, he quickly corrected himself in a near whisper, "Orhan… We will use these swords to fight."
The moment I gripped the hilt of the small wooden sword made just for me, I immediately sensed how much real power the Sword Manual contained. Before, I had only swung with my bare hands, so perhaps it had failed to show its true might. But now, wielding the weapon properly—not with both hands, as Ibrahim likely expected, but with one—I felt the surge of strength from my rising stats in Strength and Speed.
Ibrahim used a wooden stick to parry my strikes. He blocked them with ease, except for the first one—when I had caught him off guard.
"Orhan, you're naturally gifted. You have more strength than the average child," he praised me, continuing to block as I attacked. I could've actually landed a hit, but I chose not to. Too many eyes were watching, and showing too much talent would only alert hidden enemies.
"Liar, Uncle. If I were really strong, I would've ended the fight in one move," I said, playing the part of a child with big dreams. Mustafa kept shouting "Dada… Dada…" as he punched the air with his tiny fists. I worried he might hurt his wrist, but thankfully, the maid gently stopped him.
Ibrahim tried a sneak attack from behind, but I dodged it effortlessly. It was as if I had eyes in the back of my head—thanks to my +1 Speed Attribute.
"Haha… Orhan, you'll become a nightmare for our enemies on the battlefield. You've inherited our lord's instincts," Ibrahim Uncle said proudly, tossing aside the stick.
I walked over to the guards holding our things, handed them the small sword, then retrieved the discarded stick and handed that over as well.
"Uncle, please don't dirty the palace," I said firmly. Coming from a place where people were fined for littering, it had become second nature to pick up and return things to their proper place. Since it wasn't a bad habit, I let it persist within me.