"You and I are both mortals, born into the human world.
Busying ourselves all day, with not a moment of leisure.
Since we are not immortals, it's hard to avoid stray thoughts.
Putting morality aside, placing profit at the center."
It wasn't unpleasant to hear—at least, not off-key singing—echoing inside a small electric scooter. The driver hummed to himself as he looked out at the dimly lit street under flickering streetlights.
Have you ever seen a city at one in the morning?
I see it every day after work, the singer thought to himself.
He had expected to spend his life as a workhorse, mindlessly grinding day after day. But unexpectedly, as he passed through a certain intersection, a blinding fog light burst forth from the left.
Following it was a low, booming horn—deep like a bull's bellow—that nearly shattered his eardrums. The searing brightness and ear-piercing sound paralyzed the driver, leaving him unable to react.
He stayed in his original riding posture, slowly turning his head to the left.
Ah... So it's the artifact of transmigration—a large truck.
That was his final realization. The impact was devastating, like a firing pin striking the primer of a shell. The small electric scooter's battery exploded instantly, sparks bursting out like fireworks.
The truck didn't stop. The location was a remote suburban road—no cameras, no passing cars, no witnesses. Dashcam footage was never going to exist.
By the time emergency services arrived, alerted by someone who'd passed the scene later, photos of the wreck had already gone viral. The fire had long since died down. All that remained was a scorched scooter frame sitting alone on the road.
In the driver's seat, a faint mark, slightly different from its surroundings, lingered as the last proof that a certain workhorse had once existed in the world.
The only one who noticed his absence was his boss. After he missed work for several days without notice and left tasks unfinished, the team leader was furious. A dismissal notice was eventually mailed to his apartment—still under a thirty-year mortgage. Months later, foreclosure agents found it and tossed it in the trash.
No one cared about the homeowner who'd vanished without a trace.
— Transmigrating —
When the hard-working man opened his eyes again, what he saw wasn't the familiar scooter dashboard. There were no truck lights, no dim streets. Instead…
Well, even the window was different.
He felt like he was sitting in a massage chair, tightly wrapped from the sides and back. Directly in front of him was an oval, slightly convex transparent shield—the only window to the outside world.
Turning his head was difficult, but he could move his eyes. He glanced around within his limited field of vision and realized he was inside a sealed space.
Then he looked through the viewing window. What he saw was pitch-black space dotted with starlight.
Is it night? he wondered.
Suddenly, a massive planet with rings and a meteor belt flashed past the window.
This… This wasn't the night sky. It was something only seen in planetariums or science fiction.
As he stared out at the enormous celestial bodies and the blinding light in the distance, he was reminded of the truck's fog lights.
He wriggled his limbs. Though tightly wrapped in cushions, he wasn't paralyzed—just restrained. He slowly freed his right hand and held it in front of him.
This… wasn't his arm. Or rather, it didn't belong to someone his age. It was plump, short, the skin smooth and shining with a soft, oily glow. It radiated health and elasticity.
This definitely isn't the body of an overworked adult. This is a child.
So… had he reincarnated? Transmigrated? Or had his soul possessed someone else's body?
Yet there were no leftover memories—no inherited thoughts from the body's original owner. He didn't even know who or what he was now.
But based on the window view, this wasn't a mystical fantasy realm or a psychedelic quantum world. It seemed to be the universe.
Still, there was no way to pinpoint exactly where. The universe is vast—it wouldn't be surprising if he were in some obscure corner of it.
Another celestial body zipped past the window. Brown and white stripes. A large red eye-like storm. It resembled the images of Jupiter he remembered.
So, am I in the Solar System?
And the earlier ringed planet—Saturn?
Judging by the order and direction, it looked like he was headed… toward Earth. Or worse—toward the Sun.
Looking around the interior, there were no rudders, no control panels. No way to steer. No visible mechanisms. Either this thing could fly itself… or it was falling uncontrollably toward the Sun.
If it was the former—great, he was going home.
If it was the latter… he'd soon be selling salted duck eggs to the underworld.
Just transmigrated and already heading to my second death?
Maybe this is the sci-fi version of the Bridge of Helplessness.
Being a true workhorse at heart, he stopped worrying about it. The lid on the coffin hadn't been nailed shut just yet—no point in panicking early.
He carefully studied his surroundings. No controls. Very little room to move. This seemed more like an escape pod than a spaceship.
Despite not looking futuristic, the cabin was surprisingly well-constructed.
Could this be like those sci-fi movies where the dead are put in space coffins?
Like a sea burial in the Space Age?
Did he get to possess this body because the original owner had died?
…Or was he actually a Saiyan? Launched to some remote planet in a baby pod?
He tried to feel for a tail. But the seat held him too tightly to check.
That reminded him of Dragon Ball. Toriyama's setting—sending a baby to conquer Earth—was clearly made to emphasize the power gap between Saiyans and humans.
But seriously—how could a baby understand its mission? A pacifier would have been more effective.
Even if the manga didn't go that far, the logic was shaky. That kind of plot only made sense in the storytelling style of decades past.
Sending a baby thousands of miles away to deal with threats? That's like a demon king sending his daughter to fight the hero. Practically inviting betrayal.
Do you really think all women are like Kicho, swept away by love and loyalty?
No. Most are like the Albert family matriarch—calculated and ambitious. Wanting to turn the Liu family's empire into the Albert family's. Their motto: "Yours is mine, and mine is still mine."
His mind overflowed with rants. Meanwhile, half of a blue planet appeared in the window, growing larger every second.
Only half was visible because the rest was facing away from the Sun. Yet even the dark side glowed—city lights blanketing the continents.
Good. At least I'm not landing in some primitive world where people eat raw meat and burn witches.
He circled the Earth, passing high-orbit satellites. In the middle of his inner rambling, he forgot to investigate who—or what—he'd become.
Then his tiny vessel plunged into Earth's atmosphere.
Outside, sparks ignited from atmospheric friction. Everything turned bright red, yet the inside remained still and comfortable. No turbulence. No G-forces. Not even a hint of discomfort.
This technology's more advanced than Earth's—no doubt.
Otherwise, he'd be dead without a spacesuit.
Still, the pod's landing wasn't elegant. It didn't hover gently down. Instead, it crash-landed, digging into the ground like a meteor strike.
Okay… so, maybe this isn't cutting-edge tech after all.
Or maybe he was right—it really was just a space coffin.
So… what am I?
He half-expected to be dragged out by intelligent monkeys, like a dystopian sci-fi twist. But to his relief, nothing like that happened.
Soon, modern humans arrived. They opened the hatch and carefully pulled him out of the pod.
The landing site was deep in the night, amidst falling snow. A group of burly men in thick white coats spoke gibberish—clearly Russian.
He wanted to say, "Bonjour, comrade." But what came out was a loud, helpless baby's wail.
As he cried, now freed from the pod's cushions, he could finally assess his body.
He wasn't a stunted dwarf.
He was, simply, a baby.
And damn… it was freezing.
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