Ryujin Tsubasa had long stopped caring about the world.
He wasn't always like that. There had been a time when he held dreams close, when the idea of helping others gave him purpose. As a young paramedic, he rushed into danger without a second thought, believing his hands could pull people back from the brink of death. But time wears on even the brightest souls. The world, cruel and indifferent, had ground him down to a husk. The long nights, the bodies he couldn't save, the empty promises of recognition and peace—all left scars.
By the time he was 48, Ryujin had become a ghost among the living. He shuffled through each day, hunched under the gray skies of Tokyo, his back stiff with age and disappointment. He lived in a tiny apartment, stacked with old newspapers and medical journals he no longer read. A calendar hung on the wall, days crossed off in blood-red ink. Not out of habit, but ritual. A ritual of waiting.
Every morning, he would stand in front of the mirror, run a hand across the graying stubble on his face, and mutter the same words: "Another day. Let's get this over with."
On the day he died, the city was drowning in rain.
It fell relentlessly, soaking the streets and people alike. The rhythmic tapping against umbrellas and windows provided a soundtrack to the melancholy that wrapped itself around the city. His umbrella was broken—one of the spokes curled outward like a snapped rib. Still, he walked. Past convenience stores, under flickering neon signs, across puddles reflecting red tail lights.
He was on his way home from a 12-hour shift at the clinic, where he now worked. His feet ached, and his mind floated in a fog of fatigue. He didn't notice the green pedestrian signal blink to life. He stepped into the crosswalk like he always did, instinct overriding attention.
The moment felt drawn out. Suspended.
A blaring horn. The smell of burned rubber. A screech of tires.
He turned his head. A truck—massive, metal, and uncaring—barreled toward him. It had jumped the light. The driver's face was a blur, wide-eyed and helpless behind the glass.
So this is it.
He didn't scream. He didn't flinch. He simply let go.
Impact.
There was no time to think. Only pain—crushing, white-hot. His bones shattered like porcelain. His body crumpled beneath the force. The world spun. His ears rang. The pavement welcomed him like an old friend.
And then... silence.
The sound of rain faded. The city disappeared. No sirens. No voices. Just an abyss of nothingness.
When Ryujin opened his eyes—or what he thought were his eyes—everything was chaos.
Light. Sound. Wetness. Heat. Cold.
He was crying. The sound echoed around him, high-pitched and shrill. It took him a second to realize it was his own voice. Or rather, not his own.
His limbs flailed helplessly. Everything felt off. Smaller. Weaker. He tried to sit up, to scream, to demand answers, but all that came out was another wail.
He was being held.
A woman's face appeared above him. She was crying too, but her expression glowed with something he hadn't seen in years—pure joy. Her silver hair clung to her face, soaked in sweat, and her violet eyes shimmered with emotion.
"My baby boy," she whispered, voice thick with love. "Arthur."
The name rang out and branded itself into the newborn air.
Arthur. That was him now.
He tried to protest, to cling to Ryujin, but even that slipped away. His mind, still filled with fragmented memories of Tokyo, of dying under the rain, began to adjust. It resisted at first, but slowly... accepted.
He was no longer Ryujin Tsubasa.
He had died.
And now, he had been reborn.
The days passed slowly, blurred together in a haze of sleep and sensation. He began to notice details. The rough texture of the blanket. The soft humming of his mother. The wooden ceiling above him. The scent of herbal soup boiling nearby. Everything felt raw and rich. New.
He watched the woman—his mother—move through their small cottage. She was poor, by any world's standards. Their home was a one-room space with a fireplace, a table, and a small bed. But it was warm. Safe. Loved.
Sometimes she would cradle him and whisper stories. He didn't understand all the words at first—the language was different—but the tone, the feeling, the warmth... that was universal.
He began to recognize patterns. Words. Emotions.
And with each passing day, the memories of his past life became less oppressive. They were still there—sharp, heavy—but they didn't weigh him down. Not like before.
He had another chance.
Another life.
The concept fascinated and terrified him.
He began to test his new body. Moving fingers. Grasping things. Rolling over. It was frustrating at first. His mind knew what to do, but his muscles didn't cooperate. But he was patient. He had nothing but time.
When he finally managed to sit up on his own, his mother cried.
"Arthur," she beamed, scooping him into her arms. "You're strong, aren't you?"
He wanted to tell her that strength had nothing to do with it. That he had lived a lifetime before this. But all he could do was reach up and touch her cheek.
And she smiled like he'd just performed a miracle.
One night, as he lay in his makeshift crib staring at the ceiling beams, something changed.
He felt a pulse.
A warmth surged through his chest, like liquid light. It spread through his limbs, tickling his fingers and toes. It wasn't painful, but it was strange—like something deep within him was waking up.
He closed his eyes and focused.
He didn't know why. He didn't know how. But he did.
And then he felt it.
Mana.
Not the word, but the essence. A current. A tide. Flowing through him. Responding to his focus. It was like discovering an extra limb he never knew he had.
He concentrated harder. The warmth gathered at his fingertips. A faint glow sparked and died.
A thrill shot through him. Magic.
This world... was different. It had rules he hadn't begun to understand. And somehow, he was already tapping into them.
He wasn't just reborn.
He was gifted.
As weeks turned into months, Arthur's awareness grew. His body still limited him, but his mind raced ahead. He took in everything—the layout of their cottage, the sounds of animals outside, the words his mother spoke, the lullabies she sang.
Sometimes, when she thought he was asleep, she would sit by the window and cry. He didn't know why. But even in her sadness, she radiated strength.
He vowed then, in the quiet of the firelight, that he would not waste this second chance.
He would grow.
He would protect her.
And one day, he would understand why fate had given him this life.
The man who had died under the wheels of a truck was gone.
In his place stood something new.
Arthur.
Reborn.
And just beginning.