Sora Harugawa wasn't born into a world of curses, technique mastery, or monumental destinies. No, his first life was mundane—rooted in the predictability of modern Earth, where bills, deadlines, and societal expectations ruled. He lived in a bustling city, surrounded by skyscrapers that clawed at the sky and streets teeming with distracted faces buried in their screens. Yet, in his ordinary existence, there was one small escape: anime and manga.
Sora's room was a shrine to countless stories. Shelves lined with manga volumes, walls plastered with posters of iconic protagonists, and figurines posed mid-action. At 24 years old, he had just graduated from college with a degree that seemed more like a burden than an accomplishment. He had dreams once, vague ones about becoming a storyteller himself, but reality sank its claws into him too quickly.
"Just get through the day," he mumbled to himself each morning, as he forced his stiff body out of bed.
His job at a nondescript office offered no thrill, only an endless grind. Data entry. Calls. Unreasonable clients. A demanding boss who seemed to have forgotten the existence of compassion. Sora's weeks blended into one another—five days of work, two days of resting just enough to repeat the cycle. Evenings became his solace. That was when he lost himself in the worlds he admired, living vicariously through characters who faced impossible odds with courage and unyielding determination.
It was ironic, he thought, how much he loved watching others rise above their limitations, while he remained shackled by his own.
The turning point began as a whisper. Nothing dramatic, just subtle changes that crept into his body unnoticed. First, there was the constant exhaustion. Then, the tightness in his chest. Sora ignored it.
"I'm fine," he assured himself as he pushed through another late shift.
He wasn't. He could barely summon the energy to eat before collapsing into bed. By the time he started coughing more often—a dry, hacking sound that lingered in his lungs—he had convinced himself it was temporary. The voice in his head whispered warnings, but it was drowned by the pressure to keep moving forward.
One particularly grueling night, Sora found himself walking home late. He had stayed at the office to finish an overdue task. Rain poured from the sky, soaking him through his flimsy jacket. He clutched his briefcase as cold droplets rolled down his face, mixing with tears he didn't realize he was shedding.
In the haze of rain and sorrow, his thoughts drifted.
"I always thought I'd have more time," he mused, his voice barely audible over the storm. His legs wobbled. Fatigue clung to him like a heavy blanket.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to reflect. Life wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? Had he done something wrong? Or…was this simply the hand he had been dealt?
"If only life were like the stories I read," he murmured. "Where every trial has meaning. Where you get a chance to rewrite your fate."
The irony wasn't lost on him when his legs finally gave out beneath him. The wet pavement greeted his face, the world spinning as his heart hammered against his ribcage. People walked by, too absorbed in their own lives to notice the young man crumpled in the rain.
The last thing Sora saw was the dim glow of a streetlight above him and a fleeting thought:
"Maybe the next story will be different."
And then there was darkness.