I was born into a world I didn't know. No warning. No explanation. Just awareness. It wasn't gradual, it wasn't slow. One moment I was gone—completely, utterly gone—and the next, I was here. But not as I was.
I couldn't move properly. My body felt wrong, my limbs unresponsive. Everything was too small, too weak, like I had been stuffed into something that wasn't meant for me. My hands were tiny. My voice, when I tried to use it, came out as nothing more than a pathetic whimper.
And then there was the worst part. The thing that sent ice through my veins.
I wasn't new.
I knew things. I shouldn't have, but I did. The hum of an old TV. The weight of a controller in my hands. The smell of dust settling over stacked manga. The lingering taste of instant ramen I hadn't eaten in years.
But that world? It was gone.
I tried to understand. Tried to put the pieces together, but there was nothing to go on. No clues. No explanations. Just a new reality pressing in on me, swallowing me whole.
And I was alone in it.
I heard voices before I saw them. Some were commanding, others quiet, but all of them carried the same edge—sharp, measured, controlled.
There was a woman. Her voice was firm, like someone used to giving orders rather than comforting a child. And a man—low, rough, precise. He didn't waste words, didn't fill silence with unnecessary noise.
Neither of them felt like parents.
But they were mine.
Or at least, that's what they said.
They called me Kenjiro.
The name didn't feel like mine. It felt borrowed, like a suit that didn't fit quite right. But I took it because what else was I supposed to do?
I learned quickly that this world was not like my last one.
The streets weren't filled with the blaring horns of cars, no endless streams of people staring down at glowing phone screens. Instead, everything was… older, yet somehow advanced in a way I couldn't understand.
Buildings stood close together, connected by narrow pathways instead of roads. The people walked everywhere, their footsteps filling the air where engines should have roared. Technology existed, but it was different—screen-like devices powered by something other than electricity, mechanisms that moved without wires or batteries.
But what unsettled me the most wasn't the world itself.
It was the way people moved.
Purposeful. Silent. Watching everything, everyone.
I was born into a family that didn't live in the light.
They were called Validant, and while no one told me exactly what that meant, I wasn't an idiot. The whispers, the hushed conversations, the way everyone carried themselves—it wasn't normal. These weren't merchants, craftsmen, or office workers. They were something else.
And I was part of it now.
I wasn't raised with warmth.
There were no bedtime stories, no gentle reassurances, no unnecessary words. But I wasn't beaten, either. There was no cruelty, no outright malice. Just expectation.
From the moment I could walk, I was taught. Not how to play, not how to dream, but how to move. How to listen without making noise. How to disappear into the background. How to observe without being seen.
And I did.
Because I had already learned that lesson once before.
The world didn't care about weakness.
And neither did they.
I wasn't like the other children.
They cried when they were hungry. When they were scared. When they were left alone. I didn't. Not because I didn't feel things—because I did. The cold. The discomfort. The unfamiliarity of it all.
But crying wouldn't help. Crying wouldn't change anything.
So I stayed quiet.
And I listened.
And I learned.
The first time it happened, I was five.
I touched a wooden table. Just an ordinary surface, something I had done a thousand times before. But this time, it rotted beneath my fingertips.
Not slowly. Not over time.
Instantly.
The wood darkened, splintered, crumbled like it had existed for centuries, aging in mere seconds. I jerked my hand back, staring at the decay spreading across the surface before stopping just short of collapsing entirely.
I didn't understand.
I wasn't supposed to have anything like this. This wasn't normal.
I clenched my hand into a fist, felt something pulse beneath my skin—an unfamiliar weight, something coiled and waiting.
No one saw. No one knew.
But I did.
And something told me this wasn't a gift.
It was a curse.
The second time, I wasn't alone.
I was eight, training under the watchful eye of the woman I called Mother. She wasn't unkind, but she wasn't soft either. She didn't expect failure. She expected results.
That day, I failed.
It was a simple exercise. Footwork drills. I misstepped. Slipped. Hit the ground harder than I should have.
For a brief second, I felt… angry.
Not at her. Not at anyone.
At myself.
And in that moment, the shadows moved.
Not in a normal way—not like the shifting of light, not like something natural.
They twisted, pulling toward me like ink spilling across the floor, reaching for me, reacting to something I couldn't name.
I barely had time to process it before Mother grabbed my wrist. Her grip was firm, her expression unreadable. But there was something in her eyes.
Not a shock.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She knew.
She had always known.
I wasn't normal.
That much was clear.
And whatever this thing inside me was, it wasn't going to let me live a normal life.
I wanted to understand it.
I wanted to control it.
Because if I didn't?
It was going to control me.
And I refused to let that happen.
Not again.