Chapter 1: My Death and Rebirth

  In the cramped, dimly lit apartment of a forgotten apartment complex in suburban Tokyo, Goto Hajime existed—but could hardly be called living. The walls of his small room were a testament to years of withdrawal, covered in peeling wallpaper and lined with stacks of empty energy drink cans and instant ramen containers. Sunlight was a stranger here, filtered through perpetually closed curtains that had forgotten the touch of fresh air.

  Hajime was 23, though he looked older. Years of isolation and depression had etched lines of weariness into his face, his skin pale from lack of sunlight, his body soft and undefined from years of sedentary existence. His world was contained within the rectangular boundaries of computer screens and smartphone displays—a universe where he could control every interaction, where failure was just another save point to restart from.

  It hadn't always been this way. Once, Goto Hajime had been a bright-eyed child full of potential. Elementary school photos showed a smiling boy with intelligent eyes and a curious demeanor. But potential meant nothing in the face of relentless bullying.

  The torment began early. Too smart for his own good, but lacking the social skills to navigate the brutal hierarchy of Japanese school life, Hajime became an easy target. His classmates found joy in subtle cruelties—"accidentally" knocking his books down, spreading rumors, isolating him during group activities. The teachers, overwhelmed or indifferent, did nothing.

  His parents were no better. Successful professionals who had mapped out their son's life before he could walk, they saw his withdrawal not as a cry for help, but as a personal failure. Family dinners became interrogations, each missed milestone a fresh wound.

  "Why can't you be more like Tanaka-kun?" his father would ask, referencing the neighborhood's star student. "What happened to our son?"

  What happened was years of psychological warfare that broke something fundamental inside Hajime. Each criticism, each disappointed glance, each moment of social rejection pushed him further into his digital sanctuary.

  Video games became more than entertainment—they became survival. In these virtual worlds, Hajime was powerful. He was a hero. He could restart, level up, become someone else. In reality, he was invisible. A ghost in his own life, watching the world pass by from behind a screen.

  By his early twenties, the diagnosis was clear: acute social anxiety, depression, potential hikikomori syndrome. But diagnoses meant nothing to Hajime. They were just words, another layer of judgment from a world that had never understood him.

  His room was a microcosm of his existence—a carefully constructed defense mechanism. Blackout curtains blocked the outside world. Multiple monitors displayed game worlds, anime streams, and forums where he could interact without the terror of face-to-face communication. Convenience store meals, delivered food, and energy drinks sustained his body while his mind traveled to worlds where he mattered.

  His parents had long since given up. Monthly deposits into his bank account were their version of care—financial support as a substitute for emotional connection. They spoke of him in hushed, disappointed tones when they thought he couldn't hear.

  "Maybe he'll grow out of it," his mother would say.

  "He's a disappointment," his father would respond.

  But Hajime heard everything. And in those moments, he retreated further into his constructed reality, where rejection was just another game mechanic to be overcome.

  Little did he know that his greatest adventure was about to begin—not in a digital world, but in a reality far beyond his imagination.

  The fluorescent lights of the supermarket cast a harsh, unforgiving glare on the linoleum floor. Rows of instant ramen packages blurred before my eyes as I meticulously compared prices, my fingers tracing the edges of discount labels. Survival had always been about minimizing expenses—a skill honed through years of isolation and poverty.

  The first sign of trouble was a subtle shift in the air. A tension that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Then came the thunderous crash of the entrance door slamming open.

  "Everyone on the ground! NOW!"

  The masked man's voice was a razor-sharp command. Cold metal glinted in his hand—a pistol, its black barrel promising death. The cashier froze, hands hovering over the register, terror etched into every line of her face.

  Something inside me snapped. Years of bullying, of being a doormat, of watching life happen around me while I remained paralyzed—it all crystallized into a moment of pure, desperate courage.

  I moved.

  My body, weak from years of sedentary living, nonetheless propelled itself forward. Time seemed to slow. I could see every detail—the sweat beading on the gunman's forehead, the slight tremor in his hand, the fear behind his masked eyes.

  The gunshot was deafening.

  Pain exploded in my chest, a supernova of agony that took my breath away. Warm liquid—my blood—began to spread across my shirt, a crimson bloom against the cheap fabric. I could feel it now. The bullet had found its mark, punching directly into my chest cavity, mere inches from my heart.

  "Damnit, kid!" the masked man screamed. "Why would you sacrifice yourself?"

  My response was a wet, gurgling whisper. "I... I don't know."

  The floor was cold against my cheek. Blood pooled around me, warm at first, then growing cold. I could feel every drop escaping my body. The metallic smell of blood filled my nostrils. Each breath became a struggle, bubbling with blood in my lungs. My vision began to dim, but not before capturing the horrified faces of the store's occupants.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The cashier was screaming now. "Call an ambulance! Someone help him!"

  But I knew it was too late.

  My life hadn't been much, but in this moment, I felt something I'd never experienced before—purpose. Pride. The knowledge that I'd done something brave, something selfless.

  "Mom, Dad," I thought, "I hope you'd be proud of me now."

  Darkness began to consume me. Not the familiar darkness of my room, filled with game screens and takeout containers, but a profound, absolute darkness that promised transformation.

  Then, nothing.

  Until everything.

  A realm of pure consciousness. No body, no physical constraints—just pure, unbridled awareness. Before me stood Zag, the God of Rebirth, a being of impossible dimensions and infinite complexity.

  "Welcome," Zag's voice resonated directly into my consciousness, "to the space between."

  Our conversation was telepathic, a dance of pure thought and intention. Zag explained the nature of souls—recyclable, eternal, never truly destroyed. I would be reborn, granted magical abilities beyond human comprehension. Zag “ Oh, and there are others like you, Have fun now”

  My soul dissipated, transforming.

  Awareness returned, but not through traditional senses. I was a mind without a body, yet completely aware of my physical incarnation.

  "It's a boy!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

  I could perceive everything with crystal clarity. Not through eyes that could not yet focus, not through ears that could not yet distinguish sound—but through a mental landscape more vivid than any physical perception.

  My mother, Melody, her voice a mixture of joy and concern. "He's so beautiful," she whispered, "but why isn't he crying?"

  My father, Grim, his tone sharp with worry. "Is something wrong with our child?"

  I understood their concern. Newborns were supposed to cry. It was a sign of health, of life. But I was different. My consciousness was fully formed, trapped in this fragile, undeveloped body.

  With precise mental control, I manufactured a cry.

  "Waaa. Waaa."

  Relief washed over my parents. They could not know that behind this simple cry was a fully conscious mind, observing, analyzing, and remembering every single detail with supernatural clarity.

  I was blind, yet I could see everything. I was deaf, yet I heard every whisper. I was a newborn, yet my mind was ancient.

  My new life had begun.

  Time seemed to flow differently for me. While other infants experienced the world through limited sensory perception, I was a fully conscious being trapped in an underdeveloped body. Every moment was an intricate dance of observation, reflection, and calculated growth.

  This life will be different, I promised myself. No more hiding, no more cowering. I will be extraordinary.

  My mental capabilities far exceeded my physical limitations. While my body grew at a standard infant rate, my mind was a universe of complex thoughts, memories of my previous life blending with the emerging consciousness of Zen Bloodson.

  The first year was an exercise in patience and subtle manipulation. I quickly realized that my parents, Melody and Grim, were exceptional individuals. My father seemed stern, disciplined—likely a warrior or someone with military background. My mother was softer, more emotionally nuanced, her love radiating in gentle waves.

  I must not appear too advanced, I cautioned myself. Subtlety is key.

  My unique ability to perceive souls was both a blessing and a potential curse. Where others saw mere physical forms, I saw intricate energy patterns—swirling, pulsating manifestations of individual essences. My father's soul burned with a deep crimson intensity, suggesting martial prowess and unyielding determination. My mother's soul was a soft lavender, indicating compassion and nurturing energy.

  At four years old, my magical potential began to manifest. But this was no ordinary magical awakening. Each time I channeled mana, it felt like reconnecting with an old friend. The magical energy didn't just flow through me—it recognized me, as if we had a pre-existing relationship from countless lifetimes.

  "Look at my cute baby Zen!" Melody would exclaim. "Only four and able to use magic! I'm telling you, Grim, he's a prodigy in the making!"

  Her excitement was genuine, her pride palpable. Yet, beneath her words, I could sense her underlying anxiety. Parents always worry, wondering if their child will meet the immense expectations they unconsciously project.

  Grim's response was typically measured. "Hmm, it seems you are unique in your ability to use magic at such a young age. I would expect nothing less from my son."

  His words carried a weight—part compliment, part challenge. I understood immediately: in this family, excellence was not just hoped for, but expected.

  I will not disappoint, I resolved silently.

  My mental training began in earnest. While physically appearing to be a typical child, I was voraciously consuming magical knowledge. Books became my silent companions. Using my extraordinary mental perception, I could read and comprehend complex magical texts instantaneously, absorbing knowledge at a rate that would astound even the most accomplished scholars.

  Mana control became my primary focus. Unlike my previous life where I felt powerless, here I was determined to master every nuance of magical energy. I learned to sense the subtle variations in magical currents, understanding that magic was not just a skill, but a living, breathing entity with its own consciousness.

  My parents discussed potential magical affinities and tutors, their conversations a background melody to my intense internal studies.

  "Perhaps he possesses more than one magical affinity!" Melody would speculate, her excitement infectious.

  Grim, ever the pragmatist, was already planning my education. "I should teach him swordsmanship," he'd muse, "and hire a dedicated magic tutor."

  Their discussions became strategic planning sessions for my future, each word carefully considered, each suggestion a potential pathway to greatness.

  They see potential, I realized. But they have no idea of the depths of my capabilities.

  My previous life as Hajime had been defined by fear and withdrawal. Here, as Zen, I was determined to be the absolute antithesis—bold, proactive, and unapologetically powerful.

  Each night, while my physical body rested, my consciousness would expand, practicing intricate magical manipulations, exploring the vast landscapes of magical theory, preparing myself for the challenges that inevitably awaited.

  The journey of Zen Bloodson was just beginning. And this time, I was ready for whatever challenges the universe might present.