The Great Hall was a breathtaking sight, but Orion's attention was on the man seated at the center of the High Table. Dumbledore rose to his feet, his long silver beard tucked into his belt.
"Welcome!" he said, his voice echoing through the hall. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
He sat back down. As the students applauded, the golden plates and goblets before them magically filled with food. The feast had begun.
Ron Weasley let out a whoop of delight and began grabbing chicken legs with both hands, his face soon slick with grease. Harry piled his plate high, and even Hermione seemed impressed. Orion, however, stared at the assortment of roast beef, potatoes, and pies with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
He pulled out the ornate jar of chili paste he'd been given by his Interface. Ignoring the feast, he calmly made himself a sandwich using a few slices of bread, a bit of salad, and a generous dollop of the fiery red paste.
"What's that you're eating, Orion?" Ron asked through a mouthful of food.
"This," Orion said with the air of a connoisseur, "is an artisanal import. A very rare and precious pepper paste made from a secret family recipe."
Ron stared at the sandwich, his eyes wide. A thin line of drool trickled from the corner of his mouth. Orion rolled his eyes, took a small knife, and scraped a tiny amount of the paste onto a piece of bread for each of his new friends. "Here," he sighed. "Try some."
Hermione and Harry ate theirs cautiously, their eyes watering at the intense spice. Ron, however, looked as though he had tasted paradise. He stared at his now-empty piece of bread with a look of profound loss. Orion felt a sudden pang of pity. Nothing but potatoes and bread, he thought. This is no way to live.
As they ate, the ghosts of Hogwarts drifted through the walls, Nearly Headless Nick waving cheerfully at the Gryffindor table. Once the last of the food had vanished and been replaced by dessert, Dumbledore stood again.
"Ahem! Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered," he announced. "First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. Also, I have been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."
Orion caught the Weasley twins exchanging a guilty look.
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
A murmur went through the hall.
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" Dumbledore cried.
As the students launched into a cacophony of different tunes, Orion calmly produced a pair of enchanted earplugs from his pocket—another gift from his all-purpose Interface—and enjoyed the rest of the song in blissful silence.
Later that night, in the circular Gryffindor dormitory, the first-year boys were settling in.
"That was… a lot," Harry said, collapsing onto his bed.
Orion, meanwhile, was performing his nightly ritual. "Interface, daily check-in."
"Do you know Professor Snape, Orion?" Harry asked as he got ready for bed.
"Know him?" Orion said, tossing a pillow onto each of their beds. "I spent the entire holiday being personally 'tutored' by that greasy old dungeon bat. We're intimately acquainted."
"It's not right to talk about a professor like that," Harry said quietly.
"You say that now," Ron grumbled from his bed. "Wait 'til you've had Potions with him. Fred and George told me he takes points from Gryffindor if you so much as breathe too loudly."
Orion turned to the last boy, who had been silent all evening. "And what about you, my toad-raising friend? You're awfully quiet."
The round-faced boy blushed. "I'm Neville Longbottom."
"Longbottom, eh?" Orion mused. "Sounds sturdy. Like a battleship."
Neville looked utterly baffled.
"Alright, listen up," Orion said the next morning, standing before Harry, Ron, and Neville like a drill sergeant. "Our first class is History of Magic. Do any of you know the secret to surviving this lesson?"
They all shook their heads.
"The secret," Orion announced, "is to get a good night's—or, rather, a good morning's—sleep." He presented them each with one of the pillows from the night before. "You'll thank me later."
They arrived at the classroom to find Hermione already there, a massive textbook open on her desk. Orion took the seat next to her. As Professor Binns, the ghostly history teacher, drifted through the blackboard and began his monotonous drone, Orion promptly fluffed his pillow, placed it on the desk, and laid his head down.
"Orion!" Hermione hissed, scandalized. "What are you doing?!"
"Surviving," he mumbled into the pillow. "You'll learn."
She shot him a withering glare, but within twenty minutes, her own head began to nod. Soon, the entire class, including Hermione, was fast asleep. At the end of the lesson, as the bell chimed faintly, Orion stretched and gently nudged his neighbor.
"Wake up, Hermione. Class is over."
She woke with a start, a faint line from the pillowcase imprinted on her cheek.
Later that day, she found him loitering outside the library. "What are you doing out here?" she demanded. "Did Madam Pince kick you out of the Restricted Section?"
"Not at all," Orion said calmly. "I was just about to go ask the Headmaster for a pass."
Hermione scoffed. "As if he'd give a pass to the Restricted Section to a first-year! That's against the rules!" She flounced past him and into the library.
Orion just smiled and headed for the Headmaster's office.
"Headmaster," he said, striding in without knocking. "I require a signed pass for the Restricted Section."
Dumbledore looked up from his paperwork. "And why is that?"
"Because Madam Pince is a woman of unimpeachable integrity," Orion said smoothly. "Which is to say, she is frustratingly diligent. The books in that section are, to me, little more than bedtime stories. It's an inconvenience to have to ask for them one by one."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then scribbled his signature on a piece of parchment. "Here. But do be careful, my boy. Some of that knowledge is restricted for a very good reason."
"Of course," Orion said, pocketing the pass. "By the way, is that your official Headmaster's seal? Could I borrow it for a moment?"
The look of alarm on Dumbledore's face was priceless. "Absolutely not! Get out!"
Orion returned to the library and found Hermione hunched over a pile of books. He silently placed a large, leather-bound book titled Advanced Alchemical Transmutations on the table in front of her. Tucked inside the cover was the signed pass from Dumbledore.
Hermione stared at it, her mouth opening and closing silently. She looked from the pass to Orion, her expression one of utter disbelief. That night, she stomped into the boys' dormitory and slammed a heavy book onto the table where Orion was reading.
"How?" she demanded. "How did you get a pass to the Restricted Section when Madam Pince won't even let me look at the catalogue?"
Orion gave her a lazy, infuriating smile. "I asked nicely."
She stared at him, as if trying to puzzle out his secret. She then sat down opposite him, opened her own book, and began to read with furious concentration. A silent, intense academic battle began. Harry and Ron, caught in the crossfire of rustling pages and intense glares, exchanged a panicked look.
"You know," Harry said suddenly, "I think Scabbers is looking a bit sick. I should probably go check on him."
"Right!" said Ron, jumping to his feet. "Good thinking, Harry! A good brother supports his friend's sick rat!"
They scurried out of the room, leaving Orion and Hermione to their silent war of attrition.
Words Filler nothing to read down here
Ignore this chapter this is word filler
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"
The first sound was not a sound at all. It was a pressure wave, a deep-throated CRUMP that vibrated through the plush mattress and rattled his teeth in his skull. Ethan's eyes shot open. The air, thick with the acrid stench of cordite, tasted like dust.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Who the hell is setting off fireworks at…"
His voice trailed off. This wasn't his room.
Instead of the cracked plaster and water-stained ceiling of his cheap, old rental, he was staring up at ornate white molding. He sat bolt upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt far too narrow. The room was vast and opulent, all dark, carved mahogany and blood-red velvet curtains. Dust motes danced in the single sliver of gray light piercing the gloom. A full day off. A mythical creature for a 996 corporate drone like him, and it had been murdered in its sleep by… what?
His gaze fell upon his hands. They were impossibly small, the hands of a child, pale and without a single callus. A cold dread, slick and oily, slithered down his spine. He scrambled out of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the hard, cool wood of the floor with a soft thud.
The mirror confirmed the nightmare.
Staring back at him was his own face, but stripped of two decades of exhaustion and cynicism. He was a boy of eleven, maybe twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. The face was his, but the memory wasn't. At this age, he'd been in a spartan boarding school dormitory that smelled of floor polish and old socks, not a palace.
BOOM!
This one was closer. The floor shuddered, and the tinkling of shattered glass echoed from somewhere outside. The sound, raw and violent, pulled him forward like a fish on a line. He reached the window, his small hands fumbling with the heavy velvet of the curtains. He tugged them aside.
And his stomach tried to crawl up his throat.
What he saw wasn't a celebration. It was an open wound. The city was a panorama of jagged skeletons that were once apartment blocks, bleeding greasy black smoke into the pale morning sky. The street below was a canvas of horror: cratered asphalt, twisted metal, and still forms sprawled in sickeningly crimson stains. A jet screamed overhead, its shadow a fleeting promise of death, followed by the distant, staccato rat-tat-tat of artillery fire.
The sounds he'd mistaken for firecrackers were the percussion of a war.
A single, primal thought screamed through his mind: Run. His body jolted, ready to flee, but his brain slammed on the brakes. Run where?
He was a child, alone in a foreign city that was actively being torn apart.
Option A: Stay here. Pray a missile doesn't decide this particular gorgeous room is its final destination.
Option B: Run outside. Try to navigate a maze of rubble and shrapnel while actively being hunted.
Both paths led to a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded cylinder. He was trapped, a rat in a gilded cage, and the walls were closing in.
Just as a wave of helpless nausea crested, something flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a rectangle of cold, blue light, hovering in the air and casting an ethereal glow on his face. Stark white text materialized with a soft, electronic chime.
[The Protagonist Template Random Drawing Device is activated. You have one (1) free chance to draw. Do you choose to draw?]
[YES / NO]
There was no room for disbelief. The questions of how and why were luxuries for the living. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. His finger, trembling slightly, jabbed at the glowing [YES].
The panel dissolved into a frantic, strobing kaleidoscope of light, a silent disco celebrating his potential salvation or doom. It spun for a breathless moment before snapping back into a stable rectangle.
[Drawing complete. The Protagonist Template drawn is: SUN GOKU (DRAGON BALL WORLD, AGE 13). Do you wish to load this template?]
Hope, fierce and desperate, punched through his terror. Goku at thirteen. Post-Roshi training. The World Martial Arts Tournament. A body that could treat bullets like annoying insects.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed his finger on [YES].
[Template loading: Sun Wukong (Age 13). Duration: 1 Hour. Cooldown: 24 Hours. User will temporarily gain the template's abilities, skills, and base personality traits.]
The change was instantaneous. It wasn't a painful morphing, but a seismic shift, as if his very cells, once fragile glass, had been reforged into tempered steel. A current of pure, unadulterated power thrummed beneath his skin. At the same time, a flood of memories—not his own—cascaded into his mind: the feel of a tail, the taste of a giant fish cooked over an open fire, the satisfying crunch of a well-landed kick, the simple, unwavering loyalty to friends.
He glanced back at the mirror. His face was the same, his height unchanged. But his hair now defied gravity, a wild forest of black spikes. The thin pajamas had vanished, replaced by a bright orange martial arts gi with the "Kame" symbol emblazoned on the chest and back. A smooth, red staff was now strapped diagonally across his shoulders.
One hour. The thought was a sharp, clarifying beacon. The priority hadn't changed: find a safe place. But the method of finding it had.
He burst from the room. A quick scan confirmed the rest of the grand house was eerily empty. He didn't linger. In a blur of motion that left his old self in the dust, he was out the front door and on the street.
Gunfire was louder to the east, so he bolted west. The ground crunched under his boots as he moved with a speed that felt both alien and perfectly natural. He wasn't just running; he was flowing over the debris, a river of orange in a landscape of gray. The plan was simple: get out of the city. He could clear the warzone entirely in an hour.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, two soldiers in mismatched uniforms were locked in a desperate, clumsy struggle. Their rifles lay discarded, empty. They were grunting, swinging tired fists, their boots scraping on the rubble.
The logical part of his brain, the part that was Ethan the 996 worker, screamed at him. Turn around. This isn't your fight. You're on a clock.
But that part of him was being drowned out by a joyous, surging tide of pure excitement. His blood didn't just boil; it sang. A wide, uncontrollable grin split his face. The fear was gone, replaced by an electrifying thrill. These men weren't a threat. They were a challenge.
His body, now acting on an instinct far older and more primal than his own, coiled like a spring.
"Are you competing?" he yelled, his voice bright with an energy that didn't belong to him. "Count me in!"
Before they could even turn, he was a blur of orange. A sharp chop to the neck of the first soldier. A precise, powerful kick to the side of the second.
Thump. Thump.
Five seconds. Two bodies lay unconscious on the ground.
Ethan stood over them, the grin fading as a profound sense of dislocation washed over him. He looked at his hands, truly looked at them, and a shocking thought crystallized in his mind.
This wasn't just a power-up. It was a possession.
"Is this...?" he murmured to the smoking ruins around him. "Did I not only get his strength, but his personality, too?"