I always had this thought lingering at the edge of my mind — that whatever life or death I would face next would somehow be worse than the last. I just never imagined it would come with such raw vulnerability. A second chance, they said. But I never knew death could be this cruel — calculated, even — in choosing how to punish me.
I had been reincarnated.
Not as a king, not as a warrior, not even as a bystander in some peaceful countryside. No. I opened my eyes to a world where fluorescent lights flickered coldly above my head, where the murmur of teenage voices stabbed through my skull, and where a faint chalk scent tingled in the air.
I was in a high school.
And I wasn't just anyone. I was… vulnerable. A student to be precise.
I blinked, disoriented and trembling, trying to wrap my mind around it. My knees buckled slightly, and I had to steady myself. The world spun, and for a brief moment, I considered screaming — but what would that solve? Instead, I swallowed the knot in my throat and reminded myself: if I was going to survive this life and cheat death, I had to embrace this reality. There was no other way out. And if I wanted a shot at redemption — maybe even a spot in heaven — I had to endure this new form, this new body… this new hell.
I looked around the classroom. The walls were stained with time, the chalkboard half-erased, the windows smeared with fingerprints. The usual chaos of high school surrounded me. Teenagers whispered, others giggled, and some just sat hunched, eyes glued to their devices.
I needed to know who I was. I needed a mirror.
I stumbled into the hallway and found one near the restroom. What stared back at me wasn't the face I remembered. No. It was someone younger, thinner and more fragile. Brown eyes clouded with sadness, lips too silent, shoulders slightly hunched — the kind of posture you develop from being kicked while you're down too many times.
I was a student. A high schooler. I was… someone else.
Death really had no limits.
But it got worse.
Back in the classroom, as I tried to make sense of this new body, a loud, obnoxious laugh rang out from the back. My ears twitched in irritation. I turned — and there he was. A lanky student, eyes glued to his phone, lips twisted in the kind of cruel grin that makes your stomach churn. He kept replaying something on his screen, snorting and pointing, as if it were the funniest thing he had ever seen.
Curiosity pulled me closer as I peered over his shoulder.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was me. My former life. The one I had just left behind. He was watching a video of my death — laughing at it.
Over and over, he replayed the moment I plummeted from ten thousand feet, my body twisting through the air, desperately reaching for that safety net that wasn't quite close enough. The camera shook as I smashed into the rocky ground beside the net — my skull cracking in a splatter of dust and blood. The crowd's screams. The sirens. The end.
And this boy — this classmate of mine now — he was laughing like it was a comedy special.
I was seething, shocked and trembling. Was this the punishment death had carved out for me? To be reincarnated only to witness someone mocking my tragic end? I clenched my fists, every muscle in my body tightening. I was about to knock the smirk off his face—
But then it appeared again. The Orb.
It shimmered above the classroom in ghostly silence — swirling with blinding light and ancient energy. It hovered just long enough before descending into my chest, glowing red as it transferred memories and essence into me. My mind burned.
His name was Sharif. He was just seventeen. Quiet, thoughtful, and bright — painfully bright. But broken. His story unravelled in my mind like an old, painful film.
When he was just five, his father died. His mother — a woman carved from steel and sorrow — became the breadwinner. Working long hours, juggling multiple jobs, never showing her exhaustion, always putting her son first. Her smile never faded when Sharif came home. Her hands, though rough and blistered, always managed to serve warm food. And for her… Sharif studied hard. Not because he loved school. He hated it. But because he wanted to repay her.
But life, as always, had other plans.
Sharif was enrolled in a tuition-free special student initiative at his school — meant to help struggling families. But instead of lifting him, it painted a target on his back. The bullies saw him as weak. As poor as disposable.
"You need to grow tall, loser. Drink this milk," the bully sneered, pouring spoiled milk over his head.
The bully had alway forced him to lie to his mother — just to extract lunch money. Every coin she gave in love, they snatched away in cruelty. He never told her. He just couldn't. Her shoulders already carried too much. If she knew her son was being bullied, it would break her heart. So he suffered in silence, day after day.
Each lie to his mother was a blade to his own soul. And the bully? His name was Josh. Sharif's tormentor. A walking nightmare.
The memories tightened in my chest like a noose. And now I understood why I had been sent here. Sharif didn't just die. He gave up.
The last memory crashed into me.
"I swear… if you bully me one more time, I'll jump off the roof!" Sharif had shouted in desperation to his bully.
Josh had laughed. "You think anyone will care if you die, idiot? You better bring me my money first. If you don't, I'll beat you to death myself, you pathetic worm."
And that was it.
Sharif leapt.
He didn't leave a note. He just vanished — like smoke on a cold morning. His final thought wasn't even of himself. It was of his mother.
I stumbled backward, panting. The Orb vanished, and I was left reeling, the memories of two lives flooding me like a tidal wave.
And then, it hit me — I was Sharif now.
His life. His body. His pain.
But this time, it wouldn't end in death.
I gritted my teeth. No more trembling. No more begging. I would rewrite this story. I would survive the bully. I would cheat death. And maybe, just maybe, find peace.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
"Didn't I tell you, punk? If I don't see my money when I get back from my smoke, you're dead meat," Josh growled, looming over my desk.
The whole classroom paused. Everyone looked, but no one said a word. Fear kept them silent while cowardice made them complicit.
I looked up at him — calm. Steady.
"No," I said.
His eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
"I said no. I'm not giving you anything."
A moment of silence. A heartbeat and then the tension snapped.
He grabbed my collar and yanked me from my seat. My body remembered fear — Sharif's instincts screamed inside me. But I wasn't him. Not entirely. I had strength he never did. The old me had lived through fire, through trials, through death itself.
I broke his grip.
"I'm not scared of you anymore," I said, voice low but firm.
Josh blinked. Just for a second. The whole class held its breath.
"What? You think you're tough now?" he sneered. "Fine. Let's see how tough you really are."
He swung. I ducked. In one fluid motion, I swept his leg and slammed him against the floor. Gasps echoed. Even the teacher at the door froze.
"I'm done being your punching bag," I said, standing over him. "You want to keep coming at me? Go ahead. But next time, you better come with more than empty threats and a puff of smoke."
For the first time, Josh looked… afraid. And I? I felt alive. This wasn't just survival anymore. This was war, and I intended to win.