Okay, so I'm officially a walking disaster. I've just swallowed a guy, Kaito Kuroki, beginner magic swordsman, probably the last person you'd want to entrust your life to. Now I'm stuck inside his body, or rather his body fused to my mimic self, which is a confusing mashup of hard wood and soft flesh and a whole lot of what the hell am I supposed to do now? Step one: don't freak out. Step two: figure out how to move without face-planting into a wall. Spoiler alert: step two isn't going well. I flex my fingers, wait, fingers? Who knew humans had so many tiny bones in those things? The first time I tried to clench a fist, it felt like I was smashing a hundred marbles in a blender. No idea how Kaito managed to hold a sword without dropping it every two seconds. Trying to stand up is an adventure in itself. Legs wobbly like jelly, knees threatening mutiny. I swear my brain forgot how to tell my body to work. The first step nearly ended with me kissing the stone floor, a noise somewhere between a groan and a cough escaping my lips.
"This is great" I mutter.
"I'm a human chest that can't walk. Life is so generous."
The dungeon feels more oppressive when you're human shaped. The cold stone walls close in. My stomach rumbles, a nasty reminder I still want to eat something, preferably with mana and preferably not the dust bunnies collecting in the corner. Trying to recall Kaito's skills is like trying to remember someone else's password, frustrating and mostly useless. I concentrate. Mana flares inside me. A weak pulse. Not bad for a beginner. I try to push it out, hoping for a spark, a flame, something impressive. A pathetic puff of blue smoke sneezes from my palm. Fantastic.
"Great, Kaito" I mutter
"You've basically become a magic chimney."
I try again. The mana flares stronger, then fizzles out. My fingers tingle, a reminder that this body knows magic, but it's a toddler learning to crawl. The sword's heavy against my side. I grip the hilt, trying to feel out the balance, the weight. First swing is a disaster. I almost clip my own foot, and the blade clangs off the wall with a horrible screech that echoes like a banshee's scream.
"Quiet." I remind myself.
"You're supposed to be stealthy, not a one man-chest demolition crew."
But the sword feels good, solid in my hands. Not like my old human hands at all. I try a few more swings, each one less terrible than the last. By the time I manage a half-decent slash, I'm almost proud.
Memory fragments drift in, Kaito's voice from training, his best friend yelling something about focusing and some weird girl's laughter that makes my insides cringe.
"Seriously? This is the best part of your life?" I scoff.
"I've had better days as a chest."
The mental echoes are weird, like having a stranger's diary shoved into my brain. Sometimes I catch myself thinking like Kaito, hoping, scared, excited. Other times, I'm myself again, hungry and cold and sharp. It's exhausting. The worst part? I'm not sure which one of us is in control. There are moments when I wake up, so to speak and Kaito's memories have taken over, filling my head with dreams of heroism and friendship and ugh, feelings. I want to shut it all off, but it's not that simple. I'm trapped in this hybrid nightmare of flesh and wood, magic and hunger, hope and desperation. I have no idea how to walk out of it without falling flat on my face.