Chapter 2: "Tutorial Completed"
January 10, 1998
Los Angeles, California
California Children's Home Society
Five years.
It had been five years since Richard was "reborn," and against all odds, he was still alive, healthy… and, by all accounts, adorable. Well, adorable on the outside. Inside, he was still the same sarcastic gamer who used to spend all night playing Dark Souls and debating Star Wars theories on internet forums.
The strange thing was that, with each passing year, his adult mind and his new, childlike body seemed to be learning to coexist. By now, he had already discovered three very important things about his new life:
---
1. The orphanage wasn't as bad as he thought.
When you hear "orphanage," you think of peeling walls, cold food, and bitter caregivers. But the California Children's Home Society wasn't like that.
The building was well-kept, with freshly painted walls and murals filled with drawings made by the children themselves. Each room had neat beds, shelves of toys and books, and a window that let in the light of Los Angeles every morning.
The caregivers were the best: kind, patient, with that mix of firmness and affection that made even the most rebellious obey. Richard watched them with silent respect; he knew that most of these children had arrived there carrying invisible scars: abandonment, neglect, parents who couldn't or wouldn't care for them.
More than once, he had seen a new child arrive crying, with a plastic bag as their only possession, and within days… smile for the first time thanks to the warm atmosphere of the home.
Richard, with his adult mind, understood this better than anyone. He, too, knew what it was like to feel alone.
> "I don't have parents, I don't have a last name, I have nothing… but at least here, I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and people who care. It's not a family… but it's the closest thing."
And, somehow, that was enough. For now.
---
2. Being a genius with an IQ of 191 in a small body was… complicated.
Sometimes, Richard felt like his life was like having an RTX 5090 installed in a toaster. His brain could solve advanced calculus problems, analyze complex patterns, and remember data like a living database… but his tiny hands could barely reach the top shelf in the kitchen.
At daycare, while the other children were learning the alphabet, Richard was mentally solving differential equations and recalling quantum physics theories. So he pretended. He pretended not to know some answers, pretended to struggle with addition, pretended he wasn't secretly reading advanced textbooks.
"Richard, honey, how did you manage to spell 'hippopotamus' without help?" the caregiver asked, her eyes shining with pride.
Richard smiled innocently, his voice childlike:
"I saw it on TV."
That was a lie. He'd read it in a scientific article on animal biology he'd found at the library.
But he'd quickly learned a valuable lesson: he didn't want to attract too much attention. Not yet. He preferred to fly under the radar, accumulate knowledge, and wait for the perfect moment to take advantage of his "improved hardware."
> "I'm a supercomputer locked in a cereal box. And I can't even open a jar without help. The irony is killing me."
---
3. His legendary charisma came with side effects.
If there was one thing Steve, the Grim Reaper, didn't warn him about, it was that his sitcom-star-level charisma would be impossible to control.
The caregivers adored him. The children, even the most troubled, ended up seeking him out. He'd managed to get the most unruly kids to invite him to play hide-and-seek and the shyest ones to confide in him about their fears.
But that power came with a price: no one could hate him. And, for someone who came from an adult world, that was… uncomfortable.
There was an older boy, Thomas, who at first tried to bully him into taking his toys. Richard, in a fit of childish mischief, just looked at him with his big, innocent eyes and smiled.
Thomas looked at him… and patted him back on the head.
"You're weird… but I like you."
That was it. You tried to get angry with Richard, but you couldn't. His natural charm disarmed any conflict. And while that helped him fit in, it also scared him.
> "If people like you for something you can't control… do they like you or the ability? Well, it doesn't matter. I guess it's not so bad to be the most popular kid in the orphanage."
---
Five years after his respawn, Richard sat in the orphanage courtyard, watching the children run, play, and laugh. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the winter sun warm his face.
For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
> "My old life was constant chaos. Bills, bosses, problems... here, even though I don't have parents, I have something I never had before: peace. I can be a child again."ez. And this time… I'll do it right."
A ball rolled to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw a little girl looking at him shyly.
"Do you want to play?" she asked, hugging her teddy bear.
Richard smiled, calmly standing up.
"Sure. But I'm warning you… I'm amazing at this."
The little girl smiled and ran to the rest. Richard followed, laughing softly. Because for the first time in two lives… he wasn't alone.
---
The winter sun streamed softly through the orphanage windows, tinting the polished hallways a golden hue. The smell of toast and hot cocoa filled the air, and children's laughter mingled with the distant sound of cartoons in the common room.
For most, it was a peaceful morning. For Richard… not so much.
"Richard, don't run in the hallways!" yelled Susan, a robust woman in her forties, her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, as she watched him speed by.
Richard turned his head just enough to answer, while he dodged two children carrying stuffed animals with surgical precision.
"I'm not running, Susan! I'm… testing the structural strength of the floor! For science!"
Susan put her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes with a mixture of tiredness and affection.
"This kid is going to give me a heart attack..." she murmured, though she was secretly smiling.
Richard rounded the corner with a perfect spin, almost like a parkour stunt, and landed soundlessly in front of the playroom. From there, he could hear the bustle of children: laughter, arguments, falling blocks.
"Welcome to the jungle..." he thought, smiling.
Inside, several children were scattered around different activities:
One group was building impossible towers with colored blocks.
Others were drawing with crayons, filling sheets with doodles of dinosaurs, suns, and houses that looked like nuclear explosions.
In the corner, two children were arguing heatedly over which Power Ranger was the best.
Richard's mental spoiler: It was the red one. Always the red one. No debate.
He headed to the center of the room, where he saw Tommy, a five-year-old boy, sitting in front of a collapsed tower of blocks. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet with tears.
Richard crouched down next to him, adopting the serious pose of an anime sensei.
"Hey, mini-Godzilla, what happened here?" he asked softly, tilting his head to look him in the eye.
Tommy sniffled, pointing a trembling finger at two children standing to the side, whistling innocently and avoiding eye contact.
"They dropped it!" he hiccuped.
Richard sighed deeply, as if burdened by a thousand lost battles.
"I see..." he placed his hand on Tommy's shoulder. "Easy, little grasshopper... Sensei Richie will take care of this."
The two "accused" children looked on nervously as Richard adjusted his knuckles as if he were a professional architect about to give a master class.
"Let's see..." he murmured, picking up the blocks one by one.
In less than a minute, he rebuilt the tower, but this time he made it so stable it seemed to defy the laws of physics. The structure had perfect angles, impeccable symmetry, and a balance worthy of a NASA engineer.
Richard stepped back, crossing his arms and nodding proudly.
"There." He gently patted Tommy's little hand. "If this falls down again, it's because an earthquake is coming... and there's nothing we can do about it."
Tommy looked at him, wide-eyed, as if he'd just witnessed a miracle.
"It's the tallest tower in the entire orphanage!" he shouted, smiling through his tears.
The other children approached, forming a small circle around the structure. One of them, his mouth full of cookies, looked at him in amazement.
"How did you do that so fast?"
Richard smiled sideways, letting the light coming through the window give him an almost dramatic air.
"Minecraft. Hardcore level."
The children stared at him blankly, but that only made it funnier for him.
Tommy, now calmer, hugged him tightly. Richard felt the boy's trembling little body slowly relax, and something in his chest tightened.
> "Poor things… many of them arrived here with scars you can't see. If I can make them smile, even for a moment, it's worth it."
As the other children began to copy his design, trying to build their own impossible towers, Richard sat to the side, calmly watching them. Although he had the mind of an adult, something inside him was changing. He no longer saw these children just as fellow orphans; he saw them as little lives that deserved care, laughter, and stability.
Susan leaned out of the door, crossing her arms as she watched him.
"You know, Richard… one day, you're going to be a great big brother to everyone here."
Richard looked at her, smiled calmly, and replied,
"Nah, Susan. I'm not going to be a great brother… I'm going to be the best."
The children burst into laughter, and Tommy raised his arms as if celebrating a goal. In that moment, Richard realized something: for the first time in two lives, he felt exactly where he belonged.
—
At ten o'clock sharp, the small bell rang signaling homework time. The study hall—a large room with long desks, low shelves lined with books, and windows that let in the harsh morning light—was filled with the sound of pencils, sighs, and the occasional absentminded murmur. The smell of erasers and glue sticks floated in the air; in one corner, a bottle of markers exploded with color.
For most, it was the worst time of the day. For Richard, it was his favorite minigame: being a super genius among elementary school kids literally meant playing on the "Easy" difficulty. He sat down in his usual spot next to Lily, who was frowning at a sheet of paper covered in sums and numbers that seemed to dance.
"Okay, Lily," Richard said quietly, as if revealing a high-level secret trick. "Think of this like Pokémon."
He took out his pencil and, with one hand, drew two Pokéballs and then three small Pikachus hopping around.
Lily blinked, and for a moment, Richard saw a faint light flicker in her eyes: curiosity.
"If you have three Pikachus and you catch two more... how many Pikachus do you have?" he asked, smiling patiently at her.
Lily's shoulders relaxed; the sum was no longer a wall.
"Five!" she replied proudly, as if she'd just defeated a final boss.
"Correct." Richard high-fived her with the gentleness of someone who never wants to humiliate an apprentice. "You are now officially a level one Pokémon trainer."
Lily's smile widened, and that glow on her face was like a little energy boost for Richard. He felt something warm in his chest, a mixture of professional satisfaction—"tutorial completed"—and something softer, almost human: the pleasure of seeing someone grow.
Around him, the same dynamic was repeated. Some children approached him with simple problems—"I don't understand this subtraction"—and others with more ambitious questions—"Why is 7 x 6 42?" Richard tailored the explanation to each mind: soccer analogies for some, adventure maps for others, and when necessary, silly little drawings that caused laughter and eased the tension.
One moment that particularly intrigued him was with five-year-old Paul, who always appeared with his shoes untied and a distracted look on his face. As Richard showed him how to group the blocks for addition, he noticed that Paul avoided eye contact with the other children. Instead of hastily correcting him, Richard lowered his voice and offered an explanation as if telling him a secret.
"Look, Paul," he said. Adding is like tying shoelaces in two steps: first you cross, then you double. You do it slowly, and if you make a mistake, you try again. It's okay to take your time.
Paul clumsily replicated the gesture; his tiny fingers finally made the loop, and he looked up with a mixture of surprise and pride.
The caregivers watched the scene with a mixture of tenderness and alarm. One day, Miguel, one of the assistants, quietly remarked to Susan:
"I think that boy taught Paul derivatives."
Susan, her eyebrows curling in an expression somewhere between incredulity and amusement, muttered:
"Derivatives? Paul doesn't even know how to tie his shoes!"
When they realized this, they couldn't help but laugh. Then, they looked at Richard—calm, kind, always with a word for the children—and realized there was something truly special about that behavior: it wasn't just cold intelligence, it was affection wrapped in explanations.
Richard, for his part, enjoyed the role. It wasn't that he wanted to boast; rather, he liked the efficiency of helping. He liked seeing a furrowed brow smooth, an uncertain little voice transform into laughter. And beneath his usual sarcasm, there was something more human: a genuine desire for these children to feel less afraid.
"Okay, team," he said aloud when the question round died down. "Little competition: whoever finishes their sums first gets a dinosaur sticker!"
The children rushed forward enthusiastically, and Richard stared at the scene for a few more seconds. The light streaming through the window cast a halo over his head; for the first time in a long time, the weight of his past lives wasn't crushing him. Here, among crayons and leaves, he could be useful and not be afraid. It calmed him, and made him genuinely smile.
—
The clock struck four in the afternoon, and the California sun bathed the orphanage yard in a warm, golden light. The children's laughter filled the air as they ran, shouted, and played. The scent of freshly cut grass and the sound of a ball bouncing against the ground made the place feel like a small oasis of freedom.
For Richard, recess was sacred.
After two lifetimes of carrying responsibilities—bills, crappy jobs, breakups, death—he could now simply be a kid. There were no worries, no debts, no bosses yelling at him for late deliveries. Just him, his friends, the ball, and the open sky.
"Come on, Richie, you can't catch me!" shouted Mark, a nine-year-old boy, as he ran across the grassy field with the soccer ball tucked under his arm.
Richard smiled, feeling a spark of excitement run through his body. That smile wasn't just competitive; It was the smile of someone who, for the first time in a long time, felt free.
"Challenge accepted," he replied, lowering his voice as if he were the protagonist of a shōnen series.
What followed was a scene worthy of Haikyuu!!, Kuroko's Basket, and Blue Lock combined. Richard launched himself with a perfect stride, his body light and efficient like a finely tuned machine. The wind whipped his face, his heart beat fast, and for a moment, he felt like he was flying.
In five seconds, he caught Mark. And he didn't just catch him: he made a clean feint, dodged him with a nearly impossible turn, launched himself onto the grass, rolled like a professional acrobat, and caught the ball milliseconds before it hit the ground.
The entire yard fell silent for a moment.
"What the...?" Mark murmured, his mouth agape.
Richard sat up slowly, ball tucked under his arm, chest puffed out, and a grin from ear to ear.
"And that's how you make an ESPN-worthy highlight, ladies and gentlemen."
The other kids looked at each other, confused. None of them understood what ESPN was... but when Tommy started clapping, they all followed suit. Within seconds, the entire yard was chanting:
"Richie! Richie! Richie!"
The caretakers watched from the shade of the pergola, exchanging worried glances. Susan murmured softly, arms crossed, "That kid... he's not normal."
Miguel, the youngest assistant, nodded gravely.
"Isn't he an X-Men or something?"
Susan sighed, shaking her head, though she was smiling.
"I wish. At least then we could ask him to clean the yard with his powers."
Meanwhile, Richard continued to enjoy the moment. He didn't care about being the best, or always winning. What mattered to him was feeling alive: the sweat on his forehead, his labored breathing, the shared laughter, the echo of his friends' footsteps running alongside him.
"Another game!" Lily shouted from the other end of the field.
"Yeah, but now Richie's on the other team! Otherwise, no one ever wins!" Mark protested, still panting.
Richard raised his hands in a sign of innocence, laughing.
"Okay, okay... this time I promise not to be so humiliating."
The teams reorganized, and the game started again. This time, Richard held back... at first. But after a few minutes, his competitive instinct kicked in. In a burst, he slipped between two defenders, leaped to catch the ball, and launched it straight into the makeshift goal sandwiched between two backpacks.
A great goal.
The kids ran toward him, lifting him onto their shoulders as they yelled his name. For a moment, he felt like the whole world had disappeared: no bills, no trucks, no reincarnation office… there was only this moment.
> "Maybe dying wasn't so bad after all," he thought, as he let himself be swept away by euphoria.
That courtyard, surrounded by laughter, had become his little kingdom. And for the first time in his two lives, Richard was learning what it meant to be happy without complicated reasons.
—
Night had fallen over Los Angeles, and the orphanage was shrouded in almost complete silence. Only the faint hum of the streetlights outside and the distant chirping of a few crickets could be heard. Inside the dormitory, the only sound was the soft breathing of the other children, immersed in peaceful slumbers.
Richard, on the other hand, was awake.
He was lying in his bunk, arms crossed behind his head, watching the shadows the moon cast on the ceiling. The atmosphere was warm, but he felt a small knot in his chest, that mixture of calm and anxiety that only appears when you know your life isn't yet complete.
> "Okay... I have an IQ of 191, an athletic body, and the charisma of a leading man... and yet I'm still here. An orphanage. Just another child among dozens of abandoned children. Steve, you old bastard... this is a tutorial, right? It can't be all. This has to be the prologue."
He sighed, rolling onto his side to look at the lined beds. The blue moonlight illuminated the sleeping faces of his friends: Tommy cuddling his teddy bear, Lily curled up under the sheets, Mark snoring softly. He watched them and felt something strange: a deep affection, as if, in another life, he'd forgotten what it meant to belong to a group.
> "I could get used to this," he thought, and for the first time in a long time, the thought didn't bother him.
But at the same time, a part of him knew this wasn't all there was to it. There was something beyond those walls. Something still waiting for him.
He put a hand to his chest and let out a tired sigh.
"Maybe... someday I'll find someone. A family. A place where I truly fit in," he whispered to himself, barely audible.
He didn't know how close he was to that happening.
Because, miles away, a man with gray hair and an impeccable suit was closing a file with the name "Richard Evans" written in gold letters. His fingers trembled on the cover before he carefully put it away. His face was a mixture of guilt, sadness, and determination.
The man looked out the window, toward the horizon illuminated by the city lights, and murmured to himself:
"Soon, my grandson... soon."
Meanwhile, in the orphanage bunk, Richard stared at the ceiling again. He couldn't explain it, but something inside him told him that everything was about to change. His intuition, his instinct, his "protagonist script" were screaming at him that chapter one was truly approaching.
He clenched his fist beneath the sheet and smiled, a small, calm, and expectant smile.
> "Okay, Steve... whatever comes, I'm ready."
What he didn't know... was that his next game was about to begin.
—