Chapter 1 - I woke up as Mahito but I'm trapped in the body of FRAUDSSEI BUMDOU?! AAWWW HELL NAHHH JIGSAW!!!

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Wuz good, I'm back bruzzahs. In the Kenjussy we thrust 🙏.

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~Prologue~

~Daniel POV~

My oldest memory? I was five. Sitting on the floor in our dim living room, holding what was supposed to be my baby brother. Except he wasn't breathing. Wasn't crying. Wasn't… anything. Just a tiny, cold lump. Barely formed. Skin like wet tissue paper. He never even got the chance to live. I just sat there, staring. Holding him. Studying him. Something clicked then—a quiet, curious thing that liked the look of skin and the way bodies folded. That moment, alone with the silence and the small dead thing, is probably where my whole weird obsession started.

I didn't have words for it as a kid. I had interest. Curiosity with blood on it. First experiment: Lil Timmy, a hamster. I stole scissors from my mom's art kit and cut him open on the kitchen table. Not because I wanted to be cruel—I wanted to see what made him move. I giggled, because grief and I were strangers then. Lil Timmy didn't answer questions, so I got another one. Then another. A kitten. Puppies. A cat. A dog. Each time I learned a little more. My hands got steadier. My cuts got cleaner. It stopped being random and became practice. 

My parents noticed. Of course. They did the usual: called it trauma, wrapped me in hugs, bought me toys, fed me attention like bandages. "He's grieving," they said. They wanted the easy fix—a smiling kid—and so they pretended everything was fine if I smiled. They were soft. They wanted comfort, not answers.

Then they brought home a new kid. A replacement. Adopted after another miscarriage. A "little brother." From the moment I saw him, I hated him. He was wrong. Weak. Inferior. A bug that crawled where it shouldn't. The world somehow decided this pale, clumsy thing deserved the sun while I got the shadow. They doted on him like he was a prize. Teachers fawned. Classmates gravitated toward him. Even strangers seemed to find him adorable. I watched it all, the slow parade of attention that should have been mine.

Why him? I asked that a lot. Why not me?

Why? Why?! Why?! Why?!! WHY?!!!

I started small and slow. Behind closed doors, I made sure he knew his place. A hit here. A shove there. A flash of a knife when he thought about telling on me. That usually shut him up. At school, I learned other tricks. Rip his homework. Unplug his alarm. Hide his shoes. Spill stuff on him in public. Tiny things that looked like accidents unless you paid attention. I planted rumors. I twisted moments so that when he defended himself he sounded like a liar. I turned teachers against him. I chased away his friends. I was careful about it; cruelty is a craft, remember.

Then I went further. I pushed the right guy a little too hard and he did something permanent. He killed himself. At the funeral, while everyone sobbed, I almost laughed. Not because I was heartless (well…), but because the scene was so perfectly staged: the sheer grief etched in his face as my brother crumpled into defeat, people pretending they'd seen it coming. I studied his face then, the rawness, and felt something bright and wrong light up in me.

Teenage years sharpened the edges. I learned to ruin someone's life without leaving fingerprints. I stayed the model student—top grades, awards, smiles—while he became the scapegoat. Teachers believed me. Parents praised me. I got better at breaking him without showing the blade.

Then he found a girlfriend. Of course he did; he always drew pity like a magnet. That was the moment I went long. I played the charming, understanding older brother. Showed her the version of me I kept polished: confidence, humor, the soft easy sympathy that broken people mistake for safety. It didn't take long. She leaned in. She texted me. I let it build because tearing down a dream is a slow, exquisite thing. When I finally revealed the truth—when I sent him images with the caption "she's busy lil bro"—he cracked. He left. Ran away one night and vanished. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.

College was clean. Medicine made sense—if you love anatomy, the operating room is a weird sort of temple. Precision. Control. A license to open things up for a living. I worked hard. Top of the class. Residency. Marriage. A daughter. Papers. Talks. Awards. Fame. It all looked perfect on paper. People clapped. They called me extraordinary. It fed the ego. It didn't fix the particular void in my chest, though. The applause felt thin. The only times I'd ever felt truly alive were when I was covered in the messy truth of flesh and curiosity—or when I was making someone else feel like nothing.

Then one drunken night it came back like a bad song. I was staggering home from a work dinner, suit half undone, whiskey in my stomach. A man slept in an alley, wrapped in a piss-stained blanket. For some reason that should have been small and forgettable, I crouched down. Before I could talk myself out of it, I had my hands in him. His guts were warm. My palms were slick. The memory of Lil Timmy and all the rest flooded back like a heady perfume. It wasn't a mistake. It was a memory recall, a switch flipping.

Why pretend anymore? I asked myself that night. Why suppress the thing that made the world make sense?

So I stopped pretending. My first canvas was my own home. Wife and daughter, sedated and quiet, laid out on slabs. I took them apart and put them together again. Grafted, stitched, fused. Anatomy felt like music under my hands. I braided their muscles and skin until they were one grotesque, perfect thing. I smiled for the first time in years— a smile that reached everywhere, not just the surface.

From then on I lived two lives. On paper: the brilliant, grieving surgeon who'd "lost" his family in a tragic accident. In secret: the artist with a gallery no one suspected. I made rituals: one night a month, a subject selected with the patience of a curator. I stalked people—outines, fears, loves—because knowing the small things is how you break the big ones. I don't go after kids or pregnant women. I have lines, I may be a cruel sadistic bastard but I'm not a monster.

My method improved. Early specimens died because I rushed. Mistakes taught me protocols and preservation. Most of my work now breathes. Sometimes it screams. Sometimes it stirs, half-aware in arrangements I made. I buy animals off the darker channels too—cats, dogs, birds, a few exotics, endangered species—and experiment. Blend anatomy. Mix forms. Call it evolution if you want. I call it learning.

Five years of this and I left no trail. No prints. No suspects. No pattern the police could pin down. They called me a phantom, a curse, a monster. Those labels make for lively tabloids. They didn't find me because I was careful, and because I curated my public appearances to cover my private crimes.

Then I went home to visit my parents. I hadn't seen them in years. I expected perhaps awkward silence, maybe a cold shoulder. Instead I walked into their living room and there were three of them on the couch: my mother, my father, and that adopted brother. He'd pulled himself together. Detective now. A uniform, good posture, sharp eyes. They were laughing, comfortable, like nothing had been taken. It felt like spit in my face.

I could have killed them. It would've been clean. Professional. But I still loved my parents, I couldn't do that to family. But for him? Killing is final and tidy, and I don't like tidy. I wanted something more delicious: to make him remember, to make him know who I was and still be helpless.

So I stalked him. Six months of watching, learning routes, habits, friends. Then a month of preparation. I started with the small torments— scratches on his car, popped tires, packages ruined, his power cutting out mid-game, mukbang-level phone spam blasting porn sounds in public, pillows kept warm as if someone had just left them, damp socks, trash bags slit so "trash soup" splashes his shoes. Things that look like incidents alone but become misery together. I trolled his online life. Bought up his favorite things. Threw his games. Made sure his safe places weren't.

Then I escalated. I removed people who made his world livable: the taco guy who nodded hello, the mechanic who fixed his car, the neighbor who watered his plants. Some I killed and turned into exhibits; some I nudged away until they fell. He noticed. He started putting the pieces together. Paranoia set in. He walked like someone hunted. And then the police came to my door.

No exit. SWAT and lights and shouting. I chose the loud option. I opened fire. I had weapons bought with money people thought paid for philanthropy. I took out dozens. Then his shots found me. My little brother—the kid I'd tormented—shot me. I stabbed him in return. Took down his partner. Raised my knife for the finishing cut and then… I didn't. Looking at him through the chaos—breathing hard, eyes furious, determined— something like respect crept in. Family is a strange thing. I put the knife down.

And so I settled with just giving him a parting gift before I die. I made him watch as I raped his partner right in front of his eyes. I knew that they had feelings for each other and were practically already couples with the amounts of time they had hung out with each other off duty, it's just that they haven't made it official yet. I also knew that it wasn't her safe day for her today and so I gleefully came inside her. I don't care wether they take care of it or not I just wanted to make my brother remember that I am better.

After I was done, I made my way back to my room to lie down and close my eyes. But then I got a notification from webnovel about Naohiro x Gojo updating so I got a second wind to goon and I white splashed 348 times before succumbing to my injuries and dying.

And that... is when I suddenly woke up as Mahito in this world.

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~D@niel/Mahito POV~

The next moment I opened my eyes, all I could see was pitch-black darkness. Not a single hint of light, not even the faint glow you get when your eyes are adjusting in a dark room. Yet somehow, I could still see myself clear as day.

I looked down and realized I was standing on a surface of shallow water, black as ink, rippling just around my ankles. It wasn't cold, not warm either—just neutral, like it didn't exist to comfort or harm. My reflection swam up at me through those ripples, and when I caught a proper glimpse, my stomach dropped.

A naked figure stared back: long, grayish-blue hair that hung unevenly down my shoulders, androgynous features that didn't quite commit to male or female, stitch marks carved across my face and winding their way along my body like grotesque seams, and those eyes—those hollow, mocking, homophobic eyes that didn't hold empathy, only disdain.

It hit me. My jaw went slack.

"Holy shit! Did I… did I just get reincarnated as Mahito?!"

I stood there gawking at myself, caught between horror and disbelief.

"But wait—hold the fuck up. Isn't reincarnation supposed to be for good people? Or, like, some unlucky schmuck who got flattened by a truck? Did the Goon Gods really look down and think, 'Yep, this psycho's got potential'? And why Mahito of all people? I wanted to be my GOAT, Gojo!"

I groaned, dragging my hands down my stitched-up face. "Ugh, whatever. I never cared much for my old name anyway. Screw it. Mahito it is."

With that, I let out a long sigh and tried to collect myself. I turned slowly in a circle, scanning the endless void around me, but it was just darkness stretching forever. Not a wall, not a landmark, not even the illusion of depth—just infinite black.

"Where the fuck am I, anyways?" I muttered.

I started walking in a random direction, the water rippling softly beneath each step. A minute passed, maybe more—it was impossible to measure time here. Nothing changed. No sound, no horizon. Just me, the water, and the dark.

So I figured: screw it, if the environment won't change, I'll make something happen.

I focused on the strange energy humming through me, rolling and twisting like a second bloodstream.

"This… this has to be cursed energy."

It wasn't just there—it was alive. It felt thick and heavy, like smoke pressed into liquid, yet sharp enough to cut. It buzzed under my skin like static electricity, prickling my nerves, shifting between burning heat and icy cold depending on how I pulled at it. At times it was suffocating, weighing down on my chest like a lead plate, then suddenly it would surge up and make my veins feel like they were bursting with adrenaline. I could taste it in the back of my throat, metallic and bitter, like pennies soaked in ash.

Grinning, I let it flow, then reached deeper, calling on the instinct that was branded into this new body. Idle Transfiguration.

It was like flexing a muscle I never knew I had, but one my body already understood. In an instant, the knowledge bloomed inside me—I could reshape myself however I wanted. Anything I could imagine, anything I knew from memory or instinct, my flesh would obey.

My mind lit up with possibilities: years of studying anatomy, dissecting forms, experimenting on bodies, making my artistic grafted humans and animals, admiring monsters from old horror flicks, creatures from games, anime, myth, you name it. Every single bit of knowledge I'd ever had suddenly became raw material for my canvas—my own body.

Without hesitation, I gave it a test run.

The water rippled violently as my form shifted. My skin split and restitched itself seamlessly, bones stretched and realigned with an audible crackle. I looked down—and a large, sharp-toothed grin split my face.

Towering there between my legs was a twenty-inch cock covered in stitch marks, standing proud like some obscene banner.

I barked out a laugh. "The shit I could do with this! Hehehehe~!"

Of course, I had to test it.

I made it bend and curl like a finger, twist around itself like a snake, extend until it was absurdly long, then snap back and shrink until it was barely there. I thickened it, thinned it, hardened it to stone, sharpened the end into a spearhead. I sprouted spikes and thorns across its length, then had it lash out like a whip, crackling against the water's surface with a smack. I made it wriggle like a grotesque worm, coil like a rope, and finally, with an extra push of cursed energy, I spun it so fast it whirred like a helicopter blade.

The updraft was strong enough to nearly lift me off my feet. The water splashed wildly as I teetered, then finally let it stop before I actually took flight.

Breathing hard from laughter, I shook my head. "Alright, alright… enough fucking around. Let's speed this shit up."

The grotesque experiment sank back into my body, stitch lines sealing shut as if it had never been there. My skin rippled, shifting into Mahito's signature stitched outfit. My grin didn't fade.

Now it was time to really test my limits.

Then I made my legs digitigrade, shaped like a raptor's—packed with dense muscles that stole traits from a cheetah and took inspiration from xenomorph runners and Cheetu from HxH. Tendons re-tuned, bones sliding into new angles; the whole lower half of me reassembled into something built for speed.

Next step, I accelerated—instantly. Muscles contracted and released so explosively they felt like jets of force with every step, launching me forward. One second I was standing, the next I was moving at near-top speed, everything a blur. I pushed it further, tightened the fibers until each stride was a concussive punch into the ground, and for a beat it felt like I was traveling faster than a bullet train—wind howling, darkness tearing into streaks behind me.

After a minute of that manic running two lights blinked up ahead: one small, golden and faint like a lonely emberspark, the other red and green—a gauntlet, red as bad blood, with a green gem glowing on the back of its hand. A faint reddish-green line arced between the gauntlet and the golden thing, like a wired pulse.

I slowed and crept closer. Up close the shapes resolved: one was a golden baby and the other a red gauntlet, the green gem on the back of it's hand throbbing like a heartbeat in a cage. The thin line between them hummed with intent.

"Huh? What the fuck is this shit?" I said, squinting. I peered at the baby's face and made a face. "Ugly ass. Anyone who says babies are cute is lying. Blegh."

Then light ripped down out of nowhere and everything flipped. The darkness tore like film and a scene slapped into place: a tired brown-haired woman on a hospital bed, the sterile smell and the beep of monitors ghosting through for a second. A doctor's voice announced, "It's a boy!" The woman, exhausted and smiling like she'd been carried over the finish line, croaked, "My little baby boy! Your name will be Issei, Issei Hyodou. Isn't it a good name, hon?"

Blank stare. Then anger—hot and immediate. "FUCK IS THIS BULLSHIT! WHY THE HELL AM I IN THIS FUCKING BRAT, HUH?! NO! AM I GONNA HAVE TO BE STUCK INSIDE THIS FUCK-ASS BABY'S BODY FOR MY SECOND CHANCE AT LIFE?! HELL NAH! I'LL KILL THIS STUPID LIL BITCH RIGHT HERE! RIGHT NOW!"

So I tried. For what felt like hours in my head I hovered over that golden baby—whatever the hell it was, probably the protagonist's soul in this dumbass ecchi world—and I slammed Idle Transfiguration at it. I tried to make it pop, tried to tear it open, tried to twist its shape into a pretzel. Nada. Nothing budged. Its shape didn't give. It sat there like an anchor.

Slowly the shallow, black water under my feet nearly dried up—the ground of that place collapsing back into memory—and it hit me: this place was my innate domain; the water was my cursed energy made visible. I sat down. Not defeated, just waiting, letting the anger cool into something slower and more dangerous.

I stared at the baby and rubbed its head with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "I'll get out of this place one day," I said, low and patient. "And when I do, I'll make sure you experience suffering even hell can't conjure, brat. When I get out, I will murder, destroy, and rape everything you've ever known and loved wether in soul or body, maybe even both. You will become my clown, my plaything, my punching bag. Your every pain and despair will be my nourishment. In exchange I will touch and ravage every soul until I turn the whole world into my canvas—and then, and only then, will I grant you the release you'll so desperately beg me for, and turn you into my final masterpiece. THAT is my PROMISE to you. THAT is my VOW."

The words hung there, heavy and ridiculous and perfect. The moment I said them, something answered—a pact was made . My cursed energy spiked; Idle Transfiguration hummed louder, like an engine catching. I felt my output jump and the edges of my very potential reconfigure, open up, and evolve astronomically. The boost hit hard and sudden, the kind of power you taste at the back of your teeth.

An unnaturally wide grin split my face. I kept caressing the baby's head, the motion slow and deliberate, and let out a half-laugh—high and excited. There's work to be done, I thought. And I planned to enjoy every terrible second.