chapt
Part One: The System Error
My life, prior to the truck incident, was a masterclass in inefficiency.
I'd been living in Tokyo for three years. Three years of the same apartment—too small, too expensive, located in a neighborhood that wasn't quite trendy enough to justify the rent but expensive enough to drain my bank account every month. Three years of the same job—explaining software to people who should have understood it without explanation. Three years of the same relationship—with Mika, who'd started out tolerable and gradually became less so.
Not in a dramatic way. In a practical way. We'd moved in together because it made financial sense (splitting rent reduced the inefficiency of individual leasing). We'd stayed together because the effort of breaking up exceeded the effort of staying together. We existed in a state of convenient cohabitation that was technically a relationship, technically not, depending on how strictly one defined "intimate partnership."
I'd never been particularly bothered by this. Most people seemed to mistake this for emotional distance. "You're so cold, Haru," Mika had said once, after I'd suggested we could save money by switching to a cheaper grocery brand. "It's like you don't actually *feel* anything."
I did feel things. I just didn't see the point in broadcasting them. Emotional performance was inefficient.
That morning—the morning of the truck—had been standard Tuesday. I'd woken at 6:47 AM (the morning alarm went off at 6:45, but I always hit snooze twice; it was a routine that had developed without conscious decision). I'd made coffee using yesterday's grounds because we hadn't purchased new ones (efficiency; reusing resources). I'd put on the same shirt I wore every Tuesday (navy blue, slightly faded, reduced the decision-making burden of outfit selection).
Mika was still sleeping. She usually slept until 8:00 AM on days she worked the evening shift at the restaurant where she was a kitchen helper.
I'd gone to work.
The office was exactly where it always was—a seven-story building in a neighborhood that tried very hard to be important and mostly succeeded at being expensive. My desk was exactly where it always was—third floor, fourth cubicle from the left, with a window view of a billboard advertising something I couldn't quite read from that angle.
Kenji was already there.
Kenji had also been there yesterday. And the day before. And several times before that, I would later realize, though I hadn't consciously registered his patterns. He worked in sales, which meant his schedule was theoretically flexible, but he'd developed a habit of being at our office—in the tech department—during times when I'd also be at my desk.
He was also extremely close to Mika lately. Riding the same train home sometimes. Being in our apartment when I arrived. Making coffee in our kitchen with the kind of familiarity that suggested he'd done it before.
I'd noticed these things without processing them as significant. Kenji was friendly. He was often friendly to multiple people simultaneously. This seemed normal.
That particular Tuesday, he arrived at my cubicle at exactly 3:15 PM.
"Hey," he said, and his tone suggested apology without words. "We need to talk to you about something."
We. Multiple people. One of those people was presumably Mika, who'd appeared at the cubicle entrance with an expression that said she'd been planning this conversation for a very long time.
"I've been sleeping with Kenji," she said immediately, as if speed could minimize the inefficiency of the situation. "For about four months. I'm sorry you had to find out at work, but I couldn't tell you at home, and—"
"You're boring," Kenji interrupted. Or maybe he wasn't interrupting. Maybe he was adding his own perspective. "And Mika's not happy. So we're ending things. Mika's moving out this weekend."
I processed this information the way I processed most information: as a system that needed debugging, not a personal crisis.
"That's inefficient," I said finally. "Four months of hidden arrangement indicates poor communication infrastructure. Moving this weekend doesn't allow adequate time for logistics management. You should have had a better plan before informing me."
"That's... that's all you have to say?" Mika looked confused. "You're not upset?"
*Upset* was a strong word. I was experiencing something, but it felt less like emotional devastation and more like the sensation of having wasted four months on a relationship that had been failing without my conscious knowledge. Like discovering a bug in code I'd assumed was clean.
"I'm going for a walk," I said, gathering my things. "This conversation is inefficient. I'll process it later."
That walk took me through streets I'd walked a hundred times before. Past the ramen shop where I'd eaten lunch twice weekly (consistency reduced decision fatigue). Past the convenience store where I bought my coffee. Past the pedestrian crossing where I'd learned to predict traffic patterns well enough to cross safely without much attention.
At 3:47 PM, I was thinking about nothing in particular. I was thinking about efficiency, actually. Specifically, about how inefficient it was to maintain a relationship that had become purely logistical. How inefficient it was to have spent four months not noticing that your girlfriend was sleeping with someone else. How inefficient it was to have existed for this long without building a life that had any meaningful texture.
I wasn't paying attention to the traffic light.
The truck hit me at approximately 47 kilometers per hour—fast enough to ensure completion of the incident, not so fast as to create unnecessary additional damage to surrounding objects. It was, in its own way, an efficient collision.
I remember the moment of impact being less dramatic than I'd expected. It was just a sudden absence of standing, followed by an absence of anything else.
Then white.
Part Two: The Negotiation (Haru's Perspective)
"You're awake! Finally!"
I opened my eyes—or would have, if eyes existed in this space. The void required understanding, not sensory experience. Understanding happened automatically, which was, I had to admit, the most efficient sensory system I'd ever encountered.
I was dead. This seemed factual.
"Who are you?" I asked, because asking was more efficient than assuming.
A figure materialized from the nothingness. Female-presenting. Approximately twenty-five years old. Eyes that contained somehow too many colors and a smile that suggested she'd experienced cosmic-level amusement that most beings would never comprehend.
"I'm Lady Ætheria! I'm a cosmic goddess, primarily of mischief and bad decisions that lead to entertaining consequences. Also chaos. Very much chaos. Do you have any questions?"
*Yes,* I thought. *I have approximately four thousand questions, starting with 'why am I conscious if I'm dead' and ending with 'what is the point of this conversation.'*
"Where am I?" I asked instead, which was more diplomatic than my internal monologue.
"The void! It's mostly used for cosmic bureaucracy and occasional reincarnation negotiations. Oh! Speaking of which, I have a deal for you!"
This was the moment where most people probably experienced excitement or terror or some combination of dramatic emotions. I experienced the sensation of having more questions than available conversation time.
"I don't want reincarnation," I said preemptively. "I'm done. Life was inefficient. Death seems preferable."
"You haven't even heard my offer!"
"The offer doesn't change the fact that I'm dead and would prefer to remain so."
Ætheria's smile somehow became even wider. "Oh, I like you! You're so boring! In the absolute best way possible! Did you know most people hit by trucks are at least *dramatic* about it? They cry, they panic, they demand explanations. You just... accepted it."
"Demanding explanations wouldn't change my status as dead," I replied. "Being dramatic would be inefficient."
"Yes! Exactly! So here's the deal. You get reincarnation into a fantasy world with godlike powers. Tier V causality manipulation—you can edit reality itself. But here's the catch: you have to agree to live a quiet life. No prophecies, no destiny, no heroes' journeys. Just... peace."
That actually sounded acceptable. I considered it while Ætheria bounced with cosmic enthusiasm.
"I'd want contractual guarantee of adequate ramen," I said finally.
"Done! What else?"
"That's the primary requirement. But I'd want to formally opt out of any prophecies or destiny scenarios. Complete contractual right to refuse heroism."
"You can refuse whenever you want!" Ætheria said cheerfully. "You just can't actually escape the consequences. That's where the fun—I mean, the complexity—comes in."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," she agreed, "but one of those is contractually binding, and the other is more of a fun consequence of physics. Guess which is which!"
A second being materialized—older, tired-looking, holding a clipboard made of cosmic importance.
"Valthor handles causality paperwork," Ætheria explained. "Valthor, write down his condition. He wants ramen and formal opt-out rights for prophecy scenarios."
"Already written," Valthor said, which implied he'd been preparing this paperwork before I'd even died. "You should probably add the clause about opting out of heroic titles. I'm sensing he'll want that specifically."
"Yes," I confirmed immediately. "I don't want to be called a hero. Ever. I want contractual right to reject that designation."
"Done," Valthor said, adding it to his list. "Anything else?"
"That covers the primary concerns."
"Great. Ætheria, you're still planning the glitch, right?"
"The glitch?" I asked immediately.
"Oh, yes!" Ætheria's smile became somehow more chaotic. "See, your power activates when you're annoyed. Or bored. Or too comfortable. So your entire quest for peace becomes this hilarious scenario where you keep breaking reality by *trying* to maintain peace!"
"No," I said flatly.
"You don't even know what—"
"No. I agreed to peace. A glitch contradicts that premise."
"But that's what makes it PERFECT!" Ætheria seemed genuinely delighted by my resistance. "You're going to try so hard to live quietly, and it's just going to make everything worse! This is going to be so entertaining!"
"That's literally the opposite of what I want."
"I know! Isn't it hilarious?" She turned to Valthor. "He's going to be SO entertaining. This is the best idea I've had in seventeen thousand years."
Valthor looked at me with something approaching sympathy. "She's doing it regardless of your consent. I'd recommend just accepting it. The paperwork's already prepared."
I considered the situation logically. I was dead. Non-existence wasn't apparently an option. Reincarnation seemed inevitable. The glitch was going to happen whether I agreed or not. Protest was inefficient.
"Fine," I said. "But I want that ramen clause in writing. And if the glitch causes destructive outcomes, I want liability waivers."
"Already prepared!" Valthor confirmed. "Ætheria always does this. She makes people say 'fine' and then they spend six hours adding amendment clauses."
"Last time I was going to be a cat," I said. "I wanted clarity on what 'being a cat' actually entailed."
"You insisted on being a cat because cats don't have responsibility," Valthor reminded me.
"It was a sound decision."
Ætheria was laughing so hard that nearby nebulas were rearranging themselves. "Oh, he's going to be PERFECT. Okay, reincarnation parameters: new world, fantasy setting, god-tier powers, glitch activation on emotional discomfort, ramen guarantee, heroism opt-out clause, and—oh!—Sylvara wants to add glitter effects to all your major power displays."
"Absolutely not," I said.
"Too late, she's already added it," Ætheria confirmed. "She says chaos needs aesthetics. I'm inclined to agree."
"I'm lodging a formal complaint."
"Noted in the ledger," Valthor said, not looking up from his paperwork. "Also ignored by everyone involved."
I realized, in that moment, that I was negotiating with cosmic beings who had no respect for my preferences and were going to do whatever they wanted anyway. Protest was inefficient.
"When does this happen?" I asked instead.
"Right now!" Ætheria snapped her fingers.
The void began to compress.
Part Three: The Reincarnation
Everything was collapsing toward a single point.
Memories were being stripped away. The taste of my favorite ramen (shoyu tonkotsu from the shop near my apartment) became increasingly irrelevant. The face of my mother became abstract. The sound of Mika's voice when she said I was boring became distant static.
I was becoming seventeen years of emotions and memories I hadn't lived yet.
*This is going to be inefficient,* I managed to think before consciousness fragmented entirely.
In the cosmic void, I could have sworn I heard Ætheria laughing.
Part Four: The First Inefficiency
I woke up as an infant.
This was, I immediately understood, extremely inefficient.
My consciousness was aware and coherent, but my body was approximately three days old. My eyes couldn't focus properly. My muscles couldn't support even the most basic movement. I was trapped in a meat suit that had yet to learn basic biological functions.
There was also a woman looking down at me. She had kind eyes and was making the cooing sounds that adults make at babies.
"Oh, look at him," she was saying to someone else (presumably a man, based on the baritone response). "He has such a serious expression. Do you think babies can think serious thoughts?"
Yes, I wanted to communicate. I am currently having extremely serious thoughts about the inefficiency of infant embodiment.
What actually came out was: "Gah."
"I think he's hungry," the woman said.
I was not hungry. I was experiencing existential frustration at my inability to communicate complex concepts. But whatever this woman wanted to interpret from my involuntary vocalization was probably better served by feeding me, so I allowed the process.
This continued for several weeks.
The woman's name was Lyra. The man was named Torvin. They lived in a small village called Lunaris, which appeared to be primarily agricultural. The village had a ramen shop, which I mentally noted as the only worthwhile thing I'd discovered so far.
Lyra was formerly an adventurer—an S-Rank member of the local guild, based on conversations I gathered from my bassinet. Torvin was a blacksmith. They'd wanted children, had been unable to have them, and had apparently accepted a baby who showed up via unclear circumstances.
(I would later realize that I'd simply appeared in their house one day, with all the proper documentation created by cosmic bureaucracy. Ætheria was thorough with her administrative work, whatever else could be said about her.)
Lyra seemed to like me, which was convenient because she also seemed very good at keeping me alive, which was currently my primary concern.
"He's such a quiet baby," Lyra commented once, when I was approximately two months old and still unable to do anything except stare at things with the confused intensity of someone trying to debug the universe. "Most babies cry constantly, but he just... observes."
This was because crying was inefficient. It communicated nothing and served no purpose beyond providing output for output's sake.
I was beginning to understand that most of the universe operated on principles that contradicted my efficiency standards. This was going to be an ongoing problem.
At approximately three months old, I experienced my first glitch.
Part Five: The First Glitch
Master Thistle was a baker, and he was extremely boring.
He visited our house regularly to sell bread to Lyra, and he apparently found joy in singing while he worked. Not well. Very much not well. His voice was approximately two octaves too high for his speaking voice to support, and he never quite managed to find the melody of the songs he was attempting.
I had spent an entire afternoon listening to him sing off-key versions of village folk songs while Lyra smiled supportively.
This was inefficient. This was also the first time I experienced genuine annoyance since my reincarnation.
The feeling was small, but it was distinct. A minor frustration at the prolonged nature of suboptimal audio performance.
And then something broke.
Master Thistle had been kneading dough. The dough had been approximately correct. Then—without external cause, without logical reason—the dough had suddenly expanded to three times its original size, reached a critical structural integrity failure point, and exploded into flour-based chaos.
Master Thistle had been covered head to toe in white powder. The kitchen had been covered in white powder. I had been covered in white powder (from my bassinet, where I'd been observing the situation).
"The yeast must have been bad!" Master Thistle had said, completely baffled.
But I knew what had happened.
My annoyance at his singing had triggered something. My power—this reality-editing ability—had activated in response to my emotional discomfort.
Ætheria's glitch was working exactly as intended.
*This is the most inefficient system I've ever encountered,* I thought, covered in flour dust and trapped in an infant's body.
From somewhere in the cosmic void, I could have sworn I heard laughter.
Part Six: Understanding the Problem
Over the next two years, I experienced six more incidents of unexplained chaos.
At six months old, a book floating back into Mira's hands when I was bored with watching her look for it.
At eleven months old, a wasp attacking Master Eldrin when his lectures reached peak tedium levels and my frustration peaked.
At fourteen months old, mysterious puddles appearing under specific locations where I needed someone to step into them.
At eighteen months old, chalk shattering in exact geometric patterns that suggested mathematical precision rather than natural cause.
Each time, nobody could explain what had happened. Each time, I understood perfectly: I was the cause. My emotional state was triggering reality-warping chaos.
The glitch was working.
The glitch was ruining my ability to maintain the quiet life I'd been promised.
And I couldn't do anything about it except exist and experience emotions and watch as reality twisted in response to my annoyance.
By my second birthday—my fifth birthday in total lifespan, but second birthday in this incarnation—I had learned the fundamental truth of my existence:
*I am a god trapped in a body I can barely control, with powers I can't suppress, in a situation I never agreed to, being actively sabotaged by the cosmic being who granted me this "gift."*
This was, without question, the least efficient outcome I could have possibly predicted.
And I was going to spend the rest of my life dealing with it.
*Thank you, Lady Ætheria,* I thought bitterly, watching Lyra clean flour off of me after another spontaneous baking disaster.
*I'm definitely not taking this personally when I eventually meet you again.*
(I absolutely was going to take it personally. But at age two, there wasn't much I could do about it except wait and grow and try very hard not to be annoyed about anything.)
This last part was going to be impossible.
I could already tell.