Shuya Matsumoto had once been a poem written in motion. At seventeen, his name was whispered in dojos and shouted from tournament loudspeakers. "The Iron Phoenix," they called him, a prodigy whose kicks were like cracking thunder and whose defensive form was an unbreachable fortress. Coaches saw in him the future of Japanese karate; opponents saw only an inevitable defeat wearing a white gi. His life was a straight, gleaming road toward glory.
That road shattered with a sound he would never forget—a sickening, wet snap that cut through the roar of the crowd, a sound so personal and violent it seemed to silence the entire world. It was the sound of his own femur breaking.
The diagnosis was a clinical, soul-crushing life sentence: "A career-ending injury." The complex fracture, the severed ligaments—it wasn't just a broken bone; it was a broken future. For Shuya, it was the end of his life. The person he was, the only person he knew how to be, ceased to exist in that moment.
What followed was a slow, four-year erosion of self. The disciplined athlete gave way to a reclusive ghost. His world shrank to the four walls of his bedroom, a space perpetually shrouded in gloom, the curtains drawn against a sun that no longer seemed to have any business shining on him. The body he had honed with thousands of hours of punishing drills softened, swelling with the weight of cheap calories and profound apathy. Depression wasn't just a feeling; it was a parasitic entity that nested in his chest, feeding on his memories, his motivation, until the simple act of getting out of bed felt like a Herculean task. His existence was measured not in days, but in the dwindling stacks of instant noodle cups on his desk.
The only thread tethering him to the outside world was the inevitable depletion of supplies. And so, on a humid, oppressive midnight, Shuya found himself trudging through the familiar, neon-drenched streets to the convenience store. The fluorescent lights inside were a painful assault on his senses. He moved through the aisles like a sleepwalker, his basket filling with the sad, processed fuel of a life on hold: microwavable meals, energy drinks, a new bag of rice. It was a half-hearted plan for continued existence—stock up, return to the darkness, and vanish for another few weeks.
But fate, it seemed, had grown tired of his hiatus.
As he left the store, the plastic bags cutting into his wrist, a sound sliced through the city's low hum—a panicked, feminine voice, sharp with terror, coming from the alley behind the building.
"Stop—please! Somebody!"
Shuya froze. Every instinct, every fiber of his reclusive being, screamed at him to keep walking. To look away. He was no one's hero. He was a fat, broken mess in a stained hoodie. What could he possibly do? The shame of what he had become was a heavier weight than any fear. He took a step toward home.
But then something stirred in the deep, atrophied muscles of his soul. A ghost twitched—the ghost of the Iron Phoenix. It was a faint, stubborn ember of the boy who stood his ground, who protected the weak, who believed in something more than just survival. It was a memory of purpose.
His feet, as if moving of their own accord, carried him to the mouth of the alley.
Three men, their forms coalescing into a wall of menace under the flickering alley light, had a high-school girl pinned against the brick wall. Their laughter was a low, predatory thing. They were not worried about witnesses; they were confident, entitled.
"Hey," Shuya croaked, his voice brittle from disuse. It was less a challenge and more a dry leaf scraping against pavement. "Leave her alone."
The men turned in unison. Their eyes, initially annoyed, then found him, and their expressions melted into cruel amusement.
"Bro," the largest one sneered, his lip curling. "Look at you. You'll give yourself a heart attack. Go home."
But Shuya was already committed. The ghost had taken the reins. His hands came up, trembling—not with the controlled adrenaline of a fighter, but with the raw, pathetic tremor of a body pushed far beyond its limits. Old muscle memory, buried under layers of neglect and fat, screamed a protest as he threw a punch.
It was a pitiful sight. Slow, telegraphed, his balance all wrong. The fist that had once moved faster than the eye could track now missed its target by a comical margin.
The thug didn't even bother to block. He laughed, a short, ugly sound, and then his own fist, compact and powerful, drove like a piston into Shuya's solar plexus.
The air exploded from Shuya's lungs in a whoosh of pain. He crumpled to the wet asphalt, the world tilting on its axis. Before he could even gasp, the kicks began. They rained down on his ribs, his back, his legs—the bad one, the good one, it didn't matter. They were blunt, brutal impacts that drove him into the ground. He curled into a fetal position, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his lips as he tried to breathe. The girl's screams were distant, muffled, as if he were hearing them from underwater.
Then, a new sensation. A cold, sharp pressure against his side, followed by a breathtaking, intimate pain. The knife. It wasn't a slash; it was a push. The blade slipped between his ribs with a terrible, effortless precision, as if it were merely returning to a sheath it had always known. A shocking warmth instantly flooded his torso, soaking his hoodie, pooling beneath him on the cold ground.
Again.
The world dissolved into a series of frozen tableaus: the gleam of the streetlight on the bloody steel, the vacuous eyes of his attacker, the girl's horrified face, a single strand of her hair stuck to her tear-streaked cheek. He could smell the coppery tang of his own blood mixing with the stench of garbage and damp concrete.
Again.
There was no more pain, just a profound, draining coldness. He stared up at the narrow strip of night sky visible between the buildings, at the few, indifferent stars. Oddly, the overwhelming emotion wasn't fear. It was a deep, bottomless regret that weighed more than his own dying body. He had been given a chance, a single, fleeting moment to be the person he used to be, and he had failed. He had been weak. Slow. Pathetic.
His vision began to tunnel, the edges fading to black. With the last of his air, he whispered a confession to the uncaring night, a final, bitter epitaph for a life wasted.
"…I wanted… to matter again…"
Darkness, thick and absolute, swallowed him whole.
The world returned not with a jolt, but with a gentle, insistent persistence. The first thing he was aware of was the smell—not of blood and garbage, but of clean, damp earth and wildflowers. The second was the sound: a chorus of birdsong so vibrant and complex it felt like music. The hard, cold asphalt was gone, replaced by the soft, yielding cushion of grass.
Shuya blinked open his eyes to a sky of a blue so profound and untarnished it seemed impossible. No light pollution, no smudges of grey. Just pure, brilliant azure. He sat up, his movement swift and effortless, and the sensation was so alien it nearly made him fall over again.
"What the—"
He looked down at himself. The blood-soaked, bulky hoodie was gone. He was clad in simple, sturdy linen clothes. But that wasn't the miracle. He brought his hands to his face, turning them over. They were clean. The fingers were long, the knuckles pronounced, the forearms corded with lean muscle. He patted his stomach, his chest—hard, flat, defined. The body he had lost was back. No, it was better. It felt… purified. Lighter, stronger, as if every cell had been replaced. Even his hair felt thicker, cleaner. The phantom ache in his leg was a forgotten dream.
Above him, hanging in the air as if etched into reality itself, floated lines of serene, golden text.
[Soul Transfer Complete]
[Welcome to the Realm of Ethereal Crown]
[Class Assigned: Vengebound Monk]
He stared, his mind reeling, trying to process the impossible. A class? Like in a game? Before he could form a coherent thought, another panel shimmered into existence, its message simple and world-altering.
[Unique Ability Acquired: Mirror Strike]
[Effect: Any physical attack that hits you is automatically reflected back at the attacker at equal force.]
Shuya read the words once, twice, a third time. The implications slowly dawned, breaking through the shock.
"So… if someone hits me," he whispered, the words tasting strange in his new, clear throat, "they hit themselves?"
The interface chimed, a soft, confirming sound.
[Correct.]
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. "This is insane."
His newfound clarity was shattered by a rustle in the nearby undergrowth. The idyllic atmosphere curdled in an instant. A low, guttural growl echoed, followed by the stench of damp fur, rotten meat, and a primal, mindless hunger.
From the shadows of the trees, they emerged. Small, hunched, with sallow green skin and eyes that glowed with a sickly yellow light. They clutched rusted, jagged knives and leered with mouths full of needle-like teeth.
Goblins. Not costumes, not illustrations. Real, living, breathing monsters.
There were five. No—a sixth one slunk out behind the others, drool dripping from its jaw.
Shuya scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild bird. "D-Don't come closer!" he yelled, the command sounding feeble even to his own ears.
They didn't listen. They never do.
With a unified screech that set his teeth on edge, they charged. The lead goblin, faster than the others, lunged, its rusty dagger aimed straight for his heart. Time seemed to slow. Shuya braced, every instinct screaming at him to fight, to block, to run—but his feet were rooted to the spot. He was going to die again, just moments after being reborn.
The dagger tip touched his tunic.
And then the world broke its own rules.
The goblin did not plunge the blade home. Instead, its body contorted in a violent, unnatural spasm. A deep, grievous wound tore open across its own abdomen, as if an invisible blade had slashed it from navel to ribcage. Dark, foul-smelling blood sprayed the grass. The creature let out a choked gurgle, its eyes wide with shock and confusion, before collapsing into a twitching heap.
The remaining goblins skidded to a halt, their primitive minds struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Shuya stared, his own breath caught in his throat. "It… worked?" he breathed.
The pause lasted only a second. Snarling with renewed rage, the pack surged forward as one. It was a chaotic whirlwind of claws and steel. A knife meant for his throat suddenly reversed and buried itself in the wielder's eye socket. A fist aimed at his face connected with a sickening crunch as the attacker's own arm bones snapped. One goblin, leaping to tackle him, was thrown backward as if by an invisible giant, its neck twisting at an impossible angle.
It was over in less than ten seconds.
Shuya stood, trembling, in the center of a circle of self-inflicted carnage. He hadn't thrown a single punch. He hadn't taken a single step. He had simply existed, and the world had protected him. It was a power born of absolute defense, a karma made manifest. The ultimate counter-attack.
A soft, chime-like sound rang in the air, a stark contrast to the violence.
[Level Up!]
He looked down at his hands—clean, steady, powerful. No tremors. No weakness. He closed them into fists, feeling the solid, reassuring strength there. And then he felt it, rising from the core of his being, a sensation he had not felt since long before his leg snapped on that slick mat.
Hope. It was a fragile, tentative thing, but it was real. It was a spark in the long-darkened furnace of his spirit.
He lifted his gaze from the goblin corpses to the horizon. Beyond the peaceful meadow, nestled in the rolling hills, was a city of stone and timber, its banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Smoke curled from chimneys, promising hearths and community. For the first time in years, the horizon didn't look like a threat. It looked like an invitation. A beginning.
Shuya Matsumoto—the broken champion, the failed shut-in, the boy who died wishing he mattered—took a deep, clean breath of this new world's air and stepped forward.
This wasn't the life he had lost.
It was the life he had never been allowed to live.
And in this new world, he realized with a calm that settled deep into his bones, anyone who tried to stop him…
would have to face themselves.
Literally.