Consciousness returned like a fastball to the helmet—sudden, disorienting, and leaving me seeing stars.
Except... I wasn't seeing stars. I was seeing blurry shapes. Warmth. A pressure around my middle that I slowly identified as arms holding me. And sound—high-pitched, rhythmic, strangely familiar.
Crying.
My crying.
"È un bambino bellissimo," a woman's voice said. Italian. I understood it perfectly, which was strange because my Italian had been limited to grazie and pasta in my previous life.
"He has your eyes, Isabella," another voice said. Male. Exhausted but exhilarated. Vietnamese accent, speaking English. "But my nose, unfortunately. Sorry, little guy."
Someone wiped my eyes. The world came into focus in patches—white ceiling, bright lights, a face looming above me. Dark hair, olive skin, eyes the color of espresso.
Beautiful, I thought. Then: Wait, why am I thinking like a poet?
"Kevin," the woman—Isabella—said. "Kevin Huynh. Welcome to the world, my love."
Kevin Huynh.
The name hit me like a line drive to the chest. My name. My old name. The name I'd died with not... how long ago? Hours? Minutes? The WBC game was still fresh in my mind—the crack of the bat, the walk-off, the darkness.
Rebirth.
The realization didn't come as a shock. It came as certainty, solid and undeniable as the feel of my new mother's arms around me. I'd spent twenty-four years studying baseball, worshipping at the altar of possibility, and the universe had answered with the ultimate do-over.
I tried to speak. What came out was: "Gah."
"Listen to him!" my father—this father—laughed. "Already has opinions."
Isabella kissed my forehead. Her lips were soft and smelled like lavender and antiseptic. Hospital smells. I'd know them anywhere.
"Rest now, Kevin," she whispered. "You've got all the time in the world."
Time.
The word triggered something. A sensation like static electricity is building in my new, tiny chest. Then:
[SYSTEM ACTIVATION: THE LEGEND TEMPLATE]
The words appeared in my vision, floating like a heads-up display from a video game. Blue text, slightly glowing, hanging in the air between me and my mother's face.
[User: Kevin Huynh]
[Status: Reincarnated Soul]
[Physical Age: 0]
[Mental Age: 24]
[Available Functions: Template Draw (3/3)]
I blinked. The text remained.
Okay, I thought, my baby heart hammering against ribs that felt too small. Either I'm hallucinating, or dying gave me access to the ultimate cheat code.
[Welcome, Kevin Huynh,] the system continued, its voice neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It sounded like the hum of a stadium crowd before the first pitch. [You have been selected based on your unique qualifications: 24 years of dedicated baseball analysis, exceptional mental fortitude in adverse conditions, and an unfulfilled potential deemed worthy of cultivation.]
Cultivation, I thought hysterically. I'm a baseball player, not a rice paddy.
[The Legend Template System allows you to draw upon the skills, instincts, and physical capabilities of baseball's greatest players. You may select three templates over the course of your lifetime. Currently, you possess three draws.]
[Physical Stats System: ACTIVE]
[All physical attributes are currently at baseline newborn levels. Training will yield accelerated gains due to System enhancement.]
[Would you like to proceed with your first Template Draw? Y/N]
I wanted to scream YES. I wanted to demand Shohei Ohtani immediately, to start this second life with the blueprint of the player I'd spent years studying. But I was a newborn. I couldn't control my limbs, let alone make selections on mysterious cosmic interfaces.
So I did the only thing I could.
I focused. Hard. Imagining my intention pushing toward that glowing Y like a bunt down the first base line.
[Selection confirmed. Initiating First Template Draw...]
The world went white. Not the darkness of death—light. Pure, blinding stadium light. I was floating in void, and around me spun images like cards in a dealer's hand. Players I recognized instantly: Babe Ruth's swaggering swing, Ted Williams's perfect stance, Ken Griffey Jr.'s effortless grace, Randy Johnson's terrifying velocity.
They blurred together, faster and faster, until they were a rainbow streak of baseball history.
Then: stop.
One card remained. It flipped slowly, revealing its face.
[TEMPLATE ACQUIRED: SHOHEI OHTANI]
[Era: 2018-2026]
[Specialization: Two-Way Excellence]
[Assimilation Status: DORMANT (Will activate at age 3)]
[Physical Boost Reward: Granted]
[Effect: All training yields 300% standard efficiency. Recovery time reduced by 50%. Injury resistance increased significantly.]
The card dissolved into light, streaming into my chest. I felt it—not pain, but potential. Like every cell in my body had been given a map to greatness and a promise that the journey was possible.
[First Template locked. Two draws remaining.]
[Current Mission: Survive childhood. Build foundation. The Show awaits.]
The system faded, but I could feel it waiting. Watching. A presence in the back of my mind like a coach standing at the dugout railing, arms crossed, patient.
"Isabella," my father said, his voice thick with emotion. "He's smiling. Kevin's smiling."
I was. I couldn't help it.
In my previous life, I'd been a prisoner of my own body. A spectator to the game I loved. Now I had a second chance, a mysterious system, and—if my understanding of infant development was correct—about three years before I could even hold a baseball properly.
But that was fine. I'd waited twenty-four years to play. I could wait a little longer.
Besides, I had plans to make. Ohtani was just the beginning. I needed to research my other two templates, to strategize how to maximize this absurd gift. Koufax? Maddux? Bonds? Griffey? The possibilities made my tiny head spin.
More immediately, I needed to figure out how to be a baby without going insane from boredom. Twenty-four years of adult consciousness trapped in a body that couldn't walk, talk, or control its bladder? That was a horror story waiting to happen.
But first... sleep. Real sleep, without pain, without the morphine haze. Just the simple exhaustion of a body that had been born, not dying.
As I drifted off in my mother's arms, I made a promise to myself. To the game. To whatever force had given me this impossible gift.
I'm coming, I thought. To every diamond in America, in Japan, in the world. I'm going to play until my body gives out, and then I'm going to play some more. I'm going to break every record. I'm going to make them redefine what's possible.
And when I'm done, they're going to say Kevin Huynh was the greatest who ever lived.
Not because of the system. Not because of the templates.
But because I never stopped wanting it. Not for twenty-four years in a hospital bed, and not for a single second of this new life.
My eyes closed. My breathing evened out.
Somewhere, in the distance that wasn't quite distance, I heard the crack of a bat.
The game was on.