The Vessel Second Chance

In a black void where nothing existed, an entity became aware of its own presence. It could not comprehend why it had this awareness; it simply existed and was conscious. There were no boundaries, no references—only a profound sense of being.

Time, an elusive concept, remained ungraspable to it, yet it sensed the slow passage of something beyond itself, a gentle flow that seemed to shape its essence. As this intangible force moved through its existence, it became clear that it was evolving, transforming into something... more.

As time unfurled, the entity began to perceive the world around it in deeper shades. It felt a warmth enveloping its formless being, a comforting presence that suggested a connection to something greater. With this warmth came a rhythmic sensation, a steady pulse resonating from within, like a heartbeat echoing in the silence of the void. 

As time flowed on, the entity began to develop a new sense: hearing. Though the sounds that reached it were muffled and distant, they stirred a sense of familiarity, an echo of something it felt it had known before. It was as if these sounds were part of a memory, yet it lacked the intelligence to truly understand or process these feelings. It existed in a state of vague awareness, unable to grasp the complexity of thought, and therefore could not claim the status of sentience. Still, the sensation lingered, like an unfinished melody whispering in the void.

With the passage of time, another development occurred—it gained the ability to sense touch. Suddenly, it became aware of its own form, feeling it curl inward like a seed encased in a protective shell. This cocooning sensation brought with it a sense of restriction, as if it were trapped within an invisible prison. It felt the weight of confinement pressing against its being, prompting instinctual movements. Its limbs instinctively kicked and twisted, yearning for freedom from the limitations that bound it.

One day, the entity felt a profound shift in its world, a force urging it to move, to flow in a specific direction. Though it couldn't grasp the nature of this force, it sensed an instinctive pull, a vague assurance that following this current would lead to freedom. It could feel that moving with the rhythm of the world around it was essential for its freedom.

Embracing this instinct, it began to slide downward, headfirst, into the unknown. As it descended, it encountered a warm, sticky wall that pulsed around it, aiding its journey. The sensations were overwhelming yet oddly comforting, as if the very walls of this realm were welcoming it into a new existence.

With each moment of movement, it felt itself being propelled forward, and then, with a final surge, it emerged into the world beyond. Its head broke through the surface first, a breath of new sensations flooding its awareness. Moments later, its entire body followed, spilling out into a realm filled with light and sound. 

A wave of cold air washed over its still-warm body, a jarring contrast that elicited an instinctive cry of surprise. The sound escaped its mouth, a primal expression of confusion and wonder. Yet, it couldn't quite grasp the nature of this sound; it was as if the voice that emerged was both foreign and familiar, echoing in the air around it.

And as it continued to vocalize, it felt its entire being lifted, cradled by gigantic hands that seemed to envelop it in an embrace. The sensations swirled around it—new textures, sounds, and the lingering warmth from its previous cocoon. Voices floated above, resonating with a mixture of excitement and tenderness, yet the meaning behind the words eluded its understanding.

It could sense vague shapes and movements, but clarity remained elusive. The world felt like a dream, a soft haze that muffled sounds and dulled colors. Each attempt to focus only deepened the confusion, leaving it disoriented in this strange, indistinct realm.

"Karasawa-san, congratulations, it's a boy," one voice declared, filled with joy. The phrase hung in the air, rich with emotion, but the entity could only perceive it as a sequence of sounds, not fully comprehending the significance. 

Then, softer hands enveloped its body, gently cradling it with a warmth that felt both familiar and comforting. This embrace brought back echoes of the cocoon it had known before, but now it was free—no longer restricted, but held in a way that felt safe and nurturing. 

Feeling the comfort of the hands that cradled it, the entity sensed the cries that had escaped its mouth gradually subside. The gentle warmth enveloping it created a soothing cocoon, quieting the confusion and uncertainty that had previously stirred within. Each heartbeat resonated with the rhythm of safety and love, and as it nestled deeper into the embrace, a profound calm washed over it.

As it settled into this new warmth, it heard the voice of the one cradling it. "Toji, look, isn't he really cute?" The tenderness in her tone resonated deeply, wrapping around it like a gentle lullaby.

Another voice responded, filled with excitement, "Yeah, he really is. Can I hold him now, Shiori?" The words flowed like a stream, vibrant and full of life, yet still vague in their meaning to the entity.

It heard the voice of the one cradling it respond with warmth, saying, "Of course," as she gently transferred its body into another set of gigantic hands. These hands were rougher, a bit clumsy in their hold, yet they conveyed a tenderness that spoke volumes. Each touch, though lacking the grace of the previous embrace, carried a reassuring strength that wrapped around it like a protective shield.

Amidst the gentle movements, it caught snippets of conversation. "Toji, are you crying?" came the softer voice, laced with concern and affection.

"I'm sorry," Toji replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I just feel really happy right now."

The entity sensed the depth of that happiness, an overwhelming wave of warmth that seemed to radiate through the air. It was an unfamiliar yet profound feeling, resonating with the joy and love surrounding it. In this moment, it began to grasp the significance of connection—the bond that tied it to these beings who were so captivated by its existence.

After a moment, the trembling in the hands that held its body gradually ceased, settling into a gentle, reassuring grip. The entity listened intently to the snippets of conversation that flowed around it, though the words remained elusive, their meanings just beyond its grasp.

"Do you have any idea what to name him?" one voice asked, a hint of excitement in the tone.

"Well, since he is a boy, why don't you name him?" came the reply, laced with affection.

"Really? I can name our firstborn?" The surprise in that voice was palpable, brimming with joy and anticipation.

The entity felt a swell of warmth at the exchange, as if the very air around it vibrated with the significance of this moment. Names held power, a way to define existence and forge connections. Even without fully understanding, it sensed that this decision was meaningful, a step into a new narrative that would shape its identity.

"Blessing," Toji declared, his voice soft but resolute.

"Blessing? What are you talking about?" the other voice responded, curiosity lacing her tone.

"I feel like this is the happiest moment of my life," Toji continued, a sniffle betraying his emotions. "That's why, I'll name him Megumi."

The entity, cradled in the rough yet tender hands, sensed the weight of this declaration. The name resonated with a warmth that mirrored the love surrounding it. "Megumi." It was a word filled with promise, an affirmation of joy and connection that seemed to encapsulate the moment.

But soon enough, Megumi felt its consciousness starting to waver as a wave of exhaustion swept over its tiny body. The warmth of the hands cradling it, once invigorating, now became a lullaby, soothing and inviting. As the world around it faded into soft whispers and gentle murmurs, a heaviness settled over its eyelids.

Gradually, the comforting embrace began to blur, and the cacophony of sounds softened into a distant echo. Megumi surrendered to the pull of sleep, the exhaustion overtaking its senses. With each heartbeat, it drifted further away, leaving behind the bright lights and vibrant voices of the waking world.

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In the depths of its slumber, the images flickered like shadows. The monster, with its four arms thrashing and two sets of eyes filled with a blend of rage and despair, became a haunting presence. It grappled with unseen foes, embodying the struggle against a world that felt harsh and unforgiving. Yet, the newborn could only grasp the emotions swirling within the dream—fear, helplessness, a longing to act but unable to move. These sensations were too complex, too foreign to comprehend fully, leaving the dream just out of reach, a puzzle of feelings without a solution.

These emotions swirled within it like a tempest, each one leaving an indelible mark on its consciousness. Isolation wrapped around it like a heavy blanket, while moments of joy flickered like distant stars, illuminating the darkness. Worry and despair mingled with fleeting glimpses of happiness, creating a tapestry of feelings that it couldn't yet comprehend.

Yet, this strange dream was more than mere confusion; it was a vital part of its growth. Each sensation, each whisper of emotion, would weave itself into the fabric of its developing mind, guiding its journey forward. Though understanding eluded it now, the echoes of these experiences would shape its path, urging it to seek connection and clarity in the world waiting just beyond the veil.

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A month into its existence, it existed in a liminal space, aware of fragments from other existence yet unable to grasp their significance. Memories flickered like shadows, ghostly echoes of experiences that felt both familiar and foreign. With its mind still forming, it struggled against the weight of this accumulated knowledge. Concepts like love, loss, and connection danced just out of reach, leaving it with a sense of yearning and confusion. 

Despite its struggles, progress was evident. It recognized the two towering figures that loomed over it, their presence a constant source of warmth and security. They were its parents, and though it lacked the words to articulate this bond, a deep instinct told it that they were its sanctuary. 

In their gentle gestures and soft sounds, it felt a profound sense of safety, as if their mere existence formed a barrier against the chaos of the world. The love they radiated enveloped it like a cocoon, nurturing its fragile development. In this bond, it found solace, a foundation upon which it could begin to build its understanding of the world.

Whenever it wailed, caught in the grip of unsettling images and emotions that seeped into its dreams, its parents were quick to respond. Their presence was a soothing balm, instinctively attuned to its distress. With gentle hands and calming voices, they would awaken it from the nightmare, their warmth wrapping around it like a protective shield.

In those moments, the shadows that lingered in its mind dissipated, replaced by the reassuring knowledge that it was safe. Their soft coos and tender touches anchored it, helping to quell the storms of fear and confusion.

In its mind, a quiet certainty took root: as long as its parents were near, it would be safe.

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At four months old, Megumi had begun to grasp the concept of self, emerging from the haze of instinct into a clearer awareness of his existence. He could recognize himself as a separate being, distinct from the world around him. Yet, despite this newfound clarity, the memories that flickered in his mind remained elusive and confusing.

These images and emotions, remnants of a something important, felt significant but were shrouded in mystery. They whispered of experiences he couldn't fully grasp—faces, places, and feelings that tugged at him with an inexplicable weight. Megumi sensed that these memories were part of him, yet their meaning danced just beyond his reach.

And Megumi had made significant strides in his development. He could now understand the simple conversations his parents had with him, responding to their affection with bright-eyed curiosity. This progress was largely fueled by the strange memories that persisted in his mind, nudging him toward comprehension.

However, when his parents spoke to each other about more complex topics, their words often eluded him, slipping through the cracks of his still-developing understanding. He sensed the depth and nuance in their discussions, but the meaning remained just out of reach. 

As he struggled with his own undeveloped tongue and mouth, forming words felt like a distant goal. He was aware that communication would come in time, and he looked forward to the day when he could express his thoughts and feelings clearly, bridging the gap between his understanding and their world. 

The most significant milestone for Megumi came with his newfound ability to move independently. After three months of persistent effort, pushing and straining his body with each waking moment, he had finally achieved the mobility he had longed for. Now, at four months old, he could sit unassisted, a proud accomplishment that filled him with a sense of agency.

Crawling soon followed, and with each determined movement, he explored the world around him with wide-eyed wonder. The once daunting space transformed into an exciting realm of discovery. Every new angle and texture beckoned him, and he relished the freedom that came with his newfound abilities.

Megumi couldn't quite grasp the reason behind his parents' overwhelming excitement, but their joy was palpable. When they saw him crawl for the first time, their shouts filled the room, echoing with delight. They flashed bright lights at him, their faces beaming with pride.

Amid their enthusiastic chatter, he caught snippets of their words—"proud," "happy," and "amazing." Though he didn't fully understand what it all meant, he felt the warmth of their emotions wash over him, wrapping him in a comforting embrace. Their happiness sparked something within him, a sense of accomplishment that made him eager to explore more and continue moving forward.

With newfound freedom, nothing could hold Megumi back. He crawled eagerly into every nook and cranny, driven by an insatiable curiosity. He explored dark corners where light barely reached, feeling the coolness of the shadows wrap around him, thrilling in the mystery of the unknown.

At other times, he climbed to higher places, delighting in the sense of elevation as he looked down at his parents, feeling like a tiny giant in his own world. As Megumi continued his explorations, he noticed the subtle shift in his parents' demeanor. After dozens of his adventures, he could sense an undercurrent of exhaustion radiating from them. Their smiles remained, but he could see the tiredness in their eyes and the way they exchanged glances filled with concern.

Though he couldn't fully grasp the reasons behind their fatigue, a feeling of unease crept into his mind. He instinctively wanted to soothe them, to understand what was causing their weariness. Yet, without the words or comprehension to express his feelings, he continued to crawl and explore, hoping that his joy would somehow lighten their burden. 

One day, Megumi's adventurous spirit led him to an unexpected escapade when he somehow managed to crawl up to the rooftop. It was a quiet afternoon, and only his mom was home, her exhaustion palpable after a long day of work. His dad was away, preoccupied with tasks that Megumi couldn't quite understand.

Though he was supposed to be napping, Megumi sensed his mom needed her rest. Unlike most babies, he didn't want to wake her up just to ask for playtime. However, the confines of his crib began to feel stifling, and boredom settled in as he realized he had explored every inch of the house.

With a determined effort, he quietly climbed out of the crib, careful not to disturb his sleeping mom. After a brief exploration of the familiar rooms, he still felt restless. That's when his gaze turned toward the outside world, sparkling with possibilities just beyond the door. Fueled by curiosity, he decided to seek out the adventure that awaited him outside, eager to experience something new and exciting.

It wasn't that Megumi had never been outside; he had always been carried by his mom or dad during their outings. But today felt different. This was his opportunity to explore the world on his own terms. In her exhaustion, his mom had forgotten to fully close the sliding door that led to their front lawn, and Megumi seized the moment.

As he crawled outside, he was greeted by the delightful sensation of grass softly tickling his knees and hands. Each movement brought a new thrill as he navigated this vibrant, green landscape, enjoying the freedom that came with being on his own. 

After a joyful exploration of the lawn, his gaze drifted up toward the rooftop. A sense of determination sparked within him. Spotting a conveniently placed box nearby, he made his way to it, using it as a foothold to pull himself up. With a sense of triumph, he climbed to the top, eager to see the world from this new vantage point.

The vibrant green of the field seemed to stretch endlessly before him. As Megumi settled onto the rooftop, the setting sun painted the sky with warm hues of orange and pink, creating a breathtaking backdrop that filled his little heart with wonder.

But suddenly, Megumi heard his mother calling for him, her voice echoing through the air. "Megumi, where are you?" At first, it sounded playful, but as time passed, he noticed the change in her tone. The worry crept in, and soon her voice rose, tinged with panic. 

"Megumi, where are you?!"

His heart raced as he sensed the distress in her words. He felt a surge of urgency and, wanting to reassure her, he called out as loudly as he could, his small voice carrying into the fading light. He shouted, hoping to bridge the distance between them.

His shout seemed to reach her, as he soon heard frantic footsteps approaching from outside. 

"Megumi!" his mom called out, her voice laced with panic. "How did you get there?!"

She felt a rush of relief mixed with concern as she watched him. She was still visibly frantic, her eyes wide with worry. "D-don't move, okay? Wait for Mama there, okay?"

He could see the urgency in her expression, and despite his adventurous spirit, he sensed the gravity of the moment. He nodded instinctively, rooted to the spot, eager to reassure her that he would stay put. 

After scanning the area, she soon found the box that he had climbed to reach the rooftop. With a mix of urgency and care, she climbed up and gently grabbed him, pulling him into her arms.

Once they were back on the ground, relief washed over her as she collapsed onto the grass, still holding him close. For a moment, she hugged him tenderly, her heartbeat slowing as she reveled in the safety of having him back. But that relief was quickly overshadowed by a surge of anger.

"What were you thinking? Why did you even do that, huh?" she exclaimed, her voice shaking slightly. "From now on, you're never allowed to go outside unless your dad or I are with you."

Megumi felt the weight of her words, sensing the worry behind her frustration. Though he couldn't fully understand the intensity of her feelings, he understood that she cared deeply for him.

Megumi nestled closer to his mother, feeling the warmth of her embrace. He could sense the conflict within her—relief mixed with anger and fear. He didn't want to upset her; he just wanted to explore, to experience the world beyond the confines of the house.

As she held him, her voice softened slightly. "You scared me, Megumi. I know you want to explore, but there are dangers out there that you don't understand yet." Her words were firm but filled with love, and he could hear the underlying worry in her tone.

He looked up at her, wide-eyed, wishing he could find the words to explain himself. He wanted her to know that he didn't mean to cause her distress; he just felt drawn to the beauty of the outside world. 

"I promise I'll be careful," he seemed to say silently, and though he couldn't speak, he hoped the sincerity in his gaze would convey his intention. 

After a moment, she sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Okay, my little explorer. We'll find ways for you to discover the world together, but you have to promise me you'll listen from now on."

Megumi nodded his head resolutely, determination shining in his eyes.

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It had been a year since Megumi's birth, and in that short time, he had already surpassed many expectations. Though still only one, he had mastered speech with an impressive clarity, capable of explaining simple concepts despite not fully grasping all the words and ideas he encountered. 

His walking was effortless, each step smooth and steady, like a child who had been practicing for far longer than he had. His parents marveled at his development, often whispering to each other that they had a prodigy on their hands.

But it wasn't just his physical abilities that set him apart. Megumi's cognitive growth was equally remarkable. He could now recall past events with startling precision, processing and reflecting on them in ways that seemed beyond his age. 

The most curious thing about his development was the increasing clarity of his dreams. Each night, the images became more vivid, more intricate—almost as if his brain were evolving faster than most. But what unsettled him the most was that he could now remember these dreams upon waking. 

The recurring dream always started the same way: a towering monster with four muscular arms, two sets of unblinking eyes, watching him from the darkness. Then, the scene would shift to a vast, desolate landscape where he was surrounded by all manner of creatures—strange, hybrid animals, half-formed and alien. At the center of it all stood a serpentine, humanoid figure with a giant wheel floating atop of its head. It was its floating wheel that drew him in, the one that seemed to burn with an ancient, terrible knowledge.

Every time he woke up, the unease lingered longer. The more details he recalled, the deeper his sense of dread grew. Was it a warning? A message from some unknown force? He couldn't shake the feeling that the dream was more than just a random firing of neurons during sleep. It was as if it were calling to him, pulling him towards something. Something he could neither fully comprehend nor escape.

By now, his parents had come to realize that their son was not like other children his age. There were subtle differences—small, unsettling signs that he was growing in ways that defied their understanding. His intelligence was far beyond the average for a child of his age, but it wasn't just his intellect that set him apart. There was something else, something deeper that made him seem… other.

One day, his parents decided to arrange a playdate with the neighbor's kids. It was a sunny afternoon, and the house quickly filled with the lively chatter and laughter of children. The air was thick with excitement as toys were scattered across the floor, games were quickly formed, and the sound of giggling echoed through the walls. But as the day wore on, his parents began to notice something strange.

While the other children were absorbed in their games—chasing each other around the yard, playing make-believe, or crowding around the television to watch cartoons—he remained apart, almost invisible amidst the commotion. He would smile politely when spoken to, join in on a game for a few minutes, but his attention was always fleeting, his involvement never fully engaged. Most of the time, he would retreat to a quiet corner of the room, staring out the window as though lost in thought. 

His parents could sense the growing gap between him and the other children, but they didn't know how to bridge it. They saw his loneliness, but they couldn't make sense of it. The other children were kind enough, and though they often attempted to include him in their games, there was always a barrier. He was friendly, yes, but he never truly connected with them. It wasn't that he was shy—he wasn't. It wasn't even that he was uninterested; rather, he seemed unable to relate to them, as if his thoughts were occupied elsewhere, in places and ideas that those around him couldn't understand.

At first, they thought it was just a phase. Every child has their quirks, their moments of being "different." But this… this felt like something more. It wasn't that he disliked being with other children, it was that he didn't feel at home with them. His mind, it seemed, was elsewhere—always reaching for something beyond the grasp of his young years. He could speak to them, smile, even laugh, but it was always in a way that felt somewhat detached, like an actor playing a role rather than a child sharing an experience.

Fortunately, the other children didn't seem to mind. They accepted him, quirks and all, without judgment. They could tell that he was a little different, but they weren't old enough to fully understand what that meant. They had their own games, their own worlds to occupy, and so long as he joined in, they were content. 

But his parents couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. They worried, of course, but they didn't know how to help him. He seemed so far from the other children, and yet, he didn't appear to be lonely—at least, not in the way they thought he should be. He had a quiet, introspective quality to him that baffled them. It was as though his mind were too occupied with things far beyond his years, or perhaps, even far beyond this world. 

Still, they did their best to be supportive, to offer him love and comfort, hoping that over time, whatever this was would eventually pass. 

And at first, his parents comforted themselves with the belief that his solitude, his inability to truly relate to the other children, was simply a sign of his extraordinary intellect. They reasoned that he must be a genius, a prodigy, and that his mind was operating on a higher level than those of his peers. After all, they told themselves, children who are touched by greatness are often different from others, right? They are set apart, meant to follow paths that no one else can see or understand. It seemed logical, even comforting, to think of his isolation as the inevitable consequence of being special, of being gifted.

His parents marveled at how easily he picked up reading, how he could solve puzzles meant for children twice his age, or how he asked questions that adults sometimes struggled to answer. They would proudly share these observations with family and friends, and everyone agreed—he was bound for greatness. His mind, they believed, was simply too advanced for the mundane concerns of his peers. Why bother playing make-believe with other kids when you could be contemplating the mysteries of the universe, after all?

At first, it felt like a blessing. They watched with pride as he learned at an astonishing pace, absorbing knowledge from books, from his own thoughts, from the world around him. But as time passed, something else began to surface—a quiet unease, a subtle discomfort that they couldn't quite name. Yes, he was a prodigy, but it wasn't just his intelligence that set him apart. It was the way he carried himself, the way his gaze seemed to linger on things that didn't exist in the world that they understood. There were moments when he would stare into space as though seeing something invisible to the rest of them, or ask questions about things that made no sense, like the shape of the stars or the nature of dreams. Sometimes, when he spoke, his words seemed too heavy for his young frame, as if he were trying to articulate thoughts that had no place in a child's mind.

But even then, they dismissed these moments as part of his genius. Of course, someone as extraordinary as him would think differently, they reasoned. He was destined for something greater, and with that came a certain level of isolation. It wasn't loneliness—it was just the price of being exceptional. They comforted themselves with the notion that as he grew older, he would find his place in the world, that he would eventually find people who could understand him, people who could keep up with his brilliant mind.

What they didn't realize was that this was not the kind of difference that could be easily explained away. His disconnection from others was not just a byproduct of his intelligence, but something deeper, something more unsettling. It was as if his mind, for all its brilliance, was tethered to something beyond this world. A part of him seemed to be reaching for something that no one else could see, something that he could not even explain, but that was slowly beginning to shape his reality in ways they were not yet prepared to understand. 

And so, with every passing day, as his isolation deepened, they held onto the hope that this, too, was part of his gift. After all, wasn't that what those destined for greatness often experienced? A quiet solitude, an internal world too vast to share? But beneath their hope lingered the first inklings of doubt, a nagging feeling that perhaps they were missing something—something that might not be so easily explained by a label like "genius."

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It was at five years old that everything finally clicked for Megumi. 

For the first four years of his short life, he had felt that something was amiss, a quiet, persistent unease that gnawed at him in the deepest corners of his mind. His cognitive abilities had developed at an astonishing pace—far beyond what any child his age should have been capable of. He could solve puzzles that left adults stumped, comprehend concepts that should have been reserved for much older children, and ask questions that, at times, made even the most learned people pause in confusion. But all of this, remarkable as it was, didn't seem to account for the feeling of wrongness that had lingered in his heart. 

Something was pulling at him, something just out of reach, something beyond the edges of his understanding. His mind was sharp—sharper than a child's should be—and yet with each new realization, each new breakthrough, Megumi felt that there was always a gap in his understanding. The more he discovered, the more he realized there was something missing—something crucial to the puzzle that he could not quite place. 

And then there were the dreams.

The dreams had become clearer over time, vivid flashes of images, feelings, and sensations that echoed in his waking world. The monster with four arms, the serpentine humanoid at the center of a circle of creatures, the strange landscapes stretching into infinity. He could remember them so well now, almost too well, and he knew that whatever they were, they were important. Each night he found himself closer to understanding their meaning, but just as he thought he was about to grasp the truth, something would slip away. He would wake up, his heart pounding in his chest, and the knowledge he had almost uncovered would dissolve like smoke in the morning light.

And then there were the sensations.

There were times, during the day, when Megumi felt as though something was watching him. It wasn't an ordinary feeling—it wasn't like the gaze of another person or the simple sense of being observed. No, this felt deeper. He would turn quickly, eyes darting around, but each time he looked, there was nothing. No figure lurking in the shadows, no strange being standing just out of sight. Yet the feeling never quite left him. It was as though something was always on the edge of his perception, just waiting to be noticed.

Then there were the flickers.

These were the most disorienting of all. Every so often, at the periphery of his vision, he would catch glimpses of something moving—shapes that weren't there when he looked directly, figures that seemed to flicker and disappear when he turned his gaze toward them. It was like staring at a shadow that shifted when you blinked. And yet, when he focused, when he truly concentrated, there was nothing to be found. No shadow, no flickering figure. Only the sense that something had been there, something he had almost seen, but could never quite capture.

It was as though the world itself was trying to reveal something to him, but the answer remained just out of his reach. Every day, the feeling grew stronger, this sense that there was a hidden truth—some secret just waiting for him to uncover it. He could feel it pressing on him, pushing against the walls of his mind, but it was elusive. Like trying to catch a breath that always slips away the moment you try to inhale.

And then, on the day he turned five, everything began to change. It was as if some barrier inside his mind finally broke.

On a sunny weekend afternoon, while his parents leisurely watched TV and spent time together in the living room, Megumi was fast asleep in his bed. The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the television and the distant sound of birds outside. As his parents drifted in and out of conversation, Megumi was deep in his dream world. This time, the dream was different—more vivid, more real. It felt as though he were no longer just a passive observer, but an active participant, as if the very fabric of his consciousness was being pulled into something far beyond his comprehension.

The images that usually flitted through his mind in surreal, fragmented glimpses had now coalesced into something far more structured. The monster he had come to know so well, with its four arms and strange eyes, loomed in the distance, but it was not what drew his attention this time. Something else had emerged. A person. A human, not a creature born of his imagination. 

This had never happened before. His dreams had always been filled with monsters, shapes, and otherworldly beings. But now, there was a man standing before him. A man who seemed strangely familiar. As he looked closer, his heart skipped a beat. The person before him had the same face, the same eyes, the same features—but older. Much older. This was a version of himself, one that Megumi did not yet recognize, but somehow knew was undeniably him.

The man was taller, no longer the small, baby-faced child that Megumi had known himself to be. His body had matured, the soft roundness of youth replaced by a lean, angular frame. His black hair spiked out in every direction, wild like a sea urchin's spines, untamed and chaotic. It was the same dark hair that Megumi had, but the texture, the way it stuck out in every direction, made it look almost alien. 

He was dressed in navy blue clothing, a uniform of sorts—a gakuran, Megumi's mind supplied with a strange certainty, as though the knowledge had always been there, waiting for him to discover it. The man's chest bore a pin with a swirling spiral pattern, its design hypnotic and intricate, drawing Megumi's gaze deeper, as though it were somehow connected to the very pulse of the dream itself. 

The figure stood still for a moment, observing Megumi, his expression unreadable. Then, with a single, deliberate step, he began to move toward him. One step, then another, and another, closing the distance between them with slow, measured strides. Each footfall felt like an eternity, the sound of it echoing through Megumi's mind, reverberating in the very air around him. 

But as the man drew nearer, something began to happen. A cold, paralyzing sensation took hold of Megumi. His body refused to move. No matter how hard he tried to force himself to respond, to retreat, to flee—he was frozen. His limbs were like stone, his body unresponsive, trapped in the grip of an invisible force. The man continued to approach, his eyes locked on Megumi, unwavering. 

When the figure was finally standing directly in front of him, Megumi felt a strange pressure in the air, as though the world itself was holding its breath. The man extended his right hand toward him, slowly, deliberately, his fingers outstretched, as though offering something—or demanding something.

And then, as the fingers brushed against Megumi's skin, something shifted.

A flood of knowledge surged into him, so overwhelming, so intense, that it felt like his mind was going to snap from the sheer weight of it. It was as if every thought, every feeling, every memory he had ever experienced suddenly became clear and sharp, as though all the puzzle pieces of his life, of his dreams, and of his existence fell into place in that one, excruciating moment. 

He saw flashes of images, of places, of faces that were unfamiliar, yet deeply familiar at the same time. He saw future versions of himself—older, wiser, more capable—but also darker, burdened by some unseen weight. He saw the spiral pin, repeated over and over again, each iteration connected to something greater.

Then, with a sudden jolt, Megumi woke up, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. The room around him was bathed in soft, afternoon light. The familiar shapes of his bed, the dresser, and the window filled his vision, but everything felt off —too sharp, too real. 

For a moment, he sat still, trying to make sense of the swirling images and the crushing weight of the knowledge that had flooded his mind in the dream. His limbs felt heavy, like he had been asleep for far longer than a few hours. The pulse of his heart slowed, but his mind raced, consumed by the clarity that had settled in him like a stone at the bottom of a river.

And then it hit him, as if the truth had finally slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle.

He had been reincarnated.

The thought hit him with such a force that it almost knocked the breath out of him. He didn't know how he knew it, but there was no denying it. He remembered. He remembered a life before this one, a life where he had been someone else—someone different, someone who had walked through a world that was not the one he now found himself in. There was no logical explanation for it, no simple way to explain the depth of the knowledge that had rushed into him like a tidal wave. But it was there, undeniable and inescapable. He had lived before, in another body, in another life. 

The man from his dream—the one who had looked like an older version of himself, taller, different, yet undeniably familiar—had been him. The future him. Megumi now understood that the strange, mysterious connection he had felt all these years was not just some product of a child's overactive imagination. It was real. He was a part of something far larger than he had ever imagined, something that stretched across time, beyond the confines of his young existence. He was part of a cycle, a reincarnation, a continuation of a soul that had lived before and would live again.

The dreams, the strange presence he had felt watching him, the flickers at the edge of his vision—they were all pieces of a much larger puzzle that had now clicked into place. His mind raced through the fragmented memories of his past life, but the images were too jumbled, too clouded, as if someone had placed a veil over them. He could feel them, though, like echoes from another time. He could sense a different name, a different identity, but it was all just out of reach, like a whisper lost in the wind. Still, the knowledge that he had lived before, and that he had been brought back— reincarnated —was undeniable.

But why? Why had this happened to him? What was the purpose of this strange cycle? What was the significance of his dreams and the figure of the man who had reached out to him in that haunting vision?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his parents' voices drifting in from the living room. He blinked, the normalcy of their chatter pulling him back to the present. They had no idea. They had no idea what was happening inside his mind, what he had just uncovered. To them, he was still just their son, a prodigy, a child whose brilliance was beyond his years. But now, he understood something they never could.

As the weight of his reincarnation settled deeper into his mind, Megumi became aware of something else—something that had been present within him for as long as he could remember, but that he had never fully understood, never fully sensed until now. 

He could feel it. Cursed energy. 

It flowed through him like a river, vast and untamed, yet now crystal clear in his mind's eye. It had always been there, coiled and latent, a power waiting to be unlocked, but until that moment, he had been completely blind to it. The surge of knowledge from his dream—the flood of understanding—had pierced through that veil, and now, Megumi could feel every ounce of it within his body. It stuck to him, clung to him, like a viscous liquid. It wasn't just a force outside of him; it was inside. It was part of him, threading through his veins, saturating his very essence. 

It wasn't just a small, insignificant amount of energy either. No, it was overwhelming—like a storm waiting to erupt. He could feel it swirling in his chest, coursing through his limbs, as though it were alive, pulsing with a ferocity that threatened to consume him. It was like nothing he had ever felt before—the raw power, the untamed force that burned just beneath the surface. 

And yet, there was something more. He could see it, too. 

With a shift in his perception, the cursed energy appeared before him in brilliant hues of blue—flaring and crackling like an ethereal flame. It was almost beautiful in its intensity, a glowing fire that danced with a life of its own. But it was uncontrolled. Wild. Dangerous. It flickered in erratic patterns, the power rippling and burning like an uncontrollable inferno, lashing out with bursts of energy that felt as though they could tear through the world around him.

His breath caught in his throat as he realized how volatile it was. In the past, he had been unaware, blind to the magnitude of this energy that had been waiting to be harnessed. But now, with his newfound clarity, it was as if the blindfold had been removed. He could see it in his mind's eye—feel it in every fiber of his being.

It was not just a power. It was a part of him.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady himself. The sensation of this raw energy swirling inside him was overwhelming, like trying to control an ocean with his bare hands. But he could not afford to let it take control. He had to master it, to contain it.

Focusing, he exhaled, centering himself. Slowly, carefully, he reached inward, tapping into the cursed energy with a sense of deliberate intention. He could feel the hot, burning presence, tugging at him, urging him to release it, to let it loose. But he resisted. The energy was his, not the other way around. He was the one in control. 

With another steadying breath, he visualized the energy like water flowing through a conduit. He could feel it coursing, pushing, demanding release, but he focused, narrowing his awareness until it seemed like a tangible force within his hands. He let the energy settle in his chest, a blue light pooling in his core, contained for now. 

It was difficult—like holding back a storm—but he was aware now. Aware of the cursed energy that flowed through him, that was him, and he knew that controlling it was his only way forward. 

For the first time, he truly understood the nature of the power within him. It wasn't just something to be feared. It wasn't something to be ignored. It was a tool, a force, a weapon—one that he would need to master if he was to understand what was happening to him, to control the path his life was now taking.

He opened his eyes, exhaling a long, controlled breath. The energy was still there, still crackling faintly at the edges of his awareness, but it was no longer a wild, untamed force. It was contained. Controlled. 

For now. 

As Megumi sat there, focusing on the cursed energy swirling within him, something else clicked—another fragment of memory from his past life surfaced. The clarity of it struck him like a sudden wave. It was a technique. A power—something he had once wielded in that other life, something that was his.

The Ten Shadows.

The name felt both foreign and familiar, like an old, forgotten language now slowly coming back to him. His memory was still fragmented, the details scattered like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together. But he could sense the outlines of it, a technique tied to his very being, a technique that allowed him to summon creatures from his own shadow.

But there was more. Two divine dogs.

Megumi's brow furrowed as he tried to recall the full meaning of the term. The phrase divine dogs lingered in his mind, but it wasn't fully clear. It was like trying to remember a name from a dream that was slipping through his fingers. What did it mean? And why did he have this sense of urgency—like something was pushing him to act now, before it was too late?

He didn't have all the details, but the memory was insistent. The Ten Shadows technique, when it was first awakened, granted its user two specific shikigami—divine dogs—creatures that could be summoned without the usual ritual subjugation required for other shikigami. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. These divine dogs were unique in that they did not require the lengthy process of subjugation, a ritual that could be dangerous, complicated, and time-consuming. Instead, they could be summoned freely, no strings attached.

The urgency in his gut told him that this was not something to wait on. He had to understand the limits and capabilities of his abilities as soon as possible. The cursed energy, the flickering power—everything was pointing to the need to harness his potential, to understand what he was becoming, and how he could survive it.

Taking a deep breath, Megumi closed his eyes again. He could still feel the cursed energy, pulsing inside him, but now he shifted his focus to the shadow beneath him. He could sense it, like a vast, untapped well of potential—a space that was both part of him and separate, a place where his shikigami could emerge.

The memory was clearer now. The Ten Shadows was not a mere technique; it was a way to interact with the very fabric of the world around him. By using his shadow, he could bring forth creatures to fight for him, to defend him, to assist him. But unlike other shikigami users, he didn't need to perform a ritual to summon his divine dogs. They were already there, waiting to be called forth, ready to serve him.

His heart beat faster. He could feel the presence of the shadow beneath him, the dark space stretching into infinity, waiting for him to take control. The knowledge of how to unlock it, how to summon the divine dogs, surged to the forefront of his mind.

Slowly, tentatively, he reached down into the dark space of his shadow, pulling on it, focusing the cursed energy into the right place. His hand hovered just above the floor, the shadows around him seeming to ripple in response. For a moment, nothing happened, and the stillness made the tension in the air feel even more suffocating.

Then, with a subtle flicker, a figure began to materialize from the darkness. It was small at first, a vague shape, a shifting form that seemed to rise from the floor like a mist coalescing into substance. But then it took shape, becoming solid, real.

A dog. A large dog, with sleek black fur and eyes that gleamed with an unnatural intelligence. It stood before him, poised, its body rippling with power. Its gaze was sharp, focused on him, as if it recognized him instantly—knew who he was and what he was capable of.

Megumi blinked in surprise, stepping back slightly as the dog growled slowly, the sound vibrating in his chest. This was a divine dog. He didn't know what that meant, exactly, but the energy that radiated off of it was unmistakable. It was powerful. It was his.

Before he could fully process the weight of this, another figure emerged from the shadow—this one slightly smaller, but still imposing. The second divine dog. Its fur was a stark, silvery white, shimmering with an ethereal glow. It, too, exuded an aura of strength and energy, and it too regarded Megumi with those sharp, knowing eyes.

The two divine dogs stood before him now, waiting, like silent sentinels. They didn't require a ritual, and didn't need to be subjugated. They had answered his call because they were bound to him by the very nature of his power. They were his shikigami, his to command.

He stood there, stunned. It was real. The Ten Shadows. The divine dogs. They were here. 

Megumi took a deep breath, steadying himself. The cursed energy that flowed through him shifted once again, now more focused, more controlled. The divine dogs, despite their intimidating presence, were part of the energy he had come to understand as his own. 

He knew he had to learn more. He had to master this ability—the Ten Shadows—and, in doing so, gain control over the path his life would take. He had no idea what forces were waiting for him, but with the power of the divine dogs at his side, he felt slightly less helpless.

As the two dogs stood there, waiting for his command, Megumi's mind raced with the possibilities. He had only just begun to unlock his true potential, but the pieces were falling into place, one by one.

He stood in the stillness of his room, the presence of the two divine dogs looming before him. The air felt heavy with the energy that pulsed from the creatures, and though they made no sound, their very existence seemed to fill the space. He could feel the weight of their power, the raw, untamed energy that radiated from them, and yet, despite their imposing presence, there was a calmness to their posture—like they were simply waiting for him to give them direction.

The reality of it all still hadn't fully sunk in. Just moments ago, these beings had been nothing more than a distant memory, a vague fragment from a past life, but now they stood before him, undeniably real. The divine dogs had answered his call, not through a ritual or incantation, but simply because they were his—bound to him through the Ten Shadows.

He took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. His gaze moved from one divine dog to the other. The black dog's eyes glowed with an amber intensity, while the white dog's gaze shimmered with a silver-blue light. They were different, but they were both undeniably powerful—and they were waiting for him to understand how to command them.

Megumi clenched his fists, feeling the cursed energy still swirling inside him. He had learned that much already—that his ability to control this power was tied to his awareness of it, to his understanding of the balance between himself and the energy he wielded. Now, he had the dogs, two creatures of immense strength and potential, standing by his side. 

The task ahead of him was clear: he needed to learn how to control them, how to use them properly, before his power spiraled out of control.

He took another deep breath and addressed the black dog first. "Sit," he said, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. The command felt strange on his tongue, as though he were speaking a language he'd only just learned. But when the dog didn't immediately move, Megumi felt a flash of doubt. Did it even understand him?

The divine dog's amber eyes flicked to him, then to the ground. Slowly, the dog lowered its haunches, settling into a seated position in front of him. Megumi blinked, surprised by how easily the creature obeyed. He hadn't expected it to be this simple.

Turning to the white dog, he repeated the same command. "Sit."

The white dog, too, responded without hesitation, sinking to the floor with a fluid, graceful movement. The ease with which they followed his command was both reassuring and unnerving. It was clear that these dogs were not like ordinary shikigami; they were different. Special.

But what else could they do?

Megumi closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of cursed energy inside him, a steady hum that now felt more familiar than it had ever been. He could feel the connection to the divine dogs—like a thread that tied them to him, pulling them from the shadows. He could sense their energy, their strength, and he could feel how they were attuned to his own.

The memory of the ritual to subjugate shikigami flickered in his mind. He had been told that subjugating shikigami was a delicate process, one that required patience, control, and understanding. But for these divine dogs, the rules were different. They didn't need subjugation—they had already chosen him in a way. Or perhaps they were bound to him by some force beyond his comprehension, tied to the Ten Shadows technique itself.

But how far could he push them? How could he use them effectively? 

He exhaled slowly, focusing on the connection he now felt. The cursed energy in his body seemed to vibrate in response, and without consciously deciding, he felt a surge of power radiate out from him, flooding into the divine dogs. The black dog's eyes gleamed with a flash of golden light as the energy coursed through it, and the white dog's fur shimmered as if it, too, absorbed the power. 

The energy flared between them, like an electric charge passing through the air. 

Megumi's heart skipped a beat. The dogs were reacting. 

It was instinct, pure and raw—he could feel the cursed energy syncing between himself and the divine dogs. The connection was still new, still delicate, but it was there, and it was growing. He could command them, but perhaps more importantly, they were starting to understand him. They were more than mere summoned beasts; they were an extension of his will, of his very energy.

A shiver ran down his spine as he realized the extent of his potential.

Without thinking, he raised a hand. "Attack."

The black dog immediately sprang into motion, its body a blur of speed as it darted across the room, its movements fluid and precise, a predator in its prime. The white dog followed with equal agility, its form a pale streak of light as it raced in tandem with the black dog, both moving like shadows, as if the very room itself bent to their will.

Megumi watched, his heart pounding as the two dogs moved together, their instincts synchronized as if they had been training together for years. They were a team. They were his team.

As the dogs leaped into a series of mock strikes—swift and graceful, their attacks more for testing than actual combat—Megumi felt the power of the Ten Shadows deep within him, an overwhelming tide of potential that threatened to sweep him away. He could feel the connection, not just with the dogs, but with everything that lay beneath the surface. The shadows, the cursed energy, the very fabric of the world—he was tapped in to something far greater than himself.

But the question still loomed in the back of his mind: What was he meant to do with all of this power?

As the divine dogs returned to their resting positions, eyes trained on him with unwavering attention, Megumi understood one thing. The path ahead was unclear.

But then, he remembered feeling the weight of regret hanging over himself like a shadow, a constant presence in every dream he had ever experienced. Even now, as the clarity of his powers and his memories from his past life solidified within him, that same feeling lingered. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was ever-present—a subtle, gnawing feeling that whispered to him that something had been missed, something had been lost in that previous life. It was as if the very fabric of his being was haunted by unfinished business, by choices he hadn't made, by roads left untaken.

In those dreams, he saw glimpses of his past—his old self, his regrets, the echoes of decisions that had not been made with enough conviction. But it was the sensation that clung to him after each dream that stood out the most—the guilt, the yearning for a different outcome, a feeling that he had somehow failed or left something incomplete.

No. Not again.

The thought struck him with the force of revelation. If this power, this curse, these memories, were the remnants of a past life, then he would make sure to avoid repeating those mistakes. He wouldn't fall into the same traps. He wouldn't be haunted by the same regrets.

Megumi tightened his fists, the cursed energy inside him rippling in response to his resolve. He would live differently this time. This life would not be defined by past failures, by old memories of what could have been. He would make decisions that were bold, decisive, and above all—free of regret. 

The idea of living with no regrets, of forging a path forward with absolute conviction, felt empowering. The regret from his previous life, if this truly was a memory from the past, was not something he could undo. But this life—his current life—was his to shape. And he swore to himself that he would never again allow the feeling of unmade choices to weigh him down.

As Megumi pondered this, a thought flickered in his mind, something that had been nagging at him for some time. There was a part of him that couldn't ignore the possibility that this power, this return to this world, wasn't from his past life at all—but from his future self.

A sharp breath escaped him as the idea settled in. What if the memories, the powers, the lessons that had been implanted in him, weren't fragments of a past life, but glimpses from the future? What if he had somehow traveled back in time—not to fix the mistakes of his past life, but to avoid them? The theory felt almost absurd, yet there was something in his gut that made him wonder if it was possible. The clarity with which the dreams had manifested—his sudden understanding of cursed energy, the Ten Shadows technique—felt like it could come from a future version of himself, someone who had already lived through this, who had learned from mistakes, and who was trying to guide him in a way that would spare him the same regrets.

But even as that thought settled, another, subtler memory rose to the surface—a feeling more than a specific recollection. It was the vague, distant sensation of being a baby. Of being born. A new life, a fresh beginning.

That memory, so fleeting and raw, pulled him back toward his original assumption: this was, in fact, from his past life. He hadn't come from the future. He had lived before, and that life had carried him here—into this body, this new existence. The guilt he felt, the unfinished business, it all made sense in the context of a past life, one that was now demanding resolution.

Despite the theory of a future self trying to correct past mistakes, Megumi couldn't deny the weight of the memory of being a child, of being born anew. It had been too real, too immediate, too grounded in the experiences of this life to be a glimpse from the future. He had lived before. The divine dogs, the Ten Shadows, the cursed energy—these were the relics of his past life, the echoes of a soul that had been born, grown, and died.

Still, the idea of having this power—this knowledge—seemed far too calculated for it to be merely the remnants of an old life. If it had truly been a past life's regrets, why would it feel so purposeful, so directed? It didn't feel like a random assortment of memories and emotions. It felt like a warning. A guide. As if someone—whether past or future—had planned for him to receive this knowledge now, to steer him away from whatever fate had befallen him before.

For a brief moment, Megumi felt torn between these two conflicting ideas: was he carrying the weight of a past life, trying to find peace, or was he being guided from the future, given the tools to change his path?

But in the end, perhaps it didn't matter. Whether this power came from his past or his future, he knew one thing for sure: he would use it.

With the divine dogs by his side and the Ten Shadows technique within his grasp, Megumi was determined to live this life without regrets. The guilt and the shadow of past mistakes would not hold him back. Whatever he was meant to face—whatever dangers awaited him—he would face them head-on, with conviction, with control over the powers that flowed within him.

He was no longer a child fumbling in the dark. He was someone with a purpose. And if his past or future self had anything to say about it, he would not waste the chance to make the most of it.

And with that thought, he made a quiet promise to himself. This time, he would not fail. He would not look back with regret.

.

.

A year had passed since the memories first flooded Megumi's mind—whether they were from his past life or from some future version of himself, he still wasn't sure. It didn't matter anymore. What mattered now was the present. He was no longer just a child with vague recollections of another life; he was a boy, entering elementary school, learning to navigate a world that had become much more complex than it seemed at first glance. 

He was now a few months past April, and the excitement—and anxiety—of starting school had long since passed. But what stuck with him most vividly was the memory of the chaos on his first day of school.

His parents had been frantic.

"Megumi, did you bring your books?" His father's voice echoed in the hallway, the sound of his footsteps heavy with the weight of the morning rush.

"Do you have everything? Don't forget your lunch!" His mother's voice was softer but just as urgent, carrying the edge of concern that only a mother could have on her child's first day.

It was a whirlwind of questions—about his bag, his lunch, his uniform—each one overlapping the other in their eagerness. His parents had never been so nervous, and in hindsight, he realized it wasn't just about the usual concerns of getting a child ready for school. It was the uncertainty of what awaited him in this new chapter of life. 

But Megumi, in his quiet, introspective way, hadn't been nearly as frantic. He had been prepared. More prepared than any child should be on their first day of school, with memories of another life whispering through his mind, giving him clarity in places where most children would have felt lost. He didn't feel like a first-grader. He didn't feel like someone who was just beginning this journey. No, he felt like someone who had already walked this path before. And in some ways, it made everything feel a bit... distant.

His father had been so worried that Megumi wouldn't adjust well, that he would be too withdrawn, too different. After all, his son had always been a bit of an outlier, a quiet child who never quite fit in with the other kids his age. And though Megumi was fond of his parents, loved them even, he still couldn't help but feel... apart from them, like a piece of him that didn't quite belong in this world. His cognitive abilities—his understanding of the world—felt so far beyond his years. Yet, in the most mundane moments, he was still a child, expected to fit the mold of a typical elementary school student.

Surprisingly, Megumi hadn't had much trouble fitting in at school, despite his sense of disconnection from his peers. His maturity, which was beyond his years, seemed to act as a bridge between himself and those around him. It wasn't the kind of maturity that came from mere intelligence or knowledge—it was something more subtle, a calmness and understanding that radiated from him in his interactions. Teachers took note of it right away. They appreciated how he listened attentively, how he processed information at a level that surprised even them, and how he quietly managed to handle situations without the typical clamor or fuss that the other children often caused.

During the first day when parents were allowed to escort their children into the classroom, Megumi stood out—not with loud gestures or grandiose actions, but in the small, unspoken ways he carried himself. His parents had been worried, of course, as any parents would be when sending their child off to school for the first time. His father had double-checked his school bag, asking if he had everything, his mother reminding him not to forget to eat his lunch, but Megumi had simply nodded and smiled in a way that reassured them. Though he was nervous for them—he could feel the weight of their anxieties about sending their "different" son to school—he hadn't felt nervous for himself.

He was prepared. More prepared than he ever needed to be.

His classmates, at first unsure of how to approach him, slowly began to open up to him, largely due to his gentle nature and patient demeanor. He never rushed to dismiss their questions, no matter how trivial they seemed, and he didn't mind offering help when they needed it. If someone was upset, if someone was stuck on a problem, Megumi was the one who would quietly step in, offering support without making a show of it. If a child lost their toy or had an issue during recess, he would be the first to notice, the first to lend a hand, his calm voice offering a sense of stability.

And it worked. More and more, his peers began to view him not just as a classmate, but as an older brother figure—someone reliable, someone they could turn to. They would often ask for his help with assignments or seek his advice when there was a conflict among the other children. It wasn't something Megumi had planned or even wanted. But it was something he could do, and more than that, he knew it was his role. 

In his mind, being "older" was not defined by age. It was about responsibility. And whether it was due to his past life's experiences, or the knowledge carried over from his awakened abilities, he understood that it was his duty to guide others—to help, to nurture, to protect those who were less experienced or more vulnerable. Even though he was only older in terms of mental and emotional maturity, it still made sense to him. He felt the weight of that responsibility and accepted it without hesitation.

Even if, deep down, he still felt distant from them, unable to fully bridge the gap between himself and his peers, Megumi understood that it didn't matter. The others needed him in ways that were simple and pure, and he could provide that. He didn't mind being the one who always held back, who watched from the sidelines, if it meant he could be someone to rely on.

It wasn't so much about fitting in as it was about being useful—being needed.

Through his actions, through his quiet patience, he naturally became a leader without ever trying. The other children saw in him a quiet strength, a steadiness that they lacked at their age. And that made him feel, at least for a moment, that he wasn't entirely alone in this world. Even if he was different, even if the powers within him were strange and daunting, this small group of children had accepted him for who he was—someone they could count on, even if they didn't understand the full extent of what he was capable of.

And though he didn't share their innocence, their laughter, or their simpler joys, he could still help them find their way. He could be the steady hand that guided them, the one who ensured that no one was left behind, and that was enough. After all, wasn't that what he was supposed to do? To make the world a better place, to guide those who were younger or less experienced, even if he didn't yet fully understand the reasons why he had been chosen for this role?

He may not have been like them, but in this moment, in this small circle, Megumi could still feel that sense of purpose—that quiet, undeniable pull toward something larger. It wasn't about being "normal" or fitting in. It was about being true to himself and the role he was destined to play. Whether it was in his past or his future, this life was his to navigate, and he was determined to do it right.

So, despite the inner distance he still felt, he embraced it. He accepted that his path was different. And, in a way, that made him the perfect guide for those who were still learning how to walk their own.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.