Mike Lee lived an ordinary life in Japan. Wake up, eat, work, eat, game, sleep—repeat. It was dull, but he had no choice. His sister needed surgery, and money didn't fall from the sky.
He never saw himself as special. Not a genius. Not a prodigy. Just another worker lost in the crowd, pushing through the same routine day after day.
Then, one morning, on his way to work, something felt off. His body felt heavier than usual. His steps dragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the crisp morning air.
Maybe I didn't sleep well, he thought.
But then, a wave of dizziness hit him. The world tilted, and his breath came shallow. His chest tightened as if something was squeezing the air from his lungs.
What's happening?
His vision blurred. His hands trembled. Then came the coughing—wet, violent, something thick rising in his throat. He pulled his hand away from his mouth.
Blood.
Panic set in. His knees buckled, and the ground rushed up to meet him. The asphalt felt rough against his skin, but the pain barely registered. A metallic taste coated his tongue.
People walked past. Cars honked. The world moved on as if nothing was wrong.
He tried to call out. Help. The word barely left his lips, weak and broken. His chest ached. His fingers twitched, reaching for something—someone. But there was nothing.
The cold seeped into his body. His vision darkened at the edges. He felt himself slipping, his mind scattering like sand in the wind.
Then, footsteps. A voice. Urgent.
A paramedic.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" The voice was distant, almost unreal. Hands pressed against his wrist, searching for a pulse. A radio crackled. "I need backup, now!"
But then, silence. A sharp intake of breath. The paramedic's face twisted in shock.
"He's been dead for a while."
Dead? No—that didn't make sense. He was just...
Then, darkness.
And then—light.
Warmth. The scent of frosting. The flicker of candlelight dancing in his vision.
"Make a wish, Mike!" His little sister's voice, full of excitement. His parents smiling beside her.
His stomach dropped. His hands trembled. A dream? No—the memories were too real. The blood. The cold asphalt. The weight of death.
He pushed back from the table, his breath uneven. Stumbling into the bathroom, he gripped the sink, knuckles white. The mirror reflected his younger self—fifteen years old.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His throat was dry.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
Then, a voice—deep, echoing, and only he could hear.
"I have granted you a wish, Great One. Lead us with utmost power."
His stomach turned. Was this a gift? Or a curse?