My name is Damon Valtair, second son of House Valtair—a bloodline that has served the royal family for over three centuries. In this world, that name carries power. But I still remember another life. Another name. One that no tongue in this land could speak, and no record could trace.
Haruki Souta.
That was the name I once bore. A name that meant little to the world but everything to the people around me—at least on the surface.
Souta had been the model elder brother. Dutiful. Smiling. The kind of boy who held his siblings' hands while walking them to school, who carried the weight of household bills after their parents' sudden death. He worked part-time at a local ramen shop, folded laundry with practiced care, and always knew how to make others feel safe.
But that was only the shell. A mask, lovingly carved and carefully worn.
Behind that gentle façade lived something far filthier.
I was manipulative. Cold. Cruel in ways subtle and lasting. I knew what words could wound deepest and used them freely—never yelling, just nudging. Always pushing. When my younger sister cried, it wasn't because I had struck her, but because I'd made her believe she was a burden. When she ran away, again and again, it wasn't to escape the world—it was to escape me.
I drove her out into the night once more, after saying and doing things no brother should. And that night, perhaps for the first time, a sliver of guilt lodged in my throat. I went out to find her. Not out of love, but irritation. Annoyance that she'd complicated my life again.
I wandered the backstreets, hands stuffed in my jacket, hood drawn low against the wind. Tokyo's lights stretched around me—cold, humming, impersonal. I called her name once. Half-heartedly. Loud enough to say I'd tried. Quiet enough to not be noticed.
The street was wet from a recent drizzle, the concrete slick underfoot. I passed shuttered storefronts, dim reflections of neon signage bleeding across broken glass and steel shutters. A vending machine buzzed softly on the corner, illuminating an empty alley with cold blue light.
Then I saw her.
Lying in the middle of the road, barely lit by a dying streetlamp, her small frame crumpled like a discarded doll. One leg bent the wrong way. Her dress soaked, not with rain but—
I froze.
My sister.
She had always been small, but now she looked impossibly fragile. Her schoolbag had spilled open, notebooks torn and scattered like feathers. Her phone buzzed weakly beside her, screen cracked, playing a recording of my last message.
"Maybe don't come back at all next time."
I stepped forward in a daze. The blood around her head glistened darkly, a thin pool spreading across the uneven concrete. Tire tracks streaked beside her.
A truck idled up the street, engine low and guilty.
Its headlights clicked off. Then it backed away into the night.
I knelt beside her, reaching out a shaking hand, but the moment my fingers touched her skin—
Everything stopped.
Not paused.
Stopped.
The air froze mid-breath. Raindrops hung in place like shattered glass. Even the cold seemed to halt, trapped in my lungs.
Then, a golden shimmer bloomed before my eyes.
[SIMULATION SYSTEM INITIALIZING]
Subject ID: Haruki Souta
Emotional Surge: [GUILT/TRAUMA]
Conditions met.
One-time choice generated.
CHOOSE:
[Switch Fates]—Assume her death.
[Rewind and Save Her]—Return to 30 seconds before impact. Push her. Take her place.
I stared. My pulse thundered. My throat tightened.
I didn't deserve to save her.
But this was a chance to do so, right? I couldn't watch her die like that. Not again. Not because of me.
I chose.
[Rewind and Save Her]
Time cracked.
I was pulled backward like a thread through a needle. The blood vanished. Her still body flickered out. The street lit up again, headlights glaring down the road, blinding and too fast.
She was there, though slightly different—running across the street in a scantily clad outfit instead of her light blue dress, crying as mascara ran down her dolled-up face, not seeing the truck rounding the corner at full speed.
"No!"
My voice ripped free as I sprinted, memories not entirely my own filling my head—ones that made my past self look like a saint. But I would've liked to say there was a large gap between an emotional abuser and a sexual manipulator who, despite everything, actually cared for his stepsister—unlike me, toward my own blood sister.
There seemed to be no difference between them, other than paternity.
The truck bore down, horn blaring. Its tires screamed.
She turned—wide-eyed, frozen.
I didn't think. I shoved her with everything I had.
Her body flew clear.
Mine didn't.
Metal met bone.
Pain exploded through me like lightning through water.
I felt ribs snap. My legs twist. My lungs collapse.
But as my head struck the pavement, I saw her crawling on the sidewalk, blood on her palms, but alive.
Alive.
And then darkness closed in—but not empty.
In that final flicker, as the cold came for me, I heard it:
[Simulation Anchor Created]
Welcome to The World: [Damon Valtair]
Status: Initiating Transfer…
And when I woke up—
I was in another world.
The pain was gone.
My eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, light spilling in through high-arched windows etched with gold filigree. A scent of lavender and old parchment hung in the air.
Then I felt her.
Warmth cradled my head. Gentle fingers brushed damp hair from my forehead.
A woman. Young, yet noble in bearing. Midnight-black hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose waves, pinned with a silver vine-shaped clasp. She wore robes far too fine for any servant—deep violet and pearl white, stitched with the crest of the Valtair household. At the time, I had never seen anything like it.
Her eyes met mine—steel gray and unreadable.
"You're awake," she said, voice soft but sweetly playful. A gentle smile tugged at her lips.
"Good morning, my little sunshine~"
[Simulation Menu Locked]