In my past life on Earth, I was a loser.
That wasn't self-pity. It was a statement of fact.
At school, I was the kind of kid people didn't bother remembering the name of. Not because I was invisible—but because I was convenient. Convenient to shove aside in hallways. Convenient to mock when answers came out wrong. Convenient to target when boredom set in.
I never fought back.
Not because I didn't know how.
But because my body wouldn't allow it.
My family was obsessed with martial arts.
Not casually, either. My grandfather had practiced traditional Chinese martial arts since childhood. My father trained karate and kendo. My mother knew tai chi and pressure-point therapy. Dinner conversations weren't about school or weather, but about stances, breathing techniques, and internal flow.
By the time I was ten, I had mastered more forms than most adults would ever attempt.
Karate. Taekwondo. Aikido. Traditional kung fu. Even obscure grappling styles that didn't have names most people recognized.
On top of that, I learned acupuncture.
Meridians. Pressure points. How to disrupt muscles, numb nerves, or shut down movement entirely with precise strikes.
On paper, I should have been terrifying.
In reality?
I was fragile.
Painfully so.
I was born with a weak constitution—lungs that burned too fast, muscles that tore too easily, a heart that couldn't handle strain. Even light overexertion sent me collapsing. Push myself too hard, and I'd wake up in a hospital bed with tubes in my arms and disappointed doctors shaking their heads.
"Your knowledge is impressive," they'd say.
"But your body simply can't keep up."
So I never fought back.
Because winning a single fight would cost me weeks in a hospital.
The bullies figured that out quickly.
They mocked me for being weak.
Mocked me for knowing martial arts but "being too scared to use it."
Mocked me for reading instead of playing sports.
And what did I read?
Masked characters.
Heroes who appeared from the shadows.
Villains who commanded fear without saying a word.
Figures who hid their faces, but showed absolute confidence.
They were everything I wasn't.
Strong without explanation.
Cool without effort.
Untouchable.
At night, when my body ached and my chest felt tight, I'd imagine it.
A mask.
Not to hide fear—but to erase it.
If people couldn't see my face, they wouldn't see weakness.
If they didn't know who I was, they couldn't look down on me.
It was a childish fantasy.
I knew that.
Still… it kept me going.
Until that rainy day.
I remember it clearly.
The sky was gray, heavy with rain that soaked into my clothes within seconds. I had just left the hospital again—another warning about overexertion, another reminder that my limits were permanent.
I stepped off the curb.
I heard a horn.
Then—
Impact.
Weightlessness.
Pain that never fully arrived.
My thoughts scattered, strangely calm.
So this is how it ends.
No dramatic last words.
No sudden strength awakening.
Just wet asphalt and fading awareness.
The last thing I thought of wasn't regret.
It was a mask.
—
I woke up screaming.
No—crying.
Loud. Uncontrolled. Shrill.
My vision was blurry. My body felt… wrong. Too small. Too tight. I couldn't move properly. My limbs flailed uselessly, refusing to obey.
Voices echoed around me.
"Congratulations! It's a healthy baby!"
A baby.
The realization hit harder than the truck ever did.
I had been reincarnated.
Not summoned. Not reborn as a hero.
Reincarnated—into a completely different world—as a newborn baby.
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't even turn my head.
But my mind was clear.
And for the first time in my life…
My body didn't hurt.
My breathing was steady.
My heart wasn't straining.
My limbs, though tiny, felt whole.
As I lay there, wrapped in cloth, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, a single thought echoed in my mind.
If I've been given another life…
Then this time—
I wouldn't be the loser without a mask.