The clinic sat three levels beneath Night City's neon glow, its corridors lit by flickering crimson strobes and humming with recycled air. In the innermost delivery room, the monitors around the surgical slab had gone eerily quiet. Doctors and nurses had long departed, leaving only one solitary figure bending over a sterile bundle.
Wrapped in plain white blankets, a newborn boy lay motionless—no cries, no gasps—just wide, unblinking eyes reflecting the harsh, clinical light.
Yet within that infant form, a mind stirred.
Before this moment—before Ryu took his first human breath—he had lived on a familiar Earth. The same one where CD Projekt Red released Cyberpunk 2077, a game old even by then but beloved by him. He'd lost himself in its world of neon, chrome, and danger—never guessing that those written lines, fueled by millions of players' belief and immersion, would become a parallel reality.
In that universe, Ryu rose from avid fan to a magitech emperor who spanned twenty‑two planets. Spells merged with data‑streams; starships obeyed arcane code. But even that power could not protect him from divine bureaucracy.
A minor god—tired, overworked, coffee‑stained robes askew—had misfiled Ryu's "Status: Eternal Sovereign" under "Retired Deities."
"Ryu—Supreme Technomancer—status retired as of Cycle 4097," the god muttered, scrolling through infinite forms. "How did I… ah, paperwork."
With a snap, Ryu vanished as the universe corrected itself.
"—This is unacceptable," the god hissed, riffling celestial files. "Compensation Protocol 47B: Reincarnation with full memory retention. You choose your new world—but mortal realms don't yet grasp their own power. Their collective faith and belief literally generate the multiverse; they cannot bear direct divine interference. I must send you to a parallel Earth, one shaped by those very beliefs."
The god sighed, scanning potential timelines. "You'll awaken in the Arasaka bloodline on Earth 2077—your magic will reboot slowly, your memories intact, and your family strong. Once you've grown beyond mortal limitations, you can return to your original empire."
In the black expanse beyond worlds, Ryu confronted the god's shifting avatar.
"I died because of paperwork?" he asked, voice echoing with millennia of calm authority.
"An administrative error," the god admitted. "Here's your chance—no more solitary reign. You asked for family, and I'll grant it."
Ryu considered: the Earth of CD Projekt Red's game had taught him humanity's potential but also its fragility. He nodded once. "Do it."
Now, in 2058 Night City, the infant drew his first real breaths—soft, uneven, achingly human. His tiny fists curled and unclenched, as if testing the wet warmth of his palms. Overhead, the harsh clinic lights hummed; his wide eyes followed their glow, blinking slowly against the glare.
Inside, a familiar awareness pulsed: memories of distant star‑fleets, arcane laboratories, and the weight of worlds once ruled. But in this new body, every sensation was fresh—each breath a discovery, each heartbeat a promise of what was to come. He could feel the steady rhythm in his chest, the slick coolness of the blanket against his skin, and beneath it all, a quiet conviction that this life, unlike the last, would not be lived alone.
A nurse leaned closer, brow furrowed as she reached to unwrap him. "Doctor, he's not—"
"Let him be," Saburo's voice rumbled from the doorway, every syllable demanding stillness.
The nurse froze. As she stepped back, the newborn fixed his gaze on the man's face, unafraid and strangely discerning—more child than infant, more king than subject. In that charged silence, the world held its breath alongside him.
The clinic's sliding door whispered open, and Saburo Arasaka stepped inside—every inch the iron‑willed patriarch in his perfectly tailored suit, posture as rigid as the corporate towers that bore his name. He paused at the foot of the surgical table, eyes narrowing as he took in the motionless infant swaddled in white. The nurses exchanged uneasy glances; even the beeping monitors seemed hesitant to break the silence.
Saburo knelt, hands clasped behind his back. "Report," he said, voice low. The attending physician swallowed. "No sign of distress, sir. Heart rate steady but unusually calm. No crying, even in response to tactile stimuli. Genetic match confirms Yorinobu Arasaka and his late Kotetsu no Ryū lieutenant—mother, Himari, expired moments ago."
As Saburo studied the child's unblinking gaze, he felt something strange—an echo of power, an aura that belied the newborn's human frailty. It was as if the infant measured the room, weighing each individual's worth, calculating probabilities. In decades of life and conquest, Saburo had never encountered such presence in something so small.
He straightened and glanced at the silent monitors, then at the empty crib beside this tiny oracle. In all his years, purpose had begun to wane; the empire was secure, rivals neutralized, and even Yorinobu had settled back into the family fold. Yet here was a new variable—someone who might reshape everything.
Saburo tapped his commlink. "Initiate custody transfer," he instructed. "The child is to be registered under my direct household. All records are to remain classified." He looked back at the infant and allowed himself the faintest of smiles—a rare warmth. "I suppose I need something to occupy my old age."
In that moment, Ryu Arasaka's second life truly began: not as a mere heir, but as a charge personally chosen by the man whose gaze could still unnerve the hardest of board members. Beneath the crimson clinic lights, a silent pact was made—between grandfather and grandson, between power preserved and power reborn.