Rain pattered softly against the grimy window of a small, dimly lit house. Thunder growled in the distance, low and angry, as if mourning something long lost. The windowpane trembled under each gust of wind, droplets streaking down like silent tears.
Inside, the flicker of a dying television cast pale shadows across peeling wallpaper and dust-covered picture frames. The furniture worn, sagging, and patched spoke of years not just lived in, but survived through. A cracked ceiling leaked into a rusted bucket. Drip… drip… drip. Each sound was a quiet reminder of how far things had fallen.
Slumped on a battered faux-leather couch was a man who looked twice his age.
Jordan Kai.
Once hailed as the Rising Sun of high school volleyball. A legend in the making. A name that had electrified gymnasiums and lit up regional headlines. Now, he was a shell of that promise.
A half-empty bottle of bargain whiskey dangled limply from one hand. In the other, a cigarette smoldered lazily between calloused fingers, its smoke curling into the musty air. The lines on his face were deeper than they should've been. His shoulders slouched like the weight of the world had finally broken them.
Only thirty. But he looked forty-five.
He sat in silence, eyes locked on the flickering screen in front of him.
It was a pro volleyball match. HD cameras panned across the court, capturing packed stadium seats, roaring fans, and the polished confidence of athletes in their prime.
One player leapt into the air.
His body curved mid-flight, graceful and explosive like a divine predator. A single beat of silence then BOOM he slammed the ball down with enough force to shake the screen.
The stadium erupted.
Jordan's lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace.
"Yeah…" he muttered, voice rough like sandpaper, "All six of them were gifted by the gods."
The commentator's voice blared through old speakers:
"And THAT'S the final point! Niko Ashura finishes it in style! Another win for the reigning champions. The Sky Kings remain untouchable!"
Jordan snorted.
"Niko Ashura," he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I used to play against him… back when I mattered."
The broadcast cut to replays, highlighting six players in slow motion each one introduced like gods of Olympus:
"Mika Fujimori the 'Clockmaker,' whose sets arrive at the perfect second. Yumi Hoshino reflexes sharp enough to cut lightning. Leo Takahara the strategic general. Arin Silva the ghost defender. Riku Tsukasa the Ace of Destruction. And of course… Niko Ashura, the Winged Demon. The Sky kings."
Jordan took a swig of whiskey.
His grip on the bottle tightened.
"Every damn one of them," he whispered, bitterness coating each word. "I could've been there. I should've been there."
He wasn't even angry at them. He was angry at himself.
At the kid who had quit right before regionals. Who cracked under pressure. Who let his dreams rot while others chased theirs to the sky.
He turned off the TV with a jab of the remote.
Darkness claimed the room.
"Fuck them," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. "I hope they all die."
Thunder cracked. A streak of lightning illuminated the room for a split second, throwing his shadow against the wall like a corpse.
He stood, swaying slightly. Tossed on his thin coat. Opened the door.
The rain greeted him like an old friend.
Each drop hit like a slap. But he didn't flinch. Didn't rush. He walked slowly down the sidewalk, eyes locked ahead as water soaked him to the bone.
Maybe he welcomed it.
Maybe he needed to feel something.
Then
SCREEEEEECH!
A blinding light. A deafening horn.
Jordan barely turned his head before impact.
CRASH.
Silence.
Look at that, he thought, as the world fell into shadow. I cursed them… and I'm the one who dies. Ironic.
His body felt distant. Like he'd already stepped outside of it. His mind was weightless, floating in a cold, gray void.
Damn… this is what dying feels like? No job. No home. No love. Just... empty. I wasted it all.
If there was a God, Jordan figured He must be laughing.
If I could go back… just once… I'd do it all differently. I'd play like my life depended on it. I'd never quit. Never fold.
A single tear one of shame, not fear rolled down his cheek.
Hell… maybe I'd become one of those Sky Kings myself.
[System Initializing…]
A sharp, digital chime pierced the void. Jordan's eyes fluttered open, though he wasn't sure he had eyes anymore. Blue text floated in front of him like a hologram.
[Welcome, Host.]
What the hell?
System Loading: 1%… 9%… 27%… 65%… 89%… 99%…
100%.
System Online.
Please choose a sport you want to play.
Jordan blinked.
Was this a dream?
No. It felt too real like something beyond logic.
"Is this hell?" he muttered. "Or did the universe finally grow a sense of humor?"
Three glowing panels appeared:
Team Sport
Individual Sport
Combat Sport
Jordan hesitated. Then scoffed. "Alright, system… if this is the afterlife, at least let me play something I loved."
He touched Team Sport.
A second screen unfolded:
Football
Baseball
Volleyball
Basketball
He didn't even blink.
"Volleyball."
The screen pulsed. A final line appeared:
[Selection Confirmed. Loading Memories… Rewinding Life… Recalibrating Body… Complete.]
Jordan's consciousness began to spiral, the light folding in around him. For a moment, he thought it was a cruel glitch, and that he'd fade out again forever.
But then
[Sport Protocol Complete.]
He jolted.
His eyes flew open.
No rain. No darkness. No pain.
Instead… sunlight.
He was standing in a school hallway.
His old school hallway.
Lockers lined the walls, squeaky sneakers squealed somewhere down the corridor, and a bell rang faintly in the distance.
"No… freaking… way," he whispered.
He looked down.
His arms lean, strong, smooth. His legs full of explosive power. His body it was the one he had at seventeen.
Frantic, he burst into the nearest restroom. Flicked on the light.
The cracked mirror didn't lie.
Jordan Kai seventeen-year-old Jordan Kai stared back at him. Short black hair. Clean skin. Sharp, youthful eyes.
Eyes that still had time.
His breath caught in his throat.
"The day before regionals…" he murmured. "The day I quit…"
Memories hit him like wavesbcoaches yelling, his parents fighting, teammates questioning his heart, the pressure choking him. He remembered walking away from it all.
And now… he was here again.
Alive.
[Volleyball System Activated.]
[Mission: Rewrite Your Legacy.]
[Title Unlocked: Regretful Reincarnator]
[Skill Acquired: Skybound Jump Lv.1]
[Daily Quest: Touch the Rim of the Gym Net x10]
Jordan stared at the glowing text.
His hand hovered in the air, reaching toward the screen, though it wasn't really there.
Slowly… a smile curled on his lips.
Not the tired, cynical grin of a broken man.
But the dangerous, hungry smirk of someone who'd just been reborn with fire in his chest.
He flexed his fingers.
"I've got a second chance…"
He stepped back into the hallway, breath hitching with every step.
"This time," he whispered, "I'm not running."
He thought of the Sky Kings.
Of the spotlight. The fire of the court. The feel of the ball smashing into his hand.
Of his legacy.
"This time… I'm spiking all the way to the top."