Sougo Haruto's first morning in KiryuuKizaki's body began with an unsettling kind of silence.
The kind that exists before the school bell rings, or before the first punch lands — a silence that tests whether you'll step forward or turn back.
He stood before the mirror for the umpteenth time, studying the new shadow staring back.
A round chin. Soft cheeks. Long hair falling over the forehead — not a style, just neglect.
A sleep shirt too tight at the belly yet loose at the shoulders; this body had no definition.
Sougo touched his stomach. Soft.
He let out a small laugh — not because it was funny, but because the irony hit perfectly: the street king who once ruled a city, now defeated by his own gravity.
"Okay," he said quietly, examining the veins at his wrist hidden beneath a layer of fat.
"You're not strong, but you're useful. I can work with useful."
Kiryuu's room was a museum of bad habits.
Empty energy drink cans in the corner, instant noodle packs not thrown away, an idol poster crooked on the wall.
On the desk, textbooks piled up — Math, Science, Language — all opened to early pages, as if started dozens of times and abandoned.
Beside them, a score slip. Sougo raised his brows at the numbers: 34, 28, 41.
Red-ink comments: "Please seek tutoring." "You can do better." "Focus, Kiryuu."
He chuckled again, lower this time. "Of course you can do better. Anyone can do better by just starting."
The floor was cold against his soles.
Sougo planted both hands on the ground and tried a push-up.
One. A burn in his shoulders.
Two. His belly hit the floor before his chest did.
His breath cut short. He sprawled on his back, staring at the slow-spinning fan.
In his old world, he began mornings with five hundred squats and a ten-kilometer run before sunrise.
Today, those numbers collapsed into something laughable.
But Sougo never hated a starting point — he only hated people who lied to themselves.
This body was weak. That was a fact.
And facts are the easiest raw material to shape.
He sat up, steadied his breathing, and opened the wardrobe.
The International Academy uniform hung neatly, the "KIRYUU KIZAKI" name tag stitched just above the chest.
On the lower shelf, nearly new running shoes — probably bought with good intentions and never used.
Sougo slipped them on carefully, double-knotted the laces, adjusted each toe.
He didn't like entering a war without preparing the armor.
From outside the room came the sound of dishes clinking.
A woman's voice — rough around the edges, tired but warm.
Sougo stepped into the dining area.
A woman in her late thirties — hair tied back, a strawberry-print apron — was pouring miso soup into bowls.
"Good morning," she said without turning, the practiced tone of a mother greeting a child who's always late.
"Breakfast is simple today. Your father left early."
Memories began dripping into his head — data about a family that wasn't his but now formed the background of his reality.
The woman was KizakiNaomi, his mother in this world; part-timer at a bakery, sleeps late, wakes early.
At the table sat a teenage girl scrolling her phone over toast; wavy hair, cynical eyes — Kizaki Rinka, his younger sister.
Rinka glanced up once. "Oh. The cave dweller leaves his room."
Sougo lifted a bowl and sat across from her. "Cave dweller?"
"Yeah. Nerd. Shut-in. The guy who only knows instant noodles and losing."
Sougo's smile was thin. "Then I suppose you're new to this cave."
Rinka frowned, didn't get it, and returned to her phone.
Naomi placed the food in front of him. "Eat before it gets cold, Kiryuu. And… your homeroom teacher called. She said summer break is almost over and you should revise."
"Okay," he replied, simple and flat.
Naomi watched him for a moment. Something about the way Kiryuu lifted his spoon — more certain. Something about the way he sat — straighter. Her eyes narrowed, puzzled.
But she chose silence. Mothers sometimes understand changes without needing to understand them.
Sougo ate calmly, savoring the salt of the miso, the softness of tofu, the cling of hot rice.
The senses of this body were the same as any human's; what changed was how someone used them.
He finished breakfast and washed his own bowl.
Naomi almost scolded — the old Kiryuu never did that — but Sougo had already returned to his room.
On the desk, he found a thin blue journal.
The old Kiryuu's handwriting trembled, small and cramped:
"I hate my face." "I hate going to school." "Why are the boys in Class D always mocking me?"
One page was scratched so hard it almost tore: "If I could start over, I would."
Sougo closed the journal. "You got your wish," he said. "Now let me do the rest."
He opened the window and let the morning air slip in.
Pale blue sky; neighbors hanging laundry; a dog barking at the end of the lane.
This wasn't the battlefield he knew, but every territory — if watched long enough — reveals its weaknesses and rhythm.
Sougo searched for that rhythm.
He started with small things: cleaning the room.
Posters down, trash out, books sorted, desk wiped clean.
Each object reset in place like arranging thoughts.
Then a schedule.
He grabbed a blank sheet and wrote with a fist-scarred hand:
PLAN: 8 WEEKS
— 5:00 a.m.: Wake, warm salt water, 10 min stretching
— 5:20 a.m.: Jog (start 2 km, add 0.5 km every two days)
— 6:00 a.m.: Push-ups (3 sets × max), Squats (3 sets × max), Plank (3 × 60s)
— 6:45 a.m.: High-protein breakfast, vegetables, black coffee
— 9:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m.: Study block (Math, Science, Language)
— 3:00 p.m.: Shadow boxing + footwork
— 7:00 p.m.: Light jog or swim
— 10:30 p.m.: Sleep
At the bottom he added a single line, a private note to the boy who once owned this body:
No excuses. Pain is the rent for a better life.
He taped the plan to the wall beside the mirror.
This time, the face in the glass looked more purposeful — still chubby, yes, but the eyes had changed.
Eyes of a man who knew what he wanted.
"Go get some fresh air," Naomi called from the living room. "Don't lock yourself inside all day."
Sougo took Kiryuu's loose jacket and tied the hair back.
As he went down the stairs, Rinka looked up and threw another dart of sarcasm.
"Try not to embarrass yourself out there, onii-chan."
He nodded once. "Thanks for the motivation."
The Kizaki neighborhood was a tight lattice of townhouses linked by low fences and flowerpots.
A few teen boys clustered at the end of the lane near a vending machine.
Sougo knew the type — not real gangsters, just small-time predators filling the vacuum left by discipline.
One of them, bleached hair, whistled when Sougo approached.
"Eh? Isn't that Kiryuu? The walking donut?"
Snickers followed.
Sougo stopped. He didn't look angry.
In fact, he looked calm.
The wind pushed the smell of sugary drinks and cheap cigarettes toward them.
He moved to pass by. A shoulder bumped his, rough.
"Don't ignore me, fatty."
Sougo turned his face toward him.
The boy's eyes reflected sunlight — empty, searching for an excuse to feel big.
Sougo smiled thinly, the same smile that had defused countless provocations in his old world.
"I'm not ignoring," he said. "I'm choosing."
"Choosing what?"
"To not waste time."
Bleach-hair's hand clenched on Sougo's collar — the reflex of a kid who thinks grabbing fabric equals power.
Sougo lifted his left hand and brushed the wrist aside — light but precise.
The boy's fingers recoiled and let go.
Sougo didn't stop; he stepped in half a pace and placed two fingers on the boy's chest between the ribs, pushing him back with a move that looked ordinary — but wasn't.
The boy hit the vending machine, breath hitching from the momentum.
"Hey!" another snapped, stepping in.
Sougo turned, just a glance, then angled his body.
His knee moved — not striking, merely touching the outside of the thigh at a point that killed the step.
The kid stumbled backward on his own.
No bone crunch, no theatrics — but respect flickered across their faces, sudden and real.
"Who the hell are you?" Bleach-hair asked, voice low.
Sougo tucked both hands into his pockets.
"Kiryuu Kizaki," he said, in a tone that asked for no approval.
"Remember the name properly this time."
They looked at each other, embarrassed and unsure.
Sougo left them without looking back. That was enough — message delivered.
He didn't need a bone-breaking brawl on day one.
He only needed this world to relearn its place.
He headed to the small park nearby, stretching and jogging loops around the playground.
His breath climbed fast; these lungs weren't strong yet.
But his feet kept moving.
Each lap added a small line to the record of his new life: I began.
He remembered the last moments on Kugure's field — rain, the roar, the metallic taste on his tongue.
The shift from death to life made every breath feel expensive.
After a few slow kilometers, Sougo returned home with his shirt soaked in sweat.
Naomi was startled — not because he was sweating, but because he was smiling.
"You went running?" Naomi asked.
"A little," Sougo said. "I'm starting today."
Naomi glanced at the wall clock. "It's still early… You look… good."
She stumbled at the end, as if complimenting her own son felt foreign.
"Thanks, Mom."
The word slipped out before he thought.
It felt awkward and warm at once.
Naomi answered with a small, tired smile.
In his room, Sougo showered long under cold water, letting it soothe muscles that had forgotten how to work.
Afterward, he wiped the mirror clean.
A new face stared back — not handsome yet, not impressive, but with a line of resolve at the lips and eyes.
He took a small pair of scissors and snipped the strands covering his forehead — not much, just enough to show his eyes.
At the desk, he picked up Kiryuu's phone and typed a draft message to himself:
Day 1 — Weight: unknown. Push-ups: 2. Run: 2.2 km. Pain level: manageable. Desire: high.
He saved it, then opened the Math book.
Sougo's mind was still sharp; numbers uncoiled from the page into patterns he recognized, like an old map misread and now obvious.
His hand moved fast.
Thirty minutes later, two practice sheets were done — clean, precise.
He exhaled, satisfied.
Outside, Rinka knocked without waiting and peeked in.
"What are you—" She stopped when she saw the tidy desk, the filled worksheets, and her brother looking… focused.
"Don't tell me you're trying to become a different person," she said, half-mocking.
Sougo looked at her for a beat. "I'm not trying."
Rinka raised a brow. "Then what?"
"I am."
The door clicked shut.
Sougo laughed softly.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a second, measuring the fatigue in his muscles and the satisfaction in his chest.
This new world might be full of traps, but one law never changes: break your habits, and you break your fate.
On the wall, the eight-week schedule looked like a promise.
Inside him, Sougo Haruto — who had once died — whispered to Kiryuu Kizaki — who was being born: Don't stop.
Outside, the sun climbed higher.
A blank summer break stretched before him — long enough to rebuild a man, short enough to shock an academy.
He stood, drew a long breath, and punched slowly at the air — just reminding his joints of the old language they used to speak.
"Two months," he told the mirror.
"When I come back… nobody will recognize me. And those who do — won't believe it."
The smile returned, carved deeper.
The rebirth truly began.
The summer sky paled over the Kizaki neighborhood.
Morning air pressed against his skin like damp mist, and the world stayed quiet except for Kiryuu's footsteps tapping the asphalt.
Day by day, his body relearned movements that had once been instinct.
Day 3:
His steps were still heavy, his breath short.
But this time he didn't stop.
Two kilometers became two and a half, then three.
He ran with no music, no aids — only the sound of shoes hitting ground and his own heartbeat.
Whenever the urge to quit came, he whispered to himself:
"Weak isn't a curse; it's just the first stage before strong."
After the run, he'd kneel, eyes closed, wait for the world to stop spinning, then stand.
This body was soft, but the soul inside it was hard.
Day 7:
Kiryuu's room had become a small training space.
A towel hung as a punching target.
Two cheap dumbbells in the corner.
A new chart on the wall, full of check marks.
Sweat dotted the floor as he cranked out push-ups with almost perfect form — twenty straight.
Rinka watched from the doorway, silent.
The little sister who once saw him as a joke wasn't sure whether to be impressed or afraid.
"You're weird, onii-chan."
Kiryuu smiled without stopping.
"Better weird than worthless."
Day 10:
Breakfast was no longer sweet bread or instant noodles — but boiled eggs, oats, and cold water.
Naomi watched from afar, no longer trying to advise him.
Something in the way her son held a cup, the way he stood, made her heart anxious — and proud.
Kiryuu recorded everything in a small notebook:
Push-ups: 40
Sit-ups: 60
Run: 5.4 km
Weight: down 2.3 kg
Kiryuu's handwriting was now steady, sharp, neat — a sign that the man in this body was no longer the trembling, chubby student who used to scribble.
Day 20:
The evening sky burned orange.
In the backyard, Kiryuu stood shirtless, studying his reflection in the glass door.
The muscles were still small, but shapes had begun to form.
Cheekbones clearer, shoulders broader.
He smiled — not at the body, but at the proof of effort.
"This is the body I should've had."
He ran, punched the air, kicked lightly, syncing breath to movement.
His body began to recall Sougo Haruto's old arts — balance, breath, control.
Day 30:
The change was obvious now.
Rinka stopped making jokes about his weight.
Neighbors murmured — "Kiryuu looks different lately."
Every morning he ran; every evening he swam in the small public pool two blocks away.
Sometimes other kids watched, tried his routine, and quit after two days.
Kiryuu never quit.
One afternoon, while he was stretching by the pool, a young man approached — short bleached hair, the same punk who'd shoved his shoulder in the lane.
"Hey… Kiryuu, right?"
Kiryuu turned, eyes calm.
"Yeah."
"You… changed."
"So should you."
The boy forced a smile and left.
This world bows quickly when you don't bow to it.
Day 45:
Every morning now began with the smell of black coffee, the snap of a jump rope, and the news radio from the kitchen.
Naomi no longer found it strange that her son woke before dawn.
Kiryuu could do 80 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and run 10 km without stopping.
Muscle shadows gathered under the skin — not big, but dense, athletic, alive.
He bought new training clothes with the old Kiryuu's savings — plain black gear, proper running shoes.
Wearing sunglasses in front of the mirror for the first time, he said:
"Now this looks more like me."
Day 60 (End of Summer):
A soft blue sky stretched above InternationalAcademy City.
A new season's wind carried the scent of first rain.
Kiryuu stood before the academy gates, uniform fitted perfectly.
But that wasn't what made students freeze — it was him.
His black hair was now short and layered, the top strands lifting lightly as if teased by wind — wild but controlled.
The front fell just above his brows, framing golden eyes sharp enough to pierce anyone who met them.
A few loose strands brushed his cheeks, creating an aura of "not entirely neat, but deliberately so."
At a glance, he looked like someone just back from a battle — not with wounds, but with a quiet victory.
The uniform hugged a very different body — wide shoulders, solid chest, clean waist.
He adjusted the black tie while studying his reflection in the lobby glass.
"Now this looks more like me."
A few girls at the gate double-took.
"Eh… who's that?"
"Did he transfer into Honors?"
"No way… that's Kiryuu Kizaki?"
The whispers spread like sparks on dry grass.
Kiryuu simply walked, unhurried, each step calm but coiled with energy.
In the elevator up to the fourth floor, two upperclassmen stood quietly in the corner.
They didn't speak, but their eyes had shifted — from condescension to respect.
Kiryuu didn't care.
This new world wasn't a place for explanations, but for action.
When the door to Class 1-F slid open, the room seemed to freeze.
Nineteen pairs of girls' eyes turned at once.
One covered her mouth, another sat straighter, another looked down in sudden self-consciousness.
Their teacher, MissHanabira, was writing on the whiteboard.
She stopped mid-stroke. The chalk slipped from her fingers.
"Kiryuu… Kizaki?"
He bowed politely, voice calm and deep:
"Good morning, sensei. Sorry I'm late."
Hanabira took a few seconds to answer, as if confirming she wasn't seeing an illusion.
"You… look different."
Kiryuu walked to his old seat — back row, by the window.
The girl beside him, MizunoAiri, glanced over with a small smile, unsure whether to be impressed or wary.
"What happened to you over the summer?"
Kiryuu didn't look up. He opened his notebook and began to write.
"I just decided to start living."
Airi let out a small laugh, but her eyes didn't leave his face.
At the front, Miss Hanabira tried to continue the lesson, though her gaze kept drifting toward Kiryuu — a first-year who now carried an aura no first-year should have.
Outside the window, leaves began to fall, marking the end of summer.
Inside the class, a new season began — one in which a single name would spread through the academy.
Kiryuu Kizaki, the reborn boy — a street genius, now the most dangerous freshman in school.