Tokyo, Japan. 2:47 AM.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh white glow the only illumination in the empty office building. Takeshi Yamamoto sat hunched at his desk, surrounded by towers of reports and documents that seemed to multiply no matter how many he finished. His coffee had gone cold three hours ago, a thin film forming on the surface of the dark liquid. His phone lay face-down on the desk, the notification light blinking steadily—seventeen missed calls from his mother that he'd ignored because he didn't have time for family drama right now.
Project deadlines waited for no one.
Thirty-two years old, and this was his life. No wife because he'd never had time to date seriously. No kids because kids required a life outside the office. No hobbies, no friends—the ones he'd had in college had given up trying to reach him years ago. Just this cubicle, these reports, and the constant pressure of expectations that never seemed to end.
His chest tightened.
Takeshi paused mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the quarterly projection sheet, and pressed his left hand against his sternum. A dull ache had been building there for the past hour, the kind of pressure that felt like someone was slowly squeezing his ribcage. Probably just stress. Nothing a few antacids couldn't handle, and he had a bottle in his desk drawer somewhere under the spare pens and old receipts.
He'd been getting these pains for weeks now, little warning signs that he'd shoved aside because he couldn't afford to take time off. The Nakamura account needed his attention. The quarterly reports were due. His boss had specifically said this project was make-or-break for his promotion chances. Too much to do, too many people depending on him to deliver results.
The tightness intensified, spreading from his chest into his left arm.
"Not now," Takeshi muttered, reaching blindly for his water bottle with his right hand. His left arm felt heavy, sluggish, like he'd slept on it wrong. "Just need to finish this report and I can go home, take something for this..."
The pain exploded.
It wasn't a gradual increase this time. One second he was uncomfortable, the next it felt like someone had driven a steel spike directly through his sternum and was twisting it deeper with every heartbeat. His vision blurred at the edges. The water bottle slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the floor, rolling away under the desk.
He tried to stand but his legs wouldn't cooperate, muscles refusing to respond to commands his brain was screaming. The world tilted violently sideways. His shoulder hit the edge of the desk, papers scattering in a cascade of white across the gray industrial carpet. His legs gave out completely and he collapsed, one hand clutching uselessly at his chest while the other reached out for something, anything to hold onto.
This wasn't stress. This wasn't something antacids could fix.
This was his heart.
Panic flooded through him in a cold wave, cutting through even the blinding pain in his chest. A heart attack. He was having a heart attack at thirty-two years old, alone in an empty office building at three in the morning, and there was no one here to help him because everyone else had gone home hours ago like sensible people with actual lives.
His phone was on the desk, just a few feet away, but it might as well have been on the moon. He couldn't make his arm reach that far. Couldn't make his fingers work well enough to dial. Couldn't even call out for help because his lungs weren't pulling in enough air to form words.
"Help..." The word came out as a pathetic wheeze, barely audible even to himself.
The darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, a closing tunnel that narrowed his world to just the pattern of the carpet fibers inches from his face. The fluorescent lights seemed dimmer now, their buzzing fading into a distant drone. His chest felt like it was caught in a vise that kept tightening, tighter, until he couldn't tell if his heart was beating too fast or if it had stopped entirely.
Time became strange, elastic. Seconds might have been minutes. Minutes might have been hours. Takeshi couldn't tell anymore.
Thoughts fragmented, breaking apart like glass.
I'm dying. This is it. This is actually how my life ends.
Thirty-two years old and I'm dying alone on an office floor at three in the morning.
The injustice of it cut through even the pain and panic. Thirty-two wasn't old. People lived to seventy, eighty, ninety these days. He should've had decades ahead of him, years to do all those things he'd been putting off until he had more time.
But he'd never had time. Never made time.
What did I even do with thirty-two years?
Worked. That's all. Just... worked.
He'd climbed the corporate ladder, pulled eighty-hour weeks, sacrificed his twenties on the altar of quarterly earnings and performance reviews. And for what? So the company could post slightly higher profits this quarter? So his boss could get a bonus while Takeshi got another stack of reports and a pat on the head about being "reliable"?
No family. Mom's calls sitting ignored on my phone because I was too busy. Too important. Too much to do.
The friends I had gave up calling years ago when I cancelled plans for the hundredth time.
Never traveled. Never learned that instrument I wanted to play. Never wrote that novel I had ideas for back in college.
Never lived. Not really. Just existed in this office, doing work that'll be forgotten a week after I'm gone.
For what? What was the point of any of it?
The pain was fading now, replaced by a strange numbness that spread from his chest outward through his limbs. Not relief—he knew instinctively that this was worse than pain. This was his body shutting down, systems failing one by one as his heart gave up the struggle.
The darkness wasn't just at the edges anymore. It was everywhere, swallowing the world bite by bite.
This isn't fair.
I should've had more time.
Should've lived, actually lived, not just existed like some corporate drone trading life for a paycheck.
If I could do it over...
The thought felt important, urgent, like maybe if he held onto it hard enough he could change what was happening. As if wanting something badly enough could rewrite reality.
If I had another chance, I'd choose differently.
I'd live for myself. Build my own path. Never let anyone control my time like this again.
I'd find something worth dying for instead of dying for nothing.
Power. That's what I needed. The power to say no. To choose. To be free.
The power to never be trapped like this again.
Takeshi's hand, still pressed against his chest, went limp. His fingers relaxed, falling away to rest on the carpet. The last thing he felt was the steady cooling of his own body, warmth bleeding away into the conditioned office air.
His last conscious thought was a desperate, futile wish.
If reincarnation is real... if there's any force in the universe listening... let me do it over. Let me try again.
I'll do it right this time. I swear.
Then nothing.
Silence pressed in from all sides, absolute and total. No pain. No light. No sound. No sensation at all. Just void, stretching on forever in all directions, a black emptiness that had no beginning or end.
Takeshi Yamamoto ceased to exist.
For a long time—it might have been seconds or centuries, time had no meaning here—there was only that nothingness.
Then, slowly, something changed.
Not light, not exactly. More like... awareness. A gradual realization that consciousness still existed, that whatever he was still thought, still felt, even without a body to think or feel with.
I'm... still here?
Dead but aware. Is this the afterlife? Some kind of limbo?
Before he could process that thought further, the void shifted. Reality bent.
And suddenly there was warmth.
Not the harsh burning of pain, but gentle heat that wrapped around him from all directions. Pressure too, not crushing but embracing, like being held. And sound—a rhythmic thumping that surrounded him, steady and strong and somehow familiar.
A heartbeat.
But not his own.
Understanding crashed into him with shocking clarity, impossible and undeniable at the same time.
A womb. I'm in a womb.
I reincarnated. I actually reincarnated into a new body.
The realization should've been impossible. People didn't come back after death. Consciousness didn't transfer into new bodies like some kind of cosmic recycling program. That was the stuff of fiction, of fantasy novels and anime that he'd consumed during lunch breaks when work was slow.
But here he was, aware and thinking despite having died, floating in warmth and surrounded by the steady rhythm of someone else's heartbeat.
How? Why? Did my wish somehow... no, that's ridiculous. Wishes don't work like that.
Unless they do. Unless something heard me and decided to give me exactly what I asked for.
A second chance.
Before he could wrap his mind around the implications, something new appeared in his consciousness. Not something he saw with eyes—he didn't have those yet—but something that manifested directly into his awareness, like text written on the inside of his thoughts.
[PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION SYSTEM]
═══════════════════════════════
Initialization Complete
Status: In-Womb Development Phase
Welcome, Takeshi Yamamoto.
You have been granted a second chance at life in the world of "Shadow of Eternal Night."
This system will aid your growth and survival.
═══════════════════════════════
Takeshi's thoughts stuttered to a halt.
A system. An actual cheat system like in those reincarnation stories I used to read.
And... "Shadow of Eternal Night"? That's...
Recognition slammed into him. That was the web novel he'd been following obsessively for the past two years, the cultivation story about a protagonist who rose from nothing to challenge gods themselves. Four hundred chapters of detailed worldbuilding, power systems that ranged from F-rank all the way to cosmic-tier entities, a plot he knew forwards and backwards because he'd read each chapter multiple times while waiting for updates.
He'd fantasized about living in that world, about what it would be like to exist somewhere that personal power was achievable, where you could transcend human limitations through effort and cultivation instead of being trapped by economics and circumstance.
And now—
I'm actually there. I reincarnated into the world of my favorite novel.
With a system.
This is...
A flood of emotions crashed through him. Shock and disbelief warred with hope and excitement. Underneath it all, like a current in deep water, burned a fierce determination that had been kindled in his final moments and now roared to life.
I died powerless, trapped by a system I couldn't escape, forced to trade my life for someone else's profit.
This time will be different.
This world has cultivation. Power systems. Ways to transcend mortal limits.
And I have a system to help me.
I'll get strong. Stronger than anyone realizes. Strong enough that I never have to answer to anyone again.
Strong enough to be truly, completely free.
The system pulsed in his awareness again, information flowing directly into his consciousness.
[PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION SYSTEM]
═══════════════════════════════
Current Status: Fetal Development (Month 3 of 9)
Initial Amplification Process Initiated:
Bloodline: Amplifying to Primordial-tier
Physique: Amplifying to Primordial-grade
Essence Capacity: Amplifying to Primordial-level
Ocular Ability: Amplifying to Primordial Sovereign Eyes
All amplifications will complete before birth.
Current development proceeding normally.
Note: Upon awakening ceremony at age 5, elemental/conceptual affinities will be amplified to Primordial Rank (Space, Time, Sword)
Automatic concealment protocols will activate to mask true capabilities.
═══════════════════════════════
Primordial. That's... that's beyond anything the novel described in the early chapters.
He'd read about the ranking systems. F through SSS and beyond, each tier representing massive jumps in power. The protagonist in the novel had started at F-rank with decent talent and climbed through determination and plot armor.
But Primordial-tier? That implied something beyond the normal scale entirely, some kind of foundational power that predated the regular ranking system.
And the system is giving me that. Not as my starting point for cultivation—that'd be too obvious—but as my potential, my hidden foundation.
It's making me into something that shouldn't exist.
And hiding it so no one will know.
Smart. Incredibly smart. If he manifested that kind of power from birth, he'd be hunted down by every major faction wanting to control or eliminate a potential threat. But hidden, concealed behind what appeared to be normal or slightly above average talent?
That gave him time. Time to grow, to learn, to build his strength in secret while everyone else remained oblivious.
Perfect. I can work with this.
He felt the amplification process at work, subtle changes occurring at a fundamental level. The system was rewriting his existence from the ground up, taking whatever natural potential this new body would've had and pushing it to impossible heights.
Bloodline, physique, essence capacity, even his eyes—everything was being enhanced, optimized, transformed into something beyond mortal limits.
And he got to experience it all from the inside, feeling his very being reshaped by forces he couldn't fully comprehend.
Months passed in the darkness of the womb.
Time moved strangely here. Sometimes hours felt like minutes, consciousness drifting in and out as development continued. Other times minutes stretched endlessly, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the steady beat of his mother's heart.
He thought a lot during those months of waiting.
About his previous life and all the things he'd failed to do. About this new world and the opportunities it offered. About the novel's plot that he knew in detail—who the protagonist was, where he'd be born, what major events would unfold over the next centuries. About power and freedom and what it would take to achieve true independence.
But mostly, he thought about the system and what it had given him.
Primordial Rank in Space, Time, and Sword. Those are some of the rarest, most powerful concepts in the novel's lore.
Space manipulation let you ignore distance, teleport, even cut through dimensional barriers at high levels.
Time abilities were even rarer, allowing perception manipulation, temporal acceleration, maybe even limited time reversal for absolute masters.
And Sword as a concept? That was pure offensive might, the ability to cut anything given sufficient mastery.
Combined with Primordial-tier physique and bloodline?
I'll be able to train faster, comprehend techniques more easily, progress through ranks at speeds that should be impossible.
But it'll all be hidden. The system's concealment protocols mean everyone will see normal or slightly above average talent.
They'll never know what I really am until I choose to reveal it.
And by then, it'll be too late for them to stop me.
The thought brought satisfaction, cold and calculating. He wasn't interested in ruling others or building an empire. That was just trading one cage for another. No, what he wanted was simpler and somehow more profound.
Freedom. Pure, absolute freedom.
The kind of freedom that came from being so powerful that no one could impose their will on you, no force could compel you, no threat could touch you.
That required strength. Overwhelming, undeniable strength.
And with this system, with this new body and its hidden potential, he could achieve it.
I just need to be patient. Play the role. Grow in secret while maintaining whatever cover the system provides.
Learn the world. Master its power systems. Build my foundation brick by brick.
And in time, when I'm ready, I'll be strong enough that nothing can ever trap me again.
The system pulsed regularly through those long months, providing updates on development, tracking the amplification process, monitoring his physical growth. It never spoke unnecessarily, never offered advice or commentary, just presented information when relevant.
Perfect. He didn't need a guide or a mentor or some AI personality trying to direct his choices.
He needed a tool, and that's exactly what the system was. A tool to facilitate his growth, nothing more and nothing less.
As the ninth month approached, he felt changes accelerating. The space around him grew tighter, more confining. Movement became possible in ways it hadn't been before—kicks and turns that made his mother's voice filter through from outside, muffled but present.
"He's active today," she said, sounding pleased. "Strong kicks. Maybe we'll have another warrior like Kael."
A different voice, deeper. "Or a scholar like Elara. Either way, the child will bring honor to House Silverion."
House Silverion. That's my family name in this world.
And from their conversation, I have siblings. Multiple siblings.
He filed away the information, building a picture of his new circumstances from scattered comments and conversations he could barely hear through the barrier of flesh and fluid.
Nobility. Multiple siblings. A house name that was spoken with pride. Northern territories. Military strength.
Good. Being born into a powerful family gave him resources and protection while he was weak. Time to grow without immediate threats.
He could work with this.
Finally, after nine months of darkness and thought and waiting—
Movement. Real movement, not the gentle floating he'd grown accustomed to but something urgent and purposeful. Pressure from all directions, squeezing, pushing, forcing him toward something.
Birth. It's happening.
Instinct took over. He'd never been born before—not in this body, anyway—but somehow his new form knew what to do. Push when pressure came. Move with the contractions. Work with the process instead of fighting it.
Light exploded into his awareness, shockingly bright after nine months of darkness.
Sound hit next, no longer muffled but sharp and clear—voices, movement, the ambient noise of a room full of people.
Cold air touched his skin for the first time and he gasped, reflexive and automatic.
His lungs expanded. Air rushed in. And then—
He cried.
A baby's wail, high and piercing, announcing his arrival into the world.
"It's a boy!" someone shouted, joyful and relieved.
Hands lifted him, gentle despite their size, and a moment later he was wrapped in soft cloth. Through blurry, unfocused vision, he caught glimpses of the room around him—stone walls lit by glowing crystals, multiple figures in various positions, everyone focused on him.
Then he was placed on someone's chest, skin to skin, and for the first time he saw her face clearly.
His mother.
Exhausted but radiant, dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looked at him with pure, undiluted love.
"Hello, little one," she whispered, voice rough but gentle. "Welcome to the world."
Something cracked in Takeshi's chest—no, not Takeshi anymore, that person had died on an office floor—in Ashen's chest.
In his previous life, he'd ignored his mother's calls. Pushed away family in favor of work. Died alone because he'd prioritized everything except the people who actually cared about him.
This woman didn't know him yet. Couldn't know the adult consciousness inhabiting her newborn son's mind. But she looked at him like he was the most precious thing in existence anyway.
I won't waste this. Won't take it for granted like I did before.
A shadow fell across them. The deep voice from before spoke, closer now.
"Let me see him."
His mother shifted, and Ashen found himself looking up at a stern face framed by silver hair. Hard eyes that had seen battle, a jaw set in what looked like permanent determination.
Then the man smiled, and his whole face transformed.
"He has your eyes, Seraphina," his father said quietly, one calloused finger gently touching Ashen's tiny hand. "Golden like morning sunlight. Beautiful."
More faces crowded around—four of them, ranging from adult to child, all leaning in to see the new arrival.
"He's so small!" A girl's voice, young and excited.
"All babies are small, Lyra." That was an older female voice, amused.
"Is he going to train with us?" A boy, eager.
"Not for a few years, Kael. Let him grow first." The oldest voice, male and measured.
His siblings. Four of them, just like the system had implied. A family, complete with parents who cared and siblings who seemed at least curious about his existence.
So different from before.
Last time I had a mother I ignored and no siblings at all.
This time...
The system pulsed one final time in his consciousness.
[PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION SYSTEM]
═══════════════════════════════
Birth Successful
Name: Ashen Silverion
Age: 0 years, 0 days
Family: House Silverion (Ducal family, Northern Territories)
Status: All amplifications complete and active
Concealment: Active (true capabilities hidden)
Welcome to your second life, Ashen Silverion.
Awaiting age 5 awakening ceremony for affinity amplification.
═══════════════════════════════
His mother held him close, warm and safe and loved. Around him, his new family welcomed him with joy and curiosity.
Somewhere deep in his infant mind, beneath the helplessness of a newborn body and the vast gulf between what he knew and what he could express, determination burned like a star.
Ashen Silverion. That's who I am now.
And this time, I'll build a life worth living.
I'll get strong. Stronger than anyone imagines.
I'll protect the people who love me.
And I'll be free. Truly, completely free.
No matter how long it takes.
No matter what I have to do.
The baby in Duchess Seraphina's arms seemed to smile, a tiny expression that made her laugh with delight.
"Oh, he's going to be trouble, I can tell already."
His father chuckled. "All Silverion sons are trouble. It's tradition."
They had no idea how right they were.
Or how wrong.
Ashen closed his eyes, exhausted from the trauma of birth, and let himself drift into sleep.
A second chance at life.
He wouldn't waste it.
Not this time.