I don't remember the exact moment I died.
It wasn't heroic. It wasn't dramatic. Just a snap, a flicker, and then nothing.
And then… I opened my eyes as a crying newborn.
Now, four years later, I still wasn't used to it.
Reincarnation sounded cool in theory, but living through it was something else entirely. Especially when you carried memories from your past life like an old backpack bursting at the seams.
My name in this world was Ren Amatsuki.
A normal four-year-old boy on the outside.
A mentally exhausted adult on the inside.
But the strangest part wasn't reincarnation.
It was the knowledge fragment in my mind — as if someone took a giant encyclopedia about blood magic, biomancy, body enhancement, potions, regeneration theory, tore out random pages, and stuffed them into my skull.
Incomplete. Broken. Disorganized.
Useful, yes — but unstable.
Like trying to build a house using only half the blueprint.
Sometimes it helped.
Sometimes it gave me headaches bad enough to make me lie on the floor.
I didn't know where it came from.
A gift? A glitch? A mistake?
No answer.
From the kitchen, a familiar cough, and then the clatter of utensils.
"Ren? You awake yet?" Mom calls.
Her voice is always warm, even when she sounds exhausted. She works late, comes home late, and still wakes early to take care of me as if sleep is optional.
I push open the sliding door and walk toward her. My steps are still a bit wobbly, which she finds "cute." Personally, it's embarrassing.
She turns with a soft smile. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Her apron is crooked. Her hair a messy bun. Her eyes tired but alive.
Amatsuki Haruka — the strongest person I've met across two lives.
I sit at the table, and she serves breakfast: miso soup, rice, pickled veggies.
"Eat slowly," she reminds.
I never do. Reincarnation didn't fix my habits.
As we eat, she hesitates, tapping her chopsticks nervously.
"Ren… Mommy might need to move for work soon."
I blink. "Move?"
She nods, trying to hide the worry in her eyes.
"It's a better branch. Safer neighborhood. More opportunities."
She forces a smile. "Maybe you'll make new friends."
And then she adds:
"We're moving next week. My job needs me in Kouh Town."
The name freezes my blood.
Kouh.
A cozy Japanese town that — in fiction — was the home of devils, fallen angels, dragons, and more supernatural disasters than any sane human should ever deal with.
But now I know this isn't fiction.
It's real.
My hands shake a little as I hand Mom the tape for sealing boxes.
"Are you alright?" she asks softly.
"…Just thinking."
She laughs. "You think a lot for a four-year-old."
Yeah. Because I might end up living next door to beings who could erase me with a finger.
When Mom leaves for work, the apartment grows silent.
I sit near the window, staring outside.
Kids chasing each other.
A lady hanging clothes.
Cars passing by.
Normal things.
But beneath all that normalcy… something else. Something wrong.
In my previous life, I was just a normal guy. No magic, no supernatural senses. But reincarnation changed something in me.
My soul feels sharper, if you can say that.
I press my palm against my chest, focusing.
There — deep inside — a tiny spark.
A flicker.
A warmth that shouldn't exist in my previous life.
I exhale slowly.
This isn't an ordinary world.
And the moment that thought surfaces, memories follow.
Dragons. Devils. Angels. Sacred Gears.
A certain anime.
A familiar setting.
I walk to the balcony and look at the sky.
Blue sky. Drifting clouds. Birds.
Everything looks normal.
But now i know.
Supernatural exists here.
Hidden.
Sleeping.
Watching quietly.
This isn't just Japan.
This is the world of High School DxD.
My heart sinks.
One of the most dangerous anime-verses ever created — especially if you count EXE, which (honestly) felt like the author was having an off month.
And I'm here. As a four-year-old.
With no powers.
No protection.
And a mother who has no idea what lurks in the shadows.
I swallow my fear and force myself to breathe.
Okay. Don't panic. If I'm the same age as Issei, I have around twelve years before canon begins.
I can prepare.
But that tiny spark in my chest flickers again.
Twelve years… might not be enough.