Than came a sharp, decisive knock rattled my bedroom door, cutting through the whirlwind of my impossible new reality. It wasn't a timid tap; it was the sound of someone who had places to be and expected you to be ready.
"Kaito? You up? You're going to be late for your dungeon registration!"
The voice.
My god, that voice. It was like a ghost from a life I hadn't lived in a decade, achingly familiar and laced with a melody that sent a cascade of forgotten memories through my scrambled brain.
It was Sakura Tanaka. My childhood friend. My first crush. The girl who had moved away in my junior year of high school, leaving a Kaito-shaped hole in my social life that I'd promptly filled with video games and awkward silence.
I hadn't seen her since, and yet, hearing her voice was like coming home
Before I could process the "dungeon registration" part of that sentence, the door opened.
And she walked in.
But it was a Sakura who had been sculpted by the gods even in this inverted world.
She was 18, just like me, but she carried herself with a confidence I had never seen.
The girl I remembered was a sweet, sometimes clumsy friend who laughed at my terrible jokes. This was not that girl.
This was a woman who looked like she ate terrible jokes for breakfast and then bench-pressed the jesters who told them.
She was eighteen, the same as my new, unwelcome beta-version body, but she carried herself with an unshakeable confidence that I had never possessed in my entire 28 years of life.
She was petite, maybe five-foot-three, but her body was a testament to athletic perfection. Lean muscle, honed by whatever "dungeon registration" meant, defined her arms and legs. Her long black hair was tied back in a practical ponytail, and her bright green eyes, the same eyes I remembered from my dreams, sparkled with life.
And her clothes. Oh, god, her clothes.
My 28-year-old, terminally-online brain, a veteran of countless fantasy RPGs and anime tropes, could only process what she was wearing as combat lingerie.
It was a masterpiece of tactical impracticality, a form-fitting, dark green top that was little more than a reinforced sports bra, leaving her toned midriff completely bare.
The material looked like a cross between worn leather and some kind of high-tech carbon fiber, with subtle stitching that seemed to trace the lines of her formidable abdominal muscles.
Just above her hip, a small, pale white scar, shaped like a jagged lightning bolt, traced a delicate line against her tanned skin—a silent, beautiful testament to a battle won.
Her shorts were black, tight, and criminally short, disappearing into the powerful curve of her thighs. They were held up by a belt with a strange, metallic buckle that looked more like a piece of arcane technology than a simple fastener.
Strapped to her outer thighs were a pair of gleaming daggers, their hilts wrapped in dark leather. The harnesses that held them were a marvel of engineering, drawing even more attention to the long, athletic lines of her legs.
She looked like a video game character I would have spent an entire weekend customizing, and my reincarnated teenage body was reacting with all the subtlety of a car alarm in a library.
She smiled, a bright, easy smile that made my heart do a backflip. "There you are, sleepyhead. I was about to come drag you out of bed myself."
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My brain had blue-screened. All cognitive function had ceased. The only systems still running were my cardiovascular system, which was attempting to break the sound barrier, and my reproductive system, which was staging a full-scale, and very noticeable, rebellion.
Sakura's smile faltered, replaced by a look of concern. She tilted her head, her ponytail swinging. "Kaito? Are you okay? You look… pale. And you're blushing. Are you running a fever?"
She stepped closer, and the air around me shifted.
There was a faint, clean scent of ozone and steel, mixed with the ghost of cherry blossoms, a fragrance I hadn't smelled in ten years. She reached out, intending to press the back of her hand against my forehead.
Her skin was cool, her fingers calloused in a way that spoke of holding a sword, not a pen. The instant her skin made contact with mine, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shot through my system. It wasn't just a spark; it was a full-system power surge, frying every last one of my remaining circuits.
I flinched back as if I'd been burned, stumbling over my own feet and landing in a heap on the floor.
"Whoa!" she said, her eyes wide with surprise. "Kaito, what's wrong with you? You're acting weirder than usual."
I lay there on the floor, a pathetic heap of teenage awkwardness and adult confusion, staring up at this impossible, beautiful, terrifying girl.
My childhood friend. My first crush. Dressed like a warrior goddess from a fantasy world I'd only ever seen on a screen.
Talking about "dungeon registration" as if it were as normal as taking out the trash. In a world where everything was upside down and inside out.This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a coma. This was my new reality.
And I, Kaito Yamada, the 28-year-old virgin hero, had just been reincarnated into what was either the greatest or the worst possible version of hell imaginable.
And as I stared up at the goddess in combat lingerie, with my heart hammering against my ribs and a blush that could be seen from space, I had a feeling I was about to find out which.