Cal Weston woke up to the soft hum of an electric fan and the absolutely wrong ceiling.
"…Huh?"
He blinked, sat up, and froze. This wasn't his bedroom.
This wasn't his mattress.
And for some unexplainable reason, his entire body felt… fantastic.
No neck pain.
No stiff back.
No morning allergies.
No existential dread from sleeping wrong on the pillow again.
For the first time in over a decade, Cal felt amazing.
"What the—?"
He pushed himself upright, more alert now, and scanned the room. The walls were plastered with posters of old school martial arts movies and advertisements for several MMA Tournaments. On a table lay rows of action figures in mid-action poses. On a long shelf, an entire army of trophies, medals, and plaques gleamed proudly in the early morning light.
Several framed photos of a young Asian man sat on a nearby desk. The man was smiling as he held a trophy, striking a pose mid-kick, or standing with teammates after some official-looking tournament.
On a separate wall hung an actual weapon rack. Wooden staffs, taichi swords, katanas, bo staffs, a pair of polished tonfas, and even a traditional Chinese spear.
This was not décor.
This was a shrine to martial arts excellence.
Cal swallowed.
Where am I? And more importantly… how did I get here?
He stumbled into the small bathroom attached to the room and splashed water on his face, thinking this would snap him back into his messy, cramped one-room apartment.
Then he looked into the mirror.
"WHAT THE—?!"
A stranger looked back at him. Young. Asian. Early twenties.
The same man from the photos.
Sharp jawline. Good skin. Clear eyes. Athletic build.
Cal jerked backward, slipped on a random T-shirt on the floor, then recovered with a perfect, balanced backward step.
"…Did I just use footwork?"
He stared at the mirror again, leaning close. His fingers traced along the sharp cheeks, the defined jawline, the straight nose. The face in the glass copied every movement in real time.
This wasn't him.
It couldn't be him.
Cal Weston was fifty years old, balding, and overweight since childhood. He was the type of person who was perpetually winded from walking two flights of stairs. The only exercise he did regularly was scrolling through webcomics.
This body?
This body looked like an athlete who actually used the gym membership Cal always wasted money on.
Curiosity rising, Cal lifted the loose T-shirt he was wearing.
And froze.
Abs.
ABS.
He had ABS.
Six clearly defined, deeply sculpted rectangles sat where his lifelong potbelly should have been.
"Oh hell yes," he whispered, grinning like a deranged lottery winner. "I HAVE ABS. I finally have abs."
A lifetime of muffin tops... gone.
A lifetime of buying XXXL shirts to hide my belly fat... gone.
A lifetime of not being able to see my d**k when I piss... GONE!
For scientific thoroughness, Cal tugged the waistband of his boxers and peeked.
"…Wow." He blinked. "Asian stereotype officially disproven. This young buck is seriously packing."
Feeling both satisfied and impressed, Cal got to work. Any normal person would be screaming, panicking, or questioning reality.
But Cal Weston was an otaku.
Transmigration stories were his mental bread and butter.
"…Okay, System! Appear!"
Silence.
"Open character window!"
Nothing.
"Menu! Stats! Inventory! Cheat screen!"
Still nothing.
Cal slumped onto the bed. "Not even a tutorial pop-up? Worst isekai starter pack ever."
He closed his eyes, concentrating hard, trying to pull up any memories belonging to this new body.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
"Crap. Looks like I'll have to CSI this place after all."
After nearly an hour of rummaging, Cal sat cross-legged, examining his finds. A laptop, a phone, a wallet, and a set of house keys.
He opened the wallet first.
"James Kai… Age 20… Lives in New York City."
He smirked. He just couldn't resist. "Ey, I'm walkin' heah—"
He immediately winced. "Nope. That sounded wrong. This guy is definitely not a native New Yorker."
Next was the phone, it unlocked easily. Thankfully, it was fingerprint-protected, not passcode-locked. Bless this man's laziness and lack of security awareness.
The instant it opened, dozens of message notifications flooded the screen.
Most of them are from someone named Alicia.
Friend? Girlfriend? Secret Lover?
Most messages mentioned training schedules, weapons mastery classes, sparring sessions, and exams.
"Martial arts club, huh? Makes sense with this body and this room. From the number of medals this guy has, he must be at the head of the class."
Knock knock!
Cal stiffened.
A woman's voice followed, thick with an Asian accent.
"James! Are you awake? Get up, or you'll be late!"
Before he could react, the door opened. A middle-aged woman with a laundry basket stepped inside and immediately launched into rapid-fire Cantonese.
Cal blinked.
Wait… why do I understand that?
The meaning translated in his mind as naturally as English.
Default language buff unlocked? Cal decided to take a gamble. Clearly, only a mother would nag a son first thing in the morning.
"Uh... Mom, stop. I'll clean my room. Promise."
The woman paused, frowning.
Oh crap... did I just make a mistake?
"Tch. 'Mom'? Are you feeling American now? What? Too good for your Chinese roots?"
A younger voice cut in. A teen girl with a mischievous smirk popped her head in.
"Ma, it's because he kept hanging out with all those Americans at the training school."
Cal didn't even need memories to understand sibling rivalry and teasing. He grimaced automatically.
She stuck her tongue out and skipped downstairs triumphantly.
Training school? Maybe this guy is studying to be a mechanic or an engineer.
The mother muttered more Cantonese about lazy, unfilial sons before telling him to come down and have breakfast with his father, brother, and sister. She left soon afterwards.
Probably to do the laundry.
Cal let out a long sigh.
"If I'm James Kai now, might as well start acting like him…"
He slipped into a pair of worn slippers and headed downstairs.
He turned the corner.
And froze.
Aside from James's sister, whom he met earlier, two other people sat at the dining table.
Two people dressed from head to toe in emerald green ninja uniforms, including masks, sashes, and tunics, slowly turned their heads toward him.
Their eyes met, and Cal's mind blanked.
"…Huh?"
The ninjas stared.
Cal stared back.
What the hell is going on with your family, James Kai?