Chapter 1: Death Under the Tropical Sun
The heat of the Philippine afternoon was unforgiving.
The concrete court behind the barangay hall shimmered like it was alive, waves of heat rising from the cracked surface. The paint on the three-point line had long faded into a pale ghost of white, and the backboard bore spiderweb cracks that never seemed to change no matter how many years passed. The rim leaned slightly to the left, its net replaced by knotted nylon rope someone had salvaged from a fishing boat.
Yet to Leonardo Cruz, this court was sacred.
Sweat rolled down his neck and soaked into his sleeveless shirt as he dribbled the ball low, the familiar thump-thump echoing between rusted houses and half-open sari-sari stores. Kids sat on the sidelines, shouting advice that no one followed. Tricycles passed by, horns blaring, engines coughing like tired old men.
Leo's lungs burned, but his eyes were bright.
Basketball was the one thing that made sense.
He wasn't tall—barely six feet on a good day. He wasn't built like a powerhouse either, just lean muscle earned from endless games under the sun. No trainers, no gyms, no expensive shoes. Just instinct, repetition, and obsession.
He crossed over, slipped past a defender, and floated the ball off the glass.
Swish.
The sound wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
"Nice one, Kuya Leo!" a kid shouted.
Leo grinned and jogged back on defense. His heart hammered not from exhaustion, but excitement. Every move he made was a patchwork of everything he had ever loved—streetball tricks, NBA highlights watched on a cracked phone screen, and anime techniques he practiced alone at night.
Sometimes, when the court emptied and the sun dipped low, Leo imagined a different life.
A life where he had"talent."
Not just hard work.
Not just passion.
But real, undeniable talent.
He thought of characters like Kaede Rukawa, playing with icy confidence. Of Aomine Daiki, moving like freedom itself. Of players who were born with bodies that responded perfectly to their will.
Leo laughed softly at himself.
"Dreaming again," he muttered.
That night, rain poured like the sky had finally broken.
Leo walked home with his hood pulled low, shoes soaked, ball tucked under his arm. The road glistened under streetlights, reflections stretching like broken mirrors across the asphalt. He hummed quietly, replaying the day's games in his mind.
He never heard the truck.
The screech of tires came too late.
White light swallowed his vision.
Pain existed for a single heartbeat—then vanished.
And with it, the tropical heat.
---
When consciousness returned, the first thing Leo felt was cold.
Not the biting cold of fear or death—but a gentle, unfamiliar chill that seeped into his skin. The air smelled clean. Wooden. Old.
He opened his eyes.
Above him was a ceiling he didn't recognize. Wooden beams ran across it, smooth and well-kept. Sunlight filtered through paper windows, soft and pale instead of harsh and blinding.
He tried to move—and froze.
His body felt wrong.
Too light.
Too small.
"...What?" His voice cracked, higher than it should have been.
Panic surged.
Leo bolted upright, heart racing. His gaze darted around the room: tatami mats, a low table, a neatly folded school uniform hanging nearby. No electric fan humming. No concrete walls stained by time.
This wasn't his house.
This wasn't even his country.
He stumbled to a mirror mounted near the door.
The face that stared back at him was young—sharp eyes, pale skin, messy black hair that refused to lie flat. Not the face of a Filipino man in his twenties.
But a Japanese teenager.
Leo's knees weakened.
"Am I… dreaming?"
Memories surged like a flood breaking through a dam.
Names. Places. School corridors. A basketball gym.
Hayato Kurogane.
Fourteen years old.
Middle school graduate.
Kanagawa Prefecture.
Leo grabbed the edge of the mirror, breathing hard.
"These memories…"
They weren't his.
And yet—they fit.
Then realization struck him with terrifying clarity.
Kanagawa.
Shohoku.
Sannoh.
His breath caught.
"No way…"
Before the thought could fully form, a sound echoed—not in the room, but inside his mind.
> [Initializing…]
The voice was calm. Mechanical. Emotionless.
A translucent interface unfolded before his eyes, glowing faint blue.
> [Primal Ascension System — Successfully Bound] Host: Hayato Kurogane Soul Verification: Complete Origin: Reincarnated Soul (Foreign)
Leo—Hayato—stared at the floating panel.
A system.
A real one.
His mouth went dry.
"So this is how it starts…"
The interface shifted.
> [System Faction: Predator Path] Strength is not given. It is taken.
A pressure spread through his chest, deep and heavy, like something ancient had stirred awake.
The panel changed again.
> [Primal Wildness Detected] Classification: Apex Predator Form Identified: Siberian Tiger Status: Dormant
The room darkened.
Behind the interface, an enormous shadow manifested.
A tiger.
Massive. White fur streaked with black. Its eyes were calm, glacial, and utterly merciless. It didn't roar. It didn't bare its fangs.
It simply watched.
Leo's breathing slowed despite himself.
This presence wasn't chaotic.
It wasn't wild madness.
It was dominance.
> [Wildness Description] The Siberian Tiger is patience incarnate. It does not waste movement. When it strikes, the outcome is already decided.
A shiver ran down his spine.
In his past life, Leo had played desperately—always chasing, always proving himself.
This wildness was different.
It didn't chase.
It claimed.
The interface settled into place.
> [Welcome, Host.] [Your new hunt begins now.]
Hayato closed his eyes.
Somewhere, beyond this quiet Japanese room, a basketball court waited.
And this time—
He wouldn't just be another dreamer under the sun.