"Hmmm… ♪ The great fortress I built is invincible!"
The words hummed through my teeth, a tiny anthem of triumph in a room that smelled of stale ramen and dust. On the flickering TV screen, a masterpiece of digital architecture stood defiant. A massive invading army of monsters—beasts with jagged tusks and eyes like burning coals—was being systematically repelled.
My thumbs danced over the worn controller. I didn't need to look at the buttons. They were extensions of my soul.
From the towering walls, magic and arrows rained down in rhythmic sheets of gold and steel. One after another, the monsters dissolved into pixels. If anything survived the initial barrage, the elite Knight Golems—my personal creation—stepped forward. They were silent, stoic, and utterly loyal. They finished the job with heavy, metallic finality.
Then, the golden script bloomed across the screen:
GAME CLEARED
"Yes!"
I leaned back, my spine popping against the floor. I had seen those words countless times, yet the rush never faded. It filled the hollow cavern in my chest with a deep, fleeting sense of accomplishment. In that digital world, I was the architect. I was the protector. I was the one who decided who lived and who died.
I was powerful.
Just as I was savoring that warmth—that rare, fragile spark of joy—the world outside the screen corrected itself.
The front door burst open.
The sound wasn't just a noise; it was a physical blow that shattered the silence of the apartment.
BANG.
I reacted instantly, my heart leaping into my throat. I glanced at the clock.
Two in the afternoon.
Too early. Way too early. He shouldn't be home for another four hours.
Panic, sharp and cold, flooded my veins. I didn't think; I moved. I lunged for the console, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the power button. I shut it off—the disc still spinning inside with a soft, dying whir—and rushed to shove the unit into the dark cupboard beneath the TV.
If he saw it, it was gone. If he saw it, I was done.
But I was too slow. Fear had turned my movements clumsy.
BAM!
My bedroom door was kicked open. The wood groaned, the handle punching a hole in the plaster.
"Hey."
The voice was like gravel being ground under a boot.
"W-What? Teppei… were you playing games again?"
"Y-Yes..."
I turned around slowly, my knees shaking. I was still holding the console, the wires trailing behind me like umbilical cords.
My father stood in the doorway. He didn't look like a man; he looked like a storm. He was drunk—I could smell the sour, fermented stench from across the room. His face was a bruised shade of red. His eyes were bloodshot and irritated, darting around the room with a predatory hunger. I knew that look. It was the look he wore after losing everything at the pachinko parlor.
He strode toward me. Every footstep felt like an earthquake.
"You've got it easy, don't you, Teppei? While I'm out there struggling… while I'm being humiliated by the world… you're in here playing?"
His voice rose with every word, a crescendo of misplaced resentment.
"I... I finished my chores, I—"
"Shut up!"
The next thing I knew—Impact.
There was no sound at first. Only the sudden, violent displacement of my head. My body twisted sideways, the console slipping from my hands and hitting the floor with a plastic crack.
Only after I saw the floor coming toward me did I realize I'd been hit.
A delayed, throbbing pain bloomed in my temple, radiating outward like a dark flower. My vision swam.
"You should suffer too!" he roared.
A kick slammed into my stomach.
It was a dull, heavy thud. The air left my lungs in a desperate rush. My vision went white. My morning breakfast—watery miso soup and rice—came back up, burning my throat.
"Disgusting! What a waste! Who do you think pays for your food?! Who do you think keeps this roof over your head?!"
He didn't stop. He never stopped once he started.
He mounted me, his weight crushing my ribs. Then came the endless stream of blows. Left. Right. Left.
The pain started to lag behind each strike. My brain couldn't keep up with the sensory input. Tears distorted my vision, making him look like a blurry monster from my game—only this one didn't dissolve into pixels.
Today… is going to be long, I thought. It was a detached thought. A survival mechanism.
My thoughts grew hazy. The shouting became a distant hum, like a radio in another room. The pain started to feel unreal, as if it were happening to someone else, a character I was controlling from a great distance.
Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision, narrowing the world down to a single point.
The last thing I saw—the very last thing—was my father raising his fist for one more strike. His face was twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Then, there was nothing.
Part II: The Brown Ceiling
Consciousness returned not as a spark, but as a slow, rhythmic tide.
It felt like waking from a sleep that had lasted a thousand years. My mind was heavy, clouded with the remnants of a nightmare I couldn't quite remember.
My vision was blurry. I blinked, my eyelids feeling unnaturally heavy.
A ceiling.
It wasn't the cracked, white-painted concrete of my apartment. It was wood. Rich, dark brown planks with deep grains.
Where… am I?
I tried to move my arm to rub my eyes.
Nothing. No strength. My limbs felt like leaden weights, unresponsive and distant.
I shifted only my eyes, terrified of what I might find.
Wooden rails surrounded me. Vertical bars, spaced evenly.
A bed? No... a crib?
Panic tried to flare up, but it was dampened by a strange, biological lethargy. I had never had a bed like this at home. My memory was a jagged mosaic of pain and screaming.
A hospital? No. That was impossible. My parents would never take me to a hospital. They'd just wait for the bruises to fade and tell the neighbors I had the flu.
The fabric beneath me wasn't the thin, scratchy sheets I was used to. It felt thick and rough, like homespun wool. It scratched my skin, but it was warm.
"Hmm…?"
I tried to ask "Where am I?", but the result was terrifying. Only a strange, slurred, gurgling sound escaped my lips.
Did he damage my throat? Am I paralyzed?
Then—a shadow.
Something entered my vision. A hand.
I flinched internally, bracing for the impact. But the hand didn't move fast. It moved slowly, hovering in the air.
It was a tiny hand.
Soft. Small. Dimpled knuckles. The skin was pale and perfect, without a single scar or cigarette burn.
I stared at it. Then, I willed my fingers to curl.
The tiny hand closed into a fist.
What…?
Before I could process the impossibility of it, a large figure loomed over me.
A person.
They reached down and lifted me. They did it effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing at all. As I was pulled closer, the blur of the world snapped into focus.
"Aah?" I chirped.
It was a girl. She had long, ink-black hair that fell over her shoulders in soft waves. She looked young—seventeen, maybe eighteen. Her face was clear, her eyes wide and sparkling with a light I didn't recognize.
But the scale was all wrong.
Why was she so big? Or rather... why was I so small? My legs only reached her stomach. My head rested in the crook of her arm.
Even an idiot like me could put the pieces together. The pain. The darkness. The tiny hands.
I've become… a baby?
The thought should have been horrifying. I should have screamed. But as I began to fuss, she began to move. She rocked me with a gentle, swaying motion that seemed to vibrate through my very bones.
Then, she started singing.
The song was a melody I didn't recognize. The words were unfamiliar—a language that sounded like wind through trees and water over stones. It wasn't Japanese. It wasn't anything I'd ever heard.
This wasn't my world.
My head filled with questions, a thousand "whys" and "hows" colliding in my brain. But the girl just smiled. It wasn't a mocking smile. It wasn't a drunk smile. It was warm.
She sat on a simple, sturdy bed and placed me on her lap.
I looked down again. Short, stubby arms. Round, soft legs. My skin was flawless. The pain in my temple was gone. The ache in my stomach was gone.
"Clark."
The word was a soft exhale.
"Oh?" I responded, the sound coming out as a high-pitched squeak.
She lifted me again and placed something to my lips. It was a bottle, or perhaps a breast—I was too confused to care. My body acted before my mind could protest.
Instinct took over. I began to suck.
The liquid was warm. Sweet. Richer than anything I had ever tasted.
What am I doing?! I'm a grown man! my mind screamed.
But then I looked up at her eyes.
She wasn't looking at me as a burden. She wasn't looking at me as a punching bag. She gazed at me with eyes overflowing with a pure, radiant happiness.
I had lived eighteen years in my previous life, and in all that time, I had never seen someone look so happy just because I existed.
The resentment inside me—the cold, hard knot of anger I had carried since I was a child—began to melt. It dissolved like sugar in water.
Her smile made me happy. For the first time, I wasn't afraid of a smile.
"Ah!"
Before I realized it, a sound of genuine laughter bubbled out of my chest.
I could trust her. I felt it in the very center of my being. This was safety.
Part III: The Red Giant
After I was full, she gently patted my back. She didn't stop until a small burp escaped me. She giggled, a sound like silver bells.
If she's feeding me… is she my mother?
I hoped so. I desperately hoped so.
A knock came at the door. Three heavy thuds.
My heart skipped a beat. The old fear returned, a ghost in my new skin. I waited for the door to be kicked. I waited for the shouting.
Instead, the door opened softly.
A man entered. He had to duck to get through the doorway. He was enormous—a mountain of a man with broad shoulders and a wild mane of deep red hair. His face was mostly hidden by a thick, messy beard.
He looked like a warrior. He looked like someone who could break me in half with a single hand.
A robber? But the girl didn't scream. She beamed at him, her face lighting up even more.
Could this be… my father?
The girl proudly held me up, showing me off like a prize.
The red-haired man approached. He looked down at me. His shadow covered the entire bed. He reached out his hand.
It was massive. His palm was calloused and rough.
He's going to hit me.
The thought was an reflex. My body stiffened. I shut my eyes tight, squeezing them until I saw spots. I waited for the impact. I waited for the pain that would remind me that the world is a cruel place.
Something touched my cheek.
It wasn't a punch. It wasn't a slap.
It was a finger.
The man's fingertip was the size of my entire cheek. It was rough—like sandpaper—but it was incredibly warm. And it was light. So light.
I forced my eyes open.
The man wasn't angry. He looked… terrified. His eyes were wide and focused, watching me with a desperate intensity. He was stroking my cheek as if I were made of the thinnest glass, as if a single ounce of pressure would shatter me.
Is he… scared of me crying?
He withdrew his hand after a few seconds and let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. He looked at the girl and scratched the back of his head, looking shy.
This giant, this man who looked like he could slay dragons, was nervous around a baby.
There was no violence here. There was no smell of alcohol. There was only the scent of pine wood and the warmth of a hearth.
I was part of this. I was "Clark."
A tear—a real, tiny baby tear—leaked from my eye. It wasn't a tear of pain. It was a tear of sheer, overwhelming relief.
Part IV: The Spark of the Golem
Eventually, they laid me back in the crib. The girl kissed my forehead, and the man gave me a clumsy, gentle pat on the leg before they both left, closing the door softly.
I lay there in the quiet. My chest felt tight, but in a good way.
To distract myself from the rush of emotions, I did what I always did. I looked inward.
"Hm?"
I felt something.
It was located just below my navel. It was a sensation I had never experienced in my old life. It was hot. It was solid. It felt like a glowing coal tucked away inside my gut.
Curious, I focused my mind on it.
The heat wasn't painful. It felt firm, yet strangely movable. Like a ball of clay waiting to be shaped.
A tiny spark of fear crept in, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity. I tried pushing that feeling outward. I imagined the heat moving from my stomach, up through my chest, and down into my arms.
It shifted.
At first, it felt like a solid block, difficult to nudge. But as I focused, it softened. It became fluid.
The moment I pushed that energy out through my fingertips—
Something happened.
The air above my stomach shimmered. Then, with a soft pffft sound, a pile of sand materialized out of thin air. It fell onto my stomach, grain by grain.
Sand?
I stared at it. It was real. I could smell the dry, earthy scent of it. But more than that, I felt a connection to it. It was as if an invisible thread tied my mind to every single grain of that sand.
I could control it.
"Eh!" I grunted, concentrating.
I closed my eyes and pictured it. I pictured the Wall Golem from Guard Golem. I thought of its sturdy legs, its flat head, and its defensive posture.
The sand moved.
It didn't just blow away; it swirled. It rose up from my stomach, dancing in the air like a miniature tornado. It began to compact itself, grain locking into grain.
It took shape.
A few seconds later, a tiny figure stood on my chest.
It was doll-sized. Maybe five inches tall. But it was unmistakable. It was the Wall Golem.
"What?!"
It was perfect. Every detail of the digital model I had spent hundreds of hours commanding was now standing on my physical body. And it obeyed me. When I thought walk, it took a heavy, sandy step. When I thought guard, it raised its arms in a defensive stance.
Emotion surged in my chest.
In my old life, I was a loser who could only find power in a screen. Here, I had created life—or a version of it—from my own favorite memories.
Is this… magic?
The excitement was intoxicating. I drew more power from the core in my stomach.
Fwip. Fwip. Fwip.
Each time the energy left my body, more sand appeared. I shaped them all.
A Normal Golem.
A Shot Golem with tiny sand-cannons.
A Guard Golem with a broad shield.
They stood in a line on my blanket, a miniature army of my own design. They were my protectors.
But soon, the high began to fade.
A deep, bone-chilling cold started to creep into my fingers and toes. A heavy sleepiness followed, dragging at my eyelids like anchors.
The warmth below my navel—the coal—had vanished. It was empty.
So this is what happens when I use it all, I realized.
"Ahh..."
I tried to keep my eyes open to look at my creations, but the world was already fading to grey. The golems collapsed back into piles of ordinary sand as my concentration broke.
I couldn't resist the pull of sleep.
But as I drifted off, I wasn't afraid. I wa
sn't waiting for a fist.
I was waiting for tomorrow.
Would you like me to continue the story, perhaps focusing on Clark growing up and hiding his "Game Magic" from his new parents?