"Thief! Thief! Thief!"
The scream shattered the air like glass under a hammer. Heads turned. A few people yanked out their phones. Some backed away. Most froze.
But Rick Chuck didn't.
He spun just in time to see a hooded figure dash past him, a purple purse clutched tight under one arm. The thief moved low and fast—agile in a way that screamed experience. He'd done this before.
Rick? Rick was faster.
Well… at least in his imagination.
He kicked into a sprint like a B-movie cop, ignoring the little voice in his head screaming, Mind your business. Rick, self-declared everyday hero and justice enthusiast, had an unhealthy obsession with acting like the main character—an instinct forged in childhood, despite a lifetime of being bullied at school.
"Hey! Stop!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I said—STOP!"
People watched. Most assumed it was a prank video. A few cheered. One guy yelled to his friends with the wide-eyed fervour of someone who wanted to believe, "See? I told you superheroes were real!"
Rick's heart thundered, ego blazing like napalm after that comment. He was going to catch the guy. Make the news. Go viral. Be a role model. Fulfil his childhood dream of being a hero.
The chase veered into a narrow alley—walls smeared with graffiti, reeking of piss and rot. Broken glass crunched underfoot. The buildings loomed tall and indifferent on either side.
Rick didn't stop.
Not when the thief glanced back.
Not when the shadows deepened.
Not even when his instincts screamed don't.
Because in the movies, this was where the hero cornered the villain and did something awesome.
But this wasn't a movie.
Rick was oblivious to that fact.
The thief stopped without warning. No taunt. No threats. Just a smooth, practiced reach into the waistband of his pants—specifically, the inner pocket of his underwear.
Rick skidded to a halt, confused.
"Ayo, what are you—"
Pow.
The first bullet hit his chest like a sledgehammer. No pain—just heat, crushing pressure, and something inside tearing apart.
Pow.
The second shot knocked him flat. His back slammed the concrete. The sky above spun—grey, uncaring.
Silence.
The thief was gone.
Rick blinked. Blood oozed from his chest, warm and sticky, soaking his hoodie.
What… just happened?
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Just feel—the cold creeping in, his breath shortening, the light above him dimming like someone turning a dial.
This can't be it…
He'd imagined dying plenty of times—usually in a blaze of glory, surrounded by robots, beautiful babes, or alien queens. Not bleeding out in an alley that smelled like piss because he couldn't mind his own business.
What a stupid way to go.
His last thought was an apology.
Sorry, Grandma. Guess I couldn't uphold the Chuck bloodline. Maybe you'd forgive me if you knew my reason for failing your death wish. No need to fret—we'll be reunited soon enough.
And then the dark took him.
No tunnel of light.
No angels.
No peaceful drifting into the beyond.
Just black.
Thick, heavy black.
Rick didn't know how long he'd been floating in it. Seconds? Hours? Centuries?
He couldn't feel his body. Couldn't hear. Couldn't see. And yet—he was.
Am I dead?
Then why am I thinking?
Am I a ghost?
No. Ghosts didn't feel like they were floating in a warm, squishy sack.
Wait… was he floating? And wet?
Then came sound—muffled, like he was underwater. Voices. Not English. Not even human.
Melodic. Alien. Magical.
Where the hell am I? Is this… isekai?
His brain reeled. He'd read enough web novels to know the tropes: shot by a criminal, wake up in another world. Probably magic. Hopefully a system. Maybe elves.
"Oh no," he thought. "Oh hell no. This is—this is baby mode. I've been… rebooted."
His body was smaller. Softer. Trapped. There was movement — a rhythmic squeeze pushing him along like a water slide from hell. A muffled voice called from somewhere beyond, speaking words he couldn't quite understand but somehow felt… soothing.
Light stabbed at his eyes. Cold air slapped his
Something soft pressed against his lips. Warm. Cushiony. A very squishy kind of cushion.
Then liquid filled his mouth—sweet, warm, nourishing.
Milk.
…Oh no.
He didn't finish the thought. He already knew.
This was baby mode. Hurrah. He'd been reborn.
He tried to open his eyes. Nothing. Tried to move. Still nothing.
But his mind was wide awake. Panicked. Processing.
So I'm a baby. That's… just great. At least I'm not reincarnated as a corpse. Or a goat. That's something.
Step one: survive. Step two: find out if there's magic. Step three: avoid being eaten, sacrificed, or kissed by relatives. Maybe… possible harem.
Somewhere beyond his swirling thoughts, muffled voices rose—one calm and commanding.
"Push harder!" said a mature woman.
"Hyaah!" came a second voice—young, fierce. Not in pain, but in power.
Reality stirred.
Evane moved with effortless grace, her robe fluttering with residual magic. She had never delivered a child before, but years of observing master healers had honed her precision. Glowing runes shimmered along her sleeves. One hand glowed with gravity magic, the other with conjured water.
The mother—Francisca—was breath-taking. Silver hair clung to her sweat-damp face, ocean-blue eyes blazing with will. Even in labour, she radiated a power that pressed against the air.
"One more push," Evane said.
Francisca didn't scream.
She roared.
Magic surged through the room, rattling the walls. Evane didn't flinch—high-blooded mages often had turbulent births—but the pressure here was heavier. Older.
With perfect timing, she worked.
Gravity magic eased the child free. Wind blades cut the cord. Puppetry magic tied it. A floating orb of water cleansed the newborn.
Three seconds. Flawless.
Breathe, little one. You are safe."
Magic shimmered in the air, warm and golden, flowing into him like sunlight through glass. He didn't know how, but the power seeped into every nerve, every cell, as if the world itself was saying: You belong here.
Evane blinked.
No crying.
Just a single, half-hearted whimper—not fear, not pain, just mild annoyance.
And the baby's eyes, though closed, shifted under the lids—tracking, processing.
"Francisca," Evane murmured, "your baby is… unusual."
Francisca's head snapped toward her, aura exploding outward—heavy, dangerous. The air shivered.
Evane lifted her hands quickly. "In a good way!"
Francisca's gaze lingered, then softened. "Go on."
"He stopped crying almost immediately. And his aura… it's unlike anything I've felt. I've seen half-dragons, phoenix-blooded infants, spellborn twins—but this is something else."
Francisca looked down at her son, a slow, proud smile forming.
"He's strong," she said softly. "Call in Anthony."
"Yes, Miss Francisca."
Evane bowed and left in a swirl of fabric and magic.
Francisca stroked her child's hair. He seemed peaceful… but she could feel it. Something deep within. Coiled. Watching.
Francisca cradled her new-born, her expression unreadable to those around her. The chamber still smelled faintly of fire and rain. Outside, the world celebrated the birth of Francisca and Anthony's child, unaware of the storm his life would bring. Inside the baby's mind, Rick sighed.
Maybe a silver-haired magical hottie mom. midwife. Boobs on demand. This is fine. Everything's fine. Unaware of how correct his guess was about his mom
…But who is Anthony?, my father or what
He didn't know it yet, but something else had noticed his arrival. Sentient being powers had begun to stir. The world around him brimmed with magic—and danger.
For now, he was just a baby.
A very, very aware baby.
But not for long.