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A cold draft brushed against his face.
Hiroto stirred under a thin blanket, shivering as he tried to pull it closer. He expected to hear the hum of his air conditioner, maybe the faint buzz of traffic outside his apartment window.
But there was nothing.
No cars, no distant voices, no phone alarm. Only the sound of wind slipping through cracks in old wood.
His eyes fluttered open.
A ceiling of dark, uneven planks greeted him. The smell of smoke and damp earth hung heavy in the air. He blinked, confused, and sat up slowly. The blanket was coarse and itchy, more like a sack than fabric. The floor beneath him wasn't tile—it was cold, packed dirt.
He stared around the room.
It was small, lit only by a narrow slit of sunlight through a wall made of rough wood and straw. Clay pots sat in one corner, and a woven mat lay beneath him. No furniture. No lights. No trace of modern life.
"What the…" he whispered—
—or tried to.
The words came out wrong. His voice was higher, uneven, almost childish.
He froze, heart pounding, and looked down at his hands. Small. Thin. The fingers covered in dirt, the nails short and cracked.
He stumbled to his feet, light-headed. His legs felt shorter. Weaker.
He caught sight of himself in a bowl of murky water nearby—wide eyes, a round face smeared with grime, hair cut unevenly.
A child.
He was a child.
"What… is…" he tried again, but the words broke apart on his tongue, coming out as mumbled sounds that didn't feel like his own. Panic rose in his chest. He clutched his throat, trying to force the words out, but his mouth refused to cooperate.
He staggered toward the doorway, feet sinking slightly into the dirt, and pushed aside a worn cloth curtain.
Outside stretched endless farmland. Bent figures worked the fields, guiding oxen through mud under a pale morning sky. The houses nearby were the same—small, thatched, humble. The air smelled of soil and smoke, the cries of crows echoing in the distance.
He blinked rapidly.
No buildings. No electricity poles. No signs of the modern world.
A lump formed in his throat as his mind raced. This can't be real.
And yet every sound, every scent, every breath of wind told him it was.
Then, just as his knees began to tremble, something flickered before his eyes—dim, translucent words appearing out of nowhere:
[Status initializing…]
[Body synchronization complete.]
[Name: Takeshi]
[Age: 10]
[System: Adaptive Growth Detected]
He stumbled back, gasping silently. The glowing text vanished as quickly as it came. His small chest rose and fell rapidly, breath sharp and uneven.
A sound came from behind him—soft footsteps, followed by the creak of wood.
He turned, startled, as a woman entered through the doorway carrying a basket of greens. Her hair was messy, her robe patched and faded, her hands rough with labor.
"Takeshi? You're awake already?" she said, her voice warm but tired.
He stared at her, lips trembling, mind blank.
He wanted to ask who she was—where he was—but when he tried, his mouth refused again.
"Wha… wh…" he stammered, the sounds broken and childish.
The woman frowned and stepped closer. "Takeshi? Are you alright? Did the fever come back?"
Her calloused hand touched his forehead, and his racing thoughts froze.
Her touch felt real—solid, gentle.
He didn't know her. He didn't know this body. But something deep inside whispered that this was his mother now.
And as she guided him back toward the small mat, he could only sit there in silence—
a grown man trapped in a child's body, unable to speak, and surrounded by a world centuries older than his own.
The woman helped him sit back down on the mat, fussing quietly as she checked his forehead again. Her hands were rough, yet careful, like she'd done this many times before.
"You must still be weak, Takeshi," she murmured. "Stay inside today, alright?"
He didn't answer—couldn't. The words were there in his mind, but his mouth refused to form them properly. All he could do was nod faintly.
Satisfied, she smiled, though her eyes looked tired. She handed him a small wooden bowl filled with thin rice gruel. "Eat slowly. I'll be outside tending to the fields. Call if you feel dizzy, yes?"
He nodded again.
When she left, the sound of her footsteps faded into the rhythm of the wind outside. The faint creak of the door closing was followed by silence—save for distant voices of farmers and the buzz of cicadas.
For the first time since waking, he was alone.
Hiroto stared down at the bowl in his hands. The watery rice barely had any taste, yet his stomach growled the moment he smelled it. His body—this child's body—was starving. He forced himself to eat, each spoonful heavy with the taste of earth and ash.
He set the bowl down and exhaled shakily. His arms trembled just from holding it. His hands, small and weak, were a far cry from his adult ones.
This isn't a dream.
He looked around again—the dirt floor, the wooden walls, the straw ceiling. The faint light flickering through the cracks. Everything was too real. Too detailed.
He touched his face. The skin was warm. Alive.
I went to sleep… in my apartment, he thought, his heart pounding. And now I'm here. A kid. Somewhere in the past.
The name "Takeshi" echoed in his mind. The system had said that. And that woman—she'd called him that, too. So that was him now. Takeshi.
He clenched his small fists, trying to calm himself. Okay… think. What do I know?
The system message. The "Adaptive Growth" thing. He hadn't imagined it. It appeared right before his eyes. If this was real, then maybe… that was his only clue.
He focused, trying to recall the strange sensation from before.
Nothing happened. The air stayed still.
He frowned, concentrating harder. Then, faintly—
[Status]
The word echoed in his mind, and a dim blue panel flickered into existence before his eyes.
[Name: Takeshi]
[Age: 10]
[Condition: Malnourished / Weak]
[Strength: 2]
[Endurance: 3]
[Agility: 2]
[Willpower: 4]
[Adaptive Growth: Active]
He stared at it, mouth dry. The numbers were low, pitifully low. Even without knowing what "average" meant here, he could tell this body was fragile.
He reached out instinctively, but his hand passed through the screen. The letters rippled like smoke and then faded.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
This is real.
This is my new reality.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The wooden boards were uneven, sunlight slipping through in thin lines. He listened to the distant rustle of wind in the fields and the rhythmic clatter of farm tools.
Somewhere outside, that woman—his new mother—was working just to keep them alive.
He had no phone, no electricity, no modern world to return to. Only this frail body, this strange power, and a world that looked ready to crush anyone too weak to stand on their own.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the mat.
"…Then I'll stand," he whispered, voice quiet and broken.
The words were barely audible, but his chest felt lighter after saying them.
He didn't understand the rules of this new life yet—but if effort could make him stronger, if sweat and pain were the price of survival, then that was something he could endure.
Because for the first time in years, he had something he'd lost long ago—
a reason to keep moving.