Chapter One — The Weight of Weakness
The bell rang.
Wishz's fist was already moving.
His feet were planted, hips twisting sharply as instinct took over. The punch rose from below, a clean uppercut driven by muscle memory honed through years of repetition. Knuckles met jaw with a dull, final sound.
The man in front of him didn't fall immediately.
For half a second, his eyes went unfocused, mouth slightly open, as if trying to remember how to breathe. Then his legs gave out. He collapsed backward, hitting the mat without resistance.
Silence swallowed the arena.
Wishz stood where he was, chest rising steadily, sweat dripping from his chin. He didn't chase. He didn't celebrate. He simply watched the referee rush forward, shouting for medics.
The crowd hadn't reacted yet. They were still processing what they'd seen.
The referee knelt beside the fallen fighter, checked for a pulse, then froze.
He looked up, face pale.
"Match… stopped," the referee said, voice unsteady. "Call it. Call it now."
Medical staff flooded the ring. Someone shouted for a stretcher. Another yelled for space.
Then the word spread, quiet at first, then louder.
"He's not breathing."
Wishz heard it clearly.
Dead.
The word landed, but nothing followed it. No shock. No fear. No regret.
Just… stillness.
People climbed into the ring. Coaches, officials, strangers. Hands touched his shoulders, his arms.
"Hey—hey, it wasn't your fault."
"Accidents happen."
"You couldn't have known."
Wishz nodded once, mechanically. He let them guide him to the ropes. Cameras flashed. Someone handed him a towel.
Inside his head, something warm unfurled.
It felt good.
Not relief. Not triumph.
Satisfaction.
That day, he sat alone in his room.
The space was bare—no posters, no decorations. Just a mat on the floor, a pull-up bar bolted into the doorway, and weights stacked neatly against the wall. The light overhead buzzed faintly.
Wishz dropped to the floor and began push-ups.
One. Two. Three.
His breathing was controlled, precise. His mind replayed the moment of impact again and again—the way the body had given up so easily.
Pathetic.
He finished the set and sat back, elbows resting on his knees.
"So weak," he muttered.
A human body. Years of training. One clean hit—and it was over.
If that was all it took to end someone, then what was the point of being human at all?
His fingers dug into his palms.
There were beings in the world who wouldn't fall like that. Monsters so called The Strongest Sorcerers. Curses. Names that circulated online.
Gojo.
Sukuna.
Power that ignored logic. Strength that bent reality.
"If I had that," Wishz whispered, teeth clenched. "If I were there—"
The thought didn't finish. It didn't need to.
His chest burned. Anger surged up, hot and violent, with nowhere to go. He stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket, storming out of the apartment before the feeling could suffocate him.
Daylight stabbed at his eyes.
The street was busy. Normal. People laughing, walking, living as if the world wasn't built on weakness.
"Wishz!"
He stopped.
A boy—no, a teenager—stood a few steps away, eyes wide with excitement. He was holding a phone, hands trembling.
"Wishz, right? From the match? I—I'm your biggest fan. Can I get an autograph?"
The words scraped against his ears.
In Wishz's mind, the thought surfaced instantly, sharp and cold.
This little thing pisses me off.
Before the boy could react, Wishz struck him across the head.
Not hard. Not calculated.
Just enough.
The boy crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his scalp as his phone clattered across the pavement.
For a moment, everything froze.
Then screaming.
People rushed in. Someone knelt beside the boy. Another shouted at Wishz.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Wishz didn't answer.
Something snapped.
He turned on the nearest person and swung.
Then another.
Fists. Elbows. Chaos. Bodies hitting the ground. Fear spreading like fire. Someone tried to grab him—he broke free. Someone fell and didn't get back up.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
He laughed.
Not loudly. Just once. Short and breathless.
Then the shots rang out.
Pain exploded through his body. He staggered, tried to keep moving, tried to push through it.
But he was still human.
He fell to his knees, then onto his side, blood pooling beneath him. Around him lay broken bodies—some unmoving, some groaning, some silent.
The sky blurred.
Darkness closed in.
Dead.
All black.
Gone.
Then—
Sensation.
Not sight. Not touch.
Something else.
He could feel.
Liquid pressed against him from all sides. Thick. Heavy. He heard muffled vibrations, distant voices distorted through fluid and glass.
He tried to move.
Nothing responded.
Do I even have a body? he wondered.
Panic flared, then curiosity overtook it.
He sensed containment. Boundaries. Something enclosing him completely.
Light flared faintly beyond the liquid. Shapes moved. Instruments hummed.
A lab.
What… am I?
The thought echoed strangely, as if his mind itself had changed shape.
A realization surfaced, slow and horrifying.
A fragment.
A preserved object.
A finger.
Wishz's awareness sharpened.
If this was his end—then it wasn't an end at all.
Something deep inside him smiled.