A week had passed since I started my new life in this world, trapped in a body that felt utterly alien—but my soul remained the same.
Yeah, I'd transmigrated into a kid's body. Not just any kid. This one was a genetic masterpiece—damn near perfect in every human metric for physical "perfection."
Even at a physiological age of 15, I was already 6 foot 3 (over 190 cm). My proportions were like something sculpted by a genius artist: short but rock-solid torso, insanely long arms and femurs for a terrifying reach, freakishly broad shoulders, and a wide chest with elongated clavicles that carved out a living Greek statue's V-taper.
The muscles were athletically wired in from birth, even though the original owner rarely trained hard. Definition showed through even at rest—faint six-pack, rounded delts, thick traps, and subtle veins starting to snake down my forearms. But coordination, agility, and explosive power? Still raw as hell. Nowhere near my old life's level.
That said, after a week of pushing this body to its limits with my tried-and-true insane routine—brutal functional bodyweight training, savage plyometrics, full-range mobility, deep core activation, and martial arts drilling—I knew its potential dwarfed my previous shell by multiples. The daily gains felt like unlocking a cheat code.
Even better, the moment I woke up here, the original owner's memories fused seamlessly with mine. No resistance, no confusion. It all flowed like water. Hell, our names were identical: Zeyden Vorath—Zey for short. Just like my old world, I'd grown up in an orphanage, no mom or dad, surrounded only by kind-hearted nuns.
This morning, after a brutal dawn session capped with 500 push-up variations, pistol squats, and shadowboxing until sweat soaked the floor, I hit the cold shower to calm the muscles. Steam rose from my skin, mingling with the morning dew as I stood before the dorm room mirror.
Today was judgment day. The day when every orphanage kid turning 15 even gets "picked up" by outsiders—adoptive families, academies, or those shady organizations rolling up in sleek black cars.
Staring at my reflection, I still couldn't believe it.
In my previous life, I was handsome—backed by an athletic build, chiseled jaw, and high-testosterone masculine aura. But this? This was god-tier.
Dangerously androgynous beauty. Crimson ruby eyes that glowed like blood gems in the dim light. Straight silver hair flowing to my shoulders, shimmering like liquid silk in a perfect layered cut that fell without effort. Sharp aquiline nose, flawless square jaw, full red lips, long curled lashes, and thick sculpted brows.
My skin was flawless porcelain pale—no blemishes. A slight smile revealed dimples on both cheeks, blending innocent charm with lethal edge.
"Damn... this face could make teenage girls hysterical and make aunties squirm," I muttered, fingers tracing my jawline.
But one thing about the original owner gnawed at me: his mentality. Weak. Naive. Pathologically submissive. Even scrawny short-ass punks turned him into their personal bitch—sent on cigarette runs, shaking down his pocket money, beating him at will.
Imagining this perfect body humiliated by human trash like that made my blood simmer.
The first day I woke up aware, I settled that score. In a way they'd never forget.
I didn't want to cripple them physically. My goal ran deeper: shatter their minds to the roots.
Before confronting the trio of assholes, I swung by the back alley market. There was this hulking drunk old thug—faded eagle tattoo on his arm, scarred face, the kind of menacing vibe that cleared paths.
No words. I closed in and wrecked him. Fist to the jaw, elbow to the solar plexus, knee to the gut until he crumpled to his knees.
"P-plea-se, sir... what'd I do?!" he whimpered, his gravelly voice cracking like a kid's, tears streaming down that rough mug.
I slammed another kick into his gut. "Shut your trap, you societal trash. No more yapping."
"Urghh..." His breath hitched, body folding in agony.
I grabbed a big plastic sack and some raffia rope from the trash pile. Tied his hands and feet tight, stuffed him in, and hoisted him over my shoulder like an empty rice bag.
Folks on the street barely glanced twice—I strolled casually, whistling softly, innocent face with zero guilt.
Finally hit the abandoned futsal court, ringed by high walls and overgrown weeds. The three skinny runts were already there: greasy acne-riddled faces, buckteeth like a rabbit, massive mole on the nose, slouched posture with thick glasses. Their flaws completed a perfect "disgusting" package.
"Can't believe this body used to fear shitstains like these?" I muttered coldly, original memories of humiliation replaying.
I slipped through the rusted iron gate, locked it from inside with a heavy padlock I'd brought. No escape.
They quit laughing when they saw me. Plastered on their fake tough-guy faces, grinning like little kings.
I ignored them, stone-faced, heading straight for the goalpost at the far end.
"Hey, you bastard! Dare ignore your bosses?! Get over here and kneel, beg forgiveness!" the bucktoothed one barked, his pubescent voice brimming with fake bravado.
I stayed silent.
They heated up. "Fine, you want death? We'll come to you!"
"I'll rip that pretty face to shreds till no one looks twice!" the glasses kid threatened, his shrill voice almost cracking me up.
I held the laugh by flashing back to my old life's worst moments—keeping the poker face locked.
A few steps before they reached me, I untied the sack and yanked out the old thug—still bound tight, face swollen and bloody.
Seeing that gang legend in such pathetic shape froze them solid. Eyes bulged, breaths caught.
"Z-Zeyden... w-why'd you bring that psycho thug?!" Buckteeth stammered, voice quaking.
The other two got it first. Gulped hard, cold sweat pouring.
I just smiled—that sweet, innocent kid grin that chilled their spines.
Dragged the thug up, lashed him tight to the goalpost with thick rope from the shed.
Then, no warning, I unleashed a precise jump back kick from southpaw stance—my heel smashed his temple with full power.
KRAK!
Cheekbone and nose shattered, front teeth scattered, blood sprayed everywhere. Back of his skull cracked against the iron post—clear bone-crunching crunch, followed by a cut-short scream.
Fresh blood stench filled the air. The trio pissed themselves in unison—pants soaked, acrid urine stink hitting hard.
"Hehehe... hey, friends. Nice day, huh?" I greeted softly, calm voice like catching up with old pals, flashing that sinless smile.
Behind me, the old thug's blood poured down the post and concrete—gruesome red backdrop amplifying my grin.
"Kyaaaaaa!!! Monster!!!"
"Run, quick!!!"
"Demon!!! He's a fucking demon!!!"
They shrieked like girls, scrambling in panic, crashing into each other toward the gate.
"Door's fucking locked!!!" one wailed.
A shadow loomed. They turned slowly—I was right behind them, hands in pockets, same smile.
That morning became their harshest mental lesson ever.
I made them sit straight on the long wooden bench, no moving or looking away for a second. Then, patiently, I continued the "show" on the old thug—precise strikes to vitals, kicks to joints, slow pressure on small bones until they snapped one by one.
His screams faded to whimpers as the trio sobbed silently, eyes glued in terror.
When he stopped reacting, I snapped his neck with a quick, steady twist—final "krak," then silence.
After, I ordered them to douse the whole court with kerosene from the old drum in the equipment shed. Hands shaking like leaves as they poured.
Casually, I flicked a lit match.
WHOOSH—flames devoured everything in seconds. Burning flesh stench and black smoke billowed high.
From that day, spotting me from afar made them bolt crying. Next day, they fled the city, never seen again.
Back at the dorm mirror, I straightened my simple orphanage uniform—white shirt and black pants that looked elegant on this frame. Combed my silver hair back with fingers, falling perfectly without product.
Deep breath, crimson eyes locking sharp on my reflection.
Whoever came to pick me up today... they had no idea what kind of monster they'd just invited into their world.
I flashed a slight smile—the same one that made three kids shit themselves in fear.
Let the new game begin.