Chapter Text
⸻
Warm.
That was the first sensation.
A dull, heavy warmth pressing on every inch of him—softness beneath his back, fabric against his skin, the faint scent of milk and something floral lingering in the air.
His mind stirred before his body. Thoughts flickered like broken glass in his head—fragmented, distant, struggling to arrange themselves into sense. His eyelids felt like stone as they peeled open for the first time.
Blinding light. A white ceiling.
The ceiling was low. Rough plaster. A tiny crack running along the edge. This was not familiar. This was not the hospital in Tokyo… or the musty room of his old apartment.
He tried to move, but his body did not obey. His limbs were stubs—small, weak, unformed. Panic flickered for a moment in his chest, quick and hot.
No.
This couldn’t be real.
A soft shadow drifted over him. Warm hands—thin, gentle fingers cupped under his tiny head. A voice, soothing and sweet, murmured in Korean. Clear words, spoken slowly, carefully. He understood every syllable.
“Gwiyeoun ge… Areumdawoon jageun ge…”
(“My cute one… My beautiful little one…”)
A woman leaned over him—a young woman. Korean features. Dark hair falling loose past her shoulders. Her face was tired, but smiling, her eyes tender as they looked down at him.
Kisaki’s mind reeled. Korean? This wasn’t Japan. Why could he understand? Why was he… small?
And then the memory returned like a knife sliding cleanly into the belly.
He had died.
The truck.
That damned truck.
He remembered the cold metal flash, the roar of tires, the helpless sensation of weightlessness as his body was hurled into the air like trash. One moment planning his empire, the next… nothing but blackness.
And now—this.
Rebirth.
Reincarnation.
His eyes—blurry, wet with fresh newborn tears—fixed on the woman’s face. This was his mother now. Not his old, bitter, broken mother—but this soft, warm stranger.
A second face appeared beside the woman.
A child. Barely two years old.
Round face, wide brown eyes, slightly tousled hair. He wobbled on his feet as he clung to the edge of the crib, peering in.
Their mother smiled. “Daniel… say hello to your baby brother.”
Daniel.
Kisaki’s gaze sharpened.
Daniel Park.
He knew that name.
This was no ordinary world.
A dark grin curled inward in his thoughts.
Lookism.
He was in that world.
And this—this pathetic toddler with curious eyes—was Daniel Park, the future body-switching fighter who would one day topple crews and kings.
His brother.
His pawn.
Kisaki’s mind swirled with cruel, delighted amusement.
How perfect.
⸻
“…How perfect.”
The thought curled coldly in his mind like a coiling snake, hissing with dark glee.
But the joy soured quickly.
He tried to move.
To lift his head, his hand—anything.
Nothing.
His neck lolled uselessly to the side. His tiny arms barely flinched when he strained to lift them. His legs were nothing more than soft, swollen stumps that twitched and trembled without strength.
Helpless.
Utterly, maddeningly helpless.
A wave of bitter frustration rolled through him, thick and sharp like bile. He—Tetta Kisaki, the mastermind who had twisted Tokyo’s gangs into chaos—reduced to this pathetic bundle of meat. A prisoner in his own fragile, infant flesh.
His lips parted, but no words came. Only a small gurgle. A weak gasp.
This was the cost of reincarnation. Not a fresh start in power and strength—but a crawl from the very bottom. From milk-scented cloth and soft blankets. From mother’s lullabies and warm, foolish hands.
He gritted his mind, cursing silently. If he could have screamed without sounding like a wailing baby, he would have.
Still.
His dark thoughts cooled.
Still.
It was better than dying. Better than oblivion. Better than letting that truck erase him forever. He was alive. Conscious. A second chance. No one knew who he truly was. Not this woman gently stroking his face. Not that wide-eyed toddler Daniel. Not the dying father coughing in the next room.
No one.
This was a game of patience.
A game of years.
And he—Tetta Kisaki—could play the long game.
A slow grin stretched across his baby face—a grotesque expression on such soft, innocent features.
He could wait.
For now.
⸻
The quiet shuffle of tiny feet reached Kisaki’s ears.
Soft thumps, barely audible above the gentle hum of the room’s heater. The sound of a child—hesitant, unsure—approaching the crib.
Kisaki forced his newborn eyes to focus, narrowing his blurred vision toward the edge of the wooden bars.
A small figure appeared.
Chubby-cheeked. Brown-eyed. A mess of soft, dark hair that stuck out in odd directions. His round face was lit with curiosity and slight confusion as he stood on tiptoes to peer inside the crib.
Daniel Park.
Not the tall, lean fighter Kisaki knew from the old world. Not the force of nature that would one day smash gangs and change fates.
No.
Just a clumsy, awkward two-year-old.
Their mother smiled as she crouched behind him, resting a hand on his small shoulder. Her voice was warm and sweet.
“Daniel… look. This is your baby brother. Be gentle, okay?”
Daniel blinked, processing the words slowly, the way only toddlers could. His pudgy fingers gripped the crib’s edge tight as he stared at Kisaki—big round eyes filled with innocent wonder.
He reached out.
A tiny hand, warm and soft, touched Kisaki’s own. Fingers—uncertain, gentle—brushed his knuckles.
Kisaki felt the contact with strange clarity.
Here was the boy fate had favored. The boy of two bodies. Of hidden strength. Of power and potential that could tear down cities.
And now… his older brother.
Kisaki’s dark mind swirled.
How strange.
How perfect.
To be so close. To have this boy trust him from the start. To be family.
He could raise him—or ruin him.
He could twist this bond into whatever shape he wished.
Their mother chuckled softly, watching the two of them with warmth in her tired eyes.
“Good boy, Daniel… you’ll take care of your brother, right?”
Daniel giggled, nodding dumbly, not understanding.
Kisaki smiled, too.
A real smile this time.
The game was already beginning.
⸻
The moment lingered—a small, quiet connection between two brothers under a mother’s watchful eye.
But then Kisaki’s senses stirred.
Something… acrid.
A bitter scent hung faintly in the warm air of the room. Not milk. Not the flowery detergent of the blankets. Something sharper. Chemical. Unnatural.
Medicine.
Kisaki’s newborn nose, still weak and barely developed, caught the stinging edge of it. His eyes slowly turned toward the far side of the room.
There.
A man lay half-propped in the bed by thin pillows. His face was pale—too pale for good health. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises. His thin lips twitched in a weary smile as he coughed softly into a handkerchief.
The father.
Their father.
Park Sangcheol.
The man watched them from across the room—his wife, his sons—with quiet sadness. A man fading slowly under the weight of sickness.
His chest shuddered as another cough rattled free. The sound made their mother’s smile flicker, just briefly, as her gaze shifted in worry.
Kisaki studied this fragile figure with cold interest.
Terminal.
Dying.
A father who would not live to see his sons grow into men. A crumbling pillar that would leave this house exposed to the winds of poverty, despair, weakness.
A broken family… ripe for manipulation.
The scent of medicine filled the room again as the old man reached for a glass of water, his hand trembling faintly. His eyes—soft, tired—rested on Kisaki.
There was no recognition. No suspicion.
Of course not.
No one knew who Kisaki really was. No one could see the dark, sharp mind behind these helpless infant eyes.
Not yet.
But soon.
This house… this family… this world… would belong to him.
In time.
⸻
The air shifted—warm arms gently lifting him from the crib.
His tiny body rested against a soft chest; warmth pressed close as he was cradled carefully, rocked with slow patience. The scent of clean skin and light floral soap filled his nose. The woman—his new mother—held him as though he were the most delicate treasure in the world.
Her voice drifted into his ears—soft, low, and sweet.
A lullaby.
In Korean.
“Jamdeul geoya, jamdeul geoya…
Uri jageun aegi jamdeul geoya…”
(“Sleep now, sleep now…
Our little baby, sleep now…”)
She swayed gently, humming between the words, her fingertips brushing the soft blonde hair on his head with wonder.
Blonde.
Not dark, like hers. Or Daniel’s.
Strange.
Her gaze lingered there with quiet confusion, but she said nothing aloud.
Kisaki felt her unease. Her curiosity. But also her overwhelming affection—the warmth only a mother could give.
It sickened him. And yet… it amused him.
She would never suspect what truly rested behind these gray, doll-like eyes. No one would.
He parted his lips slightly.
A small sound escaped him—a coo, practiced carefully. Harmless. Sweet. The sort that made mothers smile.
Her heart melted immediately.
“There, see? What a good boy… such a clever little one,” she whispered, kissing his forehead softly.
Kisaki felt her body relax, her guard lower.
Good.
He opened his eyes wider—made them soft, unfocused, innocent. Then—carefully—he curled his mouth upward.
A smile.
His first smile in this new life.
But it was no expression of joy. No true warmth.
It was a mask.
A tool.
The first weapon in his new empire.
From now until the end of this world… he would wear it perfectly.
⸻