CHAPTER ONE
Prologue
Ever wonder what happens when the most lethal assassin on Earth wakes up in another world as a magic-less princess...
in the body of a girl who looks just a little too much like his favorite waifu? Soft voice, scandalous curves, flowery kimono—everything he used to drool over in boxed plastic.
Now imagine becoming that.
Yeah. Me neither.
But here we are.
Death, and Waifu
Los Angeles, California.
The summer sun scorched the pavement, turning the streets into a simmering griddle. The smell of fried food trucks, sweat, and acrylic paint hung in the air. Outside the Los Angeles Convention Center, Anime Expo roared in chaotic technicolor explosions—cosplayers clashing swords, waifus shrieking in rehearsed lines, and fans stampeding toward merch booths like it was the apocalypse.
And to Sam, it was paradise.
Towering above the crowd like a final boss of an epic RPG game, Samuel Schmidt—6-foot-5, ex-SAS sniper, once called "Death's Left Hand"—stood still in front of a merch display, gazing at a boxed figure like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
Limited Edition Yuzuki – Festival Yukata Version. Only fifty were made per country—each one a grail-tier treasure, whispered about in otaku forums like forbidden relics.
She wasn't just a figure—she was a masterpiece. Real fabric layering, articulated joints, and those crimson eyes? They didn't just stare back. They saw into your soul and whispered, "buy me or live in regret."
Sam had read that under the yukata, the sculpted body was just as detailed—anatomically precise. Pure craftsmanship, not perversion. Or so he insisted, during a Reddit flame war that got him banned. Twice.
It didn't help that Sam was wearing a lanyard that screamed 'authority' but actually had YUZUKI DEFENSE BRIGADE – FOUNDER printed in proud bold font. The badge was both a trophy and a scarlet letter—his own creation, born from a flame war on Reddit where he'd posted a 2,000-word essay defending Yuzuki's Episode 7 bathing scene as "narratively essential character development."
It didn't go well.
He got banned, again. Twice. The mod said he was "too emotionally involved."
He now wore the title like armor. If anyone questioned him, he had footnotes.
Someone in a Genshin wig glanced his way, did a double take, then offered a cautious wave—either mistaking him for convention security or sensing that this was a man who'd throw hands over PVC waifus.
Sam didn't notice. His brain had already entered tactical acquisition mode. This wasn't just a figure—it was destiny boxed in clear acrylic.
"Eyes on the prize, baby. Eyes on the prize."
The line behind him snaked halfway around the booth. Each person clutched a number, a dream, and the faint hope that the last box wasn't already spoken for. Sam glanced down at his own slip—#47.
The vendor raised a finger like a game show host revealing the final jackpot.
"We've just received confirmation—there is only one Yuzuki Festival Yukata figure left in stock!"
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Sam didn't move.
"This is war," he muttered. "I didn't survive black ops in a blizzard just to lose Yuzuki to a horde of glittery normies."
The girl in front—petite, in Lolita ruffles—let out a squeal.
Sam panicked. "Project Mammonite is a go!" He rifled through his wallet like a man about to auction his soul.
He straightened, voice booming:
"'Tis your lucky day, madame! I'll pay triple the price! Just allow me the honor of claiming that last treasure!"
She squinted. "Triple? That's cute."
"I've purchased oil fields with less ceremony," he said, deadpan.
"Quadruple it and give me that badge."
He unclipped it solemnly. "Consider this an act of mercy. The realm of waifu worship demands sacrifice."
They traded.
Sam took the box with the tenderness of a man holding destiny.
Today, Sam wasn't a killer. He was just a lonely man in love with a waifu.
Yuzuki—crimson-haired shrine maiden from Celestial Blade: Kagura's War—was the one constant in his life.
He wore a "2D > 3D" shirt with no irony. He felt peace.
He collected merch like a holy offering: body pillow, wall scrolls, acrylic charms. This was his sacred pilgrimage.
Just two days ago, he was crawling through jungle mud, escaping a cartel ambush gone wrong. Someone had leaked their position. Alex, his best friend, almost died. Sam came home stitched up and silent.
But Anime Expo? This was sacred ground.
Then his burner phone buzzed.
[Encrypted: Mission Reconfirmed. Hector Mendez. Warehouse District. ETA: 45 min.]
Sam's breath caught.
Mendez. The man who turned their mission in Colombia into a bloodbath.
He stepped away from the booth, his fingers tightening around the burner phone like it was a live grenade.
"Alex," he said when the line clicked. His voice was low, brimming with unease. "Warehouse District?"
"Same," Alex replied. "It's him, isn't it?"
"Hector Mendez," Sam confirmed. The words tasted like blood.
Silence.
"This isn't a coincidence," Alex said, quieter now.
Sam exhaled through his nose. His hand shook—but not from fear. From restraint.
"Can't I have one damn day?" he muttered, not at Alex, but at fate itself. "Just one damn day with my waifu?"
Then he froze.
Across the crowd, she appeared.
Yuzuki. Not a figure. Not a poster. Not a fantasy. A cosplayer, but perfect—so perfect it hurt. Same eyes. Same scar. Same smile that once pulled him out of darkness when no one else could.
His heart thudded.
Then came the roar of an engine.
A black SUV crept past. Tinted windows. No decals. The kind of vehicle that didn't ask for permission.
Sam's gaze hardened. Muscles tensed. His fingers twitched by instinct, brushing the outline of a concealed holster under his jacket.
The crowd's buzz faded to a low murmur in his ears.
He didn't breathe.
The SUV was too familiar—unmarked, slow-rolling, tinted like it was allergic to sunlight. It was the kind of vehicle used for snatch-and-grabs. The kind that had followed him in Istanbul, shadowed him in Cairo, and nearly ended him in Caracas.
His heartbeat climbed—not from fear, but from the sickening drop in his gut.
Peace was over. Joy, ripped away. It felt cruel.
The Expo around him still blazed with color and laughter, but Sam no longer belonged there. The world had shifted. His world.
And deep inside, a cold, jagged thing opened—fury, grief, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Fantasy time was over.
Forty Minutes Later
The docks were drenched in dusk. Shadows stretched long over rusted shipping containers and flickering sodium lights. Sam lay prone atop a crane, scope locked on the warehouse below. His breaths were measured. Calm. Focused.
Hector Mendez.
The bastard who turned Colombia into a bloodbath. Arms dealer, poison broker, and now—apparently—dabbling in enchanted firearms. The mission was clear: neutralize. No capture. No negotiation.
But something felt off.
There was too much chatter. Too little movement. No scouts. No patrols. The guards didn't look like they were protecting a deal—they looked like they were waiting.
Sam's finger hovered near the trigger.
"Sam, come in."
He flinched. The voice crackled through the earpiece.
"Alex?"
"Change of orders. HQ says no killshot. Eyes only."
Sam's brow furrowed. "Since when?"
"Diplomatic strings. Possible exchange. Could be a decoy op."
"Bullshit," Sam muttered, adjusting the scope. "Mendez doesn't do diplomacy. He poisons ambassadors and mails their teeth."
He zoomed in.
Mendez was laughing with his men, but his posture was too relaxed—his eyes, too alert. Something was wrong.
Then Sam saw it: a flicker of silver on Mendez's wrist.
A biometric cuff—the kind reserved for high-value assets under covert surveillance. It monitored vitals, behavioral patterns, and stress responses in real time, with encrypted uplinks to an off-site handler. Some versions even carried remote-administered toxins in case of capture. Mendez wearing one didn't just scream compromise—it screamed collaboration. Someone high up had flipped him, protected him, and placed him back on the board like a piece they still controlled.
"What the hell…"
He scanned the rooflines.
Movement. Barely a twitch. But there it was—another sniper, 200 meters out. Suppressed barrel. High ground. Perfect line of sight.
Not one of Mendez's. Too disciplined. Too still.
"Alex..." Sam's voice dropped to a whisper. "We're not alone."
"Copy. Stay on comms. I'm checking the satellite."
Sam didn't respond. His instincts were screaming.
This wasn't a stakeout.
It was an ambush.
And someone had sold them out.
A sharp metallic ping rang out—the telltale kiss of a bullet ricocheting off steel.
Sam reacted instantly, rolling to the side as a second shot buried itself where his head had just been. His rifle stayed behind; he was already moving. In one motion, he unholstered the suppressed sidearm at his thigh and fired three times into the darkness where the muzzle flash had bloomed.
A grunt. A body thudded off the catwalk.
He vaulted off the crane platform, landing in a shoulder roll atop a nearby cargo container. Another sniper spotted him mid-air and opened fire. Sam snatched a flashbang from his vest, popped the pin mid-tumble, and lobbed it through a ventilation slit on the sniper's perch.
Boom.
He dashed low across the platform, sliding into shadow. Muzzle flares erupted below—Mendez's guards were firing wildly now. They weren't aiming—they were stalling.
"They knew," Sam muttered into comms. "Alex—they were waiting for us."
"Pull out. Sam, get out now—"
Too late.
A trio of mercs rounded the corner behind him, opening fire. Sam ducked, returned two precise shots—center mass, double tap. The third came at him with a blade. Sam blocked with his forearm, twisted, and snapped the man's wrist. The knife clattered. Sam flipped it into his grip and drove it into the attacker's collarbone.
He kicked the body away, breathing hard.
Another merc lunged at him from the shadows—Sam sidestepped, disarmed, and slammed the man's face into a steel pipe, fracturing his jaw with a crunch. He grabbed the fallen man's SMG and pivoted just in time to fire a five-round burst into the chest of a second attacker sprinting down the catwalk.
Third one tried to go low. Rookie mistake.
Sam dropped his weight, drove a boot into the man's throat, then flipped him over the railing with a shoulder toss that ended in a wet thud below.
Every motion was practiced, brutal, efficient. He didn't hesitate. Didn't think.
But someone else did.
A shadow darted past him—a blur, too fast.
Then—
A sting.
Barely a scratch, like a feather cutting skin.
Sam turned, eyes already dilating. A figure emerged, dagger in hand—its edge glimmering purple in the low light.
He knew that blade.
Alex's dagger.
Ceramic-tipped. Poison-coated. Custom-forged in Vienna.
It didn't need to pierce flesh. Just a graze.
A toxin that could drop a gorilla mid-charge.
Sam's body locked. Muscles seizing. Lungs tightening.
His eyes burned into the figure closing in.
Alex stepped from the shadows.
Expression unreadable. Movements calm. Like he was cleaning up a routine spill.
Sam wanted to scream. Move. Do anything.
But he collapsed, the world spinning in reverse.
Falling—not from pain.
But from betrayal.
"You know," Alex said, crouching beside him, voice almost fond, "I really did enjoy our time together, Sam. You were the best partner they ever gave me. Reliable. Precise. Loyal to a fault."
Sam tried to speak. Move. Anything. But the toxin had already dulled his senses. The world pulsed in and out, heartbeat by heartbeat. And with every pulse came rage.
Rage that he didn't see it coming. Rage that he didn't get to fight. Rage that this—this—was how it ended. Not in a blaze, not in a standoff. But by a coward's trick. A blade laced with sleep and silence.
He wanted to scream, to drag Alex down with him. But his body wouldn't listen.
Alex continued, voice soft and clinical. "But the organization doesn't need you anymore. You've seen too much. Known too much."
He tapped the hilt of his dagger against Sam's chest like a farewell gesture.
"This was supposed to be your last mission anyway. A clean exit. They even wrote a nice little report—burned-out operative dies heroically in the field. But someone higher up wanted more than silence. They wanted a message. So they rewrote the script. You're not going to be remembered as a hero, Sam. They're going to say you turned. That you fed intel to the enemy, armed the wrong hands, and endangered lives. They'll burn your name, wipe your record, and use your corpse to clean their own mistakes."
His face hardened.
"You were a loose end, Sam. Nothing personal. Just orders."
Sam's jaw clenched. Fury trembled in his frozen limbs. He had survived hellholes, ambushes, betrayals worse than this—but to go out without lifting a finger in defiance? To be ended like a file marked 'obsolete'? It was unbearable.
His mind screamed.
But his last breath was silent.
His last thought was rage—pure, incandescent rage.
He didn't fear death.
He feared being denied the right to fight until the end.
His heart pounded with fury. With grief. With vengeance that refused to die.
The colors of the Expo returned in flashes, not as comfort, but as fuel.
He would burn the world if it meant getting one shot back.
The Void Between Worlds
He awoke in a place without time.
A glowing expanse stretched in all directions—white, endless, and still.
"Hello, Samuel!" said a voice like thunder softened into silk.
Sam squinted. "You don't look like a waifu," he muttered.
"You were betrayed," the voice continued. "Cut down by those you trusted. But your soul… refuses to die."
"I want vengeance."
The light pulsed gently. "I offer peace. Rebirth in another world. Magic. Power. Freedom from the pain you carry. You need only let go."
"Let go?" Sam barked. "They erased me. Lied. Used me. And then buried me with a traitor's name. You want me to forget that?"
"You have endured much," the Unknown God said, calm and endless. "But vengeance is a fire that consumes the vessel. I offer you healing. A new life with purpose, if you surrender the past."
"I don't want healing," Sam growled. "I want them to choke on what they did. I want them to feel what I felt when they stabbed me in the back."
"You would carry that fury into a new world?" the god asked. "Knowing it will twist you, isolate you, perhaps destroy you?"
Sam's eyes blazed. "I'll carry it. Feed it. Let it burn bright enough to be seen across worlds. Let it shape me into the weapon they feared I'd become."
Silence. Then, a long sigh from the divine presence.
"So be it. Rebirth—with memory. But your new life will not be what you expect. You will be sent to Ertha, a world ruled by mana, divided by war. If you wish for vengeance, you must first survive. Defeat the Demon Lord Makaius, and perhaps… earn your reckoning."
"I don't care how many demons stand in my way," Sam snarled. "Just give me the damn gate."
Then—
A rip in the sky.
A woman descended. Cosmic silk. Eyes like fire.
She looked like—Yuzuki.
For a moment, Sam could hardly breathe. The light around her shimmered like starlight through sakura petals, her silhouette wrapped in the exact colors of his dreams. The tilt of her chin. The blaze in her eyes. It wasn't just a cosplay anymore. It wasn't fantasy.
It was her.
Even here? he thought, stunned. Even in death, she came for me?
He laughed, choked by awe and heartbreak all at once. Of course she did. My waifu never lets me down.
But the moment shattered.
"You lied to me!" she screamed. "That body was meant for me!"
The god's voice thundered in protest, but she didn't stop. She dove toward the soul gate, arms outstretched.
A burst of light.
A scream.
Something twisted.
And everything began to fade.
"No!" Sam's voice echoed into the void, strained, desperate. His limbs wouldn't move, but his fury refused to dim.
"She interfered! That wasn't part of the deal!" he barked.
"The gate was not meant for her," the Unknown God replied, its voice now fractured across dimensions, distorted yet calm. "But the thread has already unraveled."
"Then fix it!" Sam roared. "You promised me vengeance!"
The light dimmed further. Sam's vision broke into shards, like stained glass cracking inward.
"The deal still stands," the God intoned. "Survive. Defeat the Demon Lord Makaius. And your soul shall return. Your world, your vengeance, your reckoning—all will be yours."
"Then open the damn door," Sam snarled.
"It is already opening... but listen closely, Samuel. The path ahead will not be fair. The world you enter is wild, cruel, and not meant for you. Survive it, shape it, bend it if you must. This time, the trials will cut deeper, the lies more convincing.
But one rule you must never break: no one must know you are not of that world. Should anyone uncover your true origin, the pact will collapse. Your soul will be erased. Not returned. Not judged. Simply... nothingness."
The words echoed like a blade drawn in silence.
"But the deal stands. Forgive me for this chaos. The thread of fate has been pulled, and now it unravels.
Go, Samuel. And do not forget who you are," came the final whisper, as the last of the void peeled away into darkness.
And everything went black.
Rebirth in the East
He awoke gasping.
Air filled lungs not his own. His chest rose and fell with fragile, unfamiliar rhythm. There was a tightness in his throat—not from pain, but from being... smaller. Softer. Dry.
It was then he noticed—his throat felt scorched, raw, like it hadn't drawn breath in days. As if it had been crushed under a silent scream and left to dry in darkness.
The ceiling above him was painted with gold-leaf constellations and framed by white silk curtains. Warm light filtered through carved wooden lattice windows. Everything smelled faintly of cherry blossoms and lavender soap.
He blinked.
Red strands fell over his face—fine, silky, impossibly smooth. His breath hitched.
Instinctively, he lifted a hand and brushed the strands aside. The hair slid between his fingers like flowing silk, lighter and softer than anything he'd ever touched. He ran his hand through it again, slower this time—almost mesmerized.
It was strange.
Comforting.
It felt like touching a dream made real. Like proof that he wasn't hallucinating.
Even the sound of it—a soft whisper against his ears—was foreign. Feminine. Real.
A strange weight pressed against his chest.
It shifted as he moved, soft and full, bouncing slightly with every breath—foreign and distracting. His chest... no, her chest, was heavier than he'd imagined—D-cup, maybe more—and every tiny motion reminded him of how unfamiliar this body truly was.
The bounce wasn't sensual. It was disorienting. Vulnerable. Real.
And it made everything about him feel like someone else's skin.
Sam's fingers twitched.
He slowly raised a hand, then froze. It wasn't his hand. It was slender. Pale. Delicate. The kind of hand you'd expect to hold teacups, not rifles.
"Okay…" he whispered, voice high and breathy.
He sat up slowly, his entire body trembling.
Arms—slim. Legs—narrow. Waist—tapered. Chest—soft and far too heavy. His hips curved, his skin glowed, and the silk robe slipping from his shoulder sent a shiver down his spine.
He brought his hands to his face. The cheeks were rounder. The lashes longer. The body… not his.
His breath quickened. "What the fu—"
A sudden rustle.
A maid in a cream-colored robe gasped from the corner of the room, clutching a folded towel. Her wide eyes filled with disbelief.
"Princess Samara lives!" she shrieked, bolting from the room with enough speed to knock over a vase.
Sam's heart thundered—too fast, too fragile—in a ribcage that wasn't his.
Samara.
The name rang in his mind like a broken bell. Then came the memories—fragments, splinters not his own. Pain. Shame. Loneliness. A rooftop. A final fall. A desperate prayer for it all to end.
A memory—not his own—fluttered at the edge of thought. Not quite a picture, not quite a feeling. Just the lingering trace of a final breath. A silent plea unheard. A long fall and the weightless surrender that came after. He didn't know where the images came from—or why they made his chest tighten as if grieving something he had never lived. There was a weight pressing against his lungs, something deeper than confusion. The stillness in him didn't come from rest. It felt like the stillness of something that had been broken and left untouched for too long. His throat burned like it had forgotten how to scream. Or like it once did—and no one answered. His throat burned like it had forgotten how to speak.
She had died.
But the body had lived.
Now it was his.
No—theirs.
Merged.
But something felt wrong.
Not just the body. Not just the weight in his chest or the silk against his skin. It was the silence behind his eyes. Like stepping into an abandoned cathedral—grand, echoing, and hollow.
He expected to feel someone else inside. A presence. A soul.
But there was none.
Samara was gone.
Only remnants remained—shattered thoughts, trailing memories, flashes of a life lived in shame and silence. Her soul had fled, but her story clung to the walls of her mind like soot after a fire.
And now he stood in the ruins.
Alone. But not empty.
Because memories had weight. And even ghosts left footprints.
He stared at the fine silk sheets bunched around him. His hands shook. His thoughts swirled, unmoored.
Then he felt it—a presence. Heavy. Ancient. Close.
He turned.
At the foot of the bed knelt an old woman. Her kimono was rich violet trimmed in gold, embroidered with phoenixes mid-flight. A delicate crown of clear crystal rested atop silver hair coiled into a ceremonial bun.
She was crying.
Not wailing. Not gasping.
But trembling—hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of grief that had roots buried deep into the soul.
Her face, lined with years and heartbreak, was transfixed.
Then, as if her body moved before her mind could catch up, she fell forward onto her hands, crawling to the bedside with uneven breath and outstretched arms.
"My baby… my sweet Samara…" she wept, her voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind. With shaking hands, she reached up and gently cupped Sam's—Samara's—cheeks.
Sam tensed, startled by the sudden warmth, the raw emotion.
But he didn't pull away.
He didn't know how to.
He had grown up without arms around him. Without a mother's warmth or a father's pride. Without whispered assurances or tearful embraces. In Sam's world, love was distant—a foreign language spoken only through screens and dreams.
But this woman… this mother, clinging to a daughter who no longer existed, held him like he was still hers. Like his return had cracked the sky.
Sam had never known this kind of warmth. It wasn't just her embrace—it was the way her hands trembled as they cradled his face, the soft weight of her grief pressing against his heart. The way she held him like he was sacred.
It broke something open.
A flood of unfamiliar emotion surged up his chest. His throat burned not from pain—but from memory. A memory not his own, yet so powerfully rooted in the body he now wore.
This is Mother, it whispered.
He tried to hold it in. Tried to stay composed, but the tears fell anyway. Not because he was moved. Not out of sentimentality.
But because his brain—this body—remembered.
And for the first time in a life built on shadows and silence, Sam felt what it was like to be loved.
And it undid him.
And for the first time in decades, something inside him trembled—not from fear, but from something dangerously close to longing.
He didn't know how to return the embrace.
So he sat frozen, letting her hold him, as if he could learn what love felt like by staying still long enough.
The woman clung to him, burying her face into his silk robe, sobbing with a desperation that carved itself into the air.
"Praise be to Tsukuyomi," she whispered between gasps. "He hears our prayers. He brought her back. He brought my child back."
Sam—Samara—couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
The woman pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, brushing his bangs gently aside with trembling fingers.
"Are you hurt, my darling? Does it still hurt to breathe?" she asked, voice breaking. "Do you remember me, my moonlight?"
Her thumb gently stroked his cheek as her tears spilled freely. There was nothing forced in her affection—only a kind of sacred awe, as if she couldn't believe that what she saw was real.
Sam opened his mouth but no sound came out. His throat, dry and raw, refused him. He wanted to answer. He wanted to lie. He wanted to scream that he wasn't her daughter. But he couldn't.
Because in that moment, part of him didn't want to.
The past clung to him like ghosts. The future loomed like a blade.
And in that fragile, reverent moment, with the weight of grief wrapped around him and tears soaking into borrowed silk, Sam realized:
This wasn't just a second chance.
This was someone else's life.
And now it was his responsibility to carry it forward—or burn it to the ground.
He didn't know what came next.
But whatever it was, it wouldn't be quiet.
Not with her memories. Not with his rage. And not in a world where he had everything to lose, and everything to avenge.
He wasn't Samuel anymore.
But he would make sure the world never forgot the name he was forced to wear.
To Be Continued...