I used to be someone.
A guy with a high-rise view, two assistant managers, and an obnoxiously overpriced ergonomic chair. At thirty-four, I had designed over a dozen urban centers across Japan—zoning, transit systems, stormwater management, you name it. My coworkers called me "the blueprint boss," and the firm called me a genius. My parents? They finally stopped asking when I'd get married. For once, I was doing something impressive enough to distract them.
I had everything: status, a stable income, even a reserved bar stool at my favorite after-work izakaya. You know the kind—deep-fried skewers, cold beer, and the same three coworkers complaining about deadlines and upper management. Life was predictable. Comfortably dull. Perfect, if you ignored the underlying anxiety that one day it might all come crashing down.
And then it did.
It started with whispers—a misfiled permit here, a budget discrepancy there. Someone had to take the fall. And who better than the guy at the top? A well-placed rumor, a few conveniently leaked documents, and I went from "visionary" to "villain" in a week. The firm held a press conference before I even knew I was under investigation.
The fallout was spectacular. TV interviews, news articles, hashtags with my name followed by the word "fraud." Even my favorite bar stopped letting me in. Apparently, public scandal isn't great for business.
I wasn't arrested, just... erased. Quietly dismissed. My reputation, however, was sentenced to death by media.
My savings lasted six months.
I became a shut-in. Moved into a one-room apartment with mold in the corners and neighbors who screamed at each other at 3 a.m. My furniture was mostly cardboard. I survived on discount store curry and microwave rice.
During the day, I binge-watched anime and played kingdom-building strategy games. I found comfort in micromanaging fictional villages. At night, I slipped into smoky underground gambling dens.
There, at least, I found something I was still good at: bluffing.
Poker, mostly. Texas Hold 'Em, Five Card Draw, whatever. It didn't matter. I wasn't good at the math—I was good at the people. The twitch of an eyebrow. The forced laugh. The sudden silence. I knew when to fold and when to raise hell. I couldn't rebuild cities anymore, but I could still read people like blueprints.
I didn't win big. But I didn't lose either. I floated. Not alive, not dead. Just... in limbo.
Until the day I died. Because of noodles.
It was a Wednesday. Not that it matters, but somehow it feels worse that it was a Wednesday. I was playing yet another modded strategy sim—this one had goblins and fantasy plumbing—and yelling at an AI worker who built the latrine too close to the well.
"You're gonna kill the whole village with cholera, you dumb goblin!"
I was halfway through a cup of spicy instant ramen when the spice hit wrong. Not in the mouth—in the throat.
I choked.
Not the dramatic kind where you cough and recover. No, this was the real deal. Eyes watering, throat closing, flailing for the bottle of water I had carelessly placed just out of reach. I fell out of my chair, flopped like a fish on the hardwood floor. The game screen flashed red.
"You have died of dysentery."
The irony wasn't lost on me.
My last thoughts, in order:
"This is a really stupid way to die."
"Someone, please delete my browser history."
"Why does it smell like mint?"
Then everything went dark.
Darkness.
I thought death would be peaceful. Or terrifying. But this was just... blank. No tunnel. No light. No judgment. Just a vague sense of floating. I wasn't breathing, but I wasn't suffocating. Time didn't pass, or maybe it passed all at once.
And then...
Pain.
Not agony. More like discomfort. My back ached. My arms hurt. Wait—arms? Legs? I had a body again?
Then I felt it. Cold. Wet. A sharp wail split the air.
It was my voice.
I was crying.
Why was I crying?
Oh.
I was a baby.
My eyes opened, blurry and unfocused. Shapes hovered around me—green, gray, hunched. Not human. They had wide eyes, sharp teeth, big ears. Goblins.
Real goblins.
My brain tried to scream, but my lungs were already busy bawling.
One of the creatures leaned in. Yellow eyes, rough skin, a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a rake. And then it did something unexpected.
It smiled.
"Human... cub?"
The voice was gravel mixed with confusion.
Another goblin peeked over the first one's shoulder. Then another. They passed me around like a particularly fragile turnip. I expected claws. Bites. Sacrifices to some weird forest god.
Instead, I got warmth. One goblin wrapped me in a fur pelt and rocked me gently. Another made a weird gurgling sound I think was a lullaby.
"Taku," one of them whispered.
And that was that.
I had a name. Taku. Short for Takumi, maybe. Or just something they made up. Either way, I was theirs now.
...
Years passed. I don't know how many at first. Time is hard to track when your days are filled with gruel, naps, and goblins arguing over whether mushrooms are food or enemies.
But I grew. Slowly. Differently. I wasn't one of them, but they never treated me like an outsider. I helped with chores once I could walk. Learned their strange dialect. Ate their terrible food.
They didn't have magic. Just superstition and stubbornness. They worshipped the forest, feared the moon, and believed sneezing was a sign the gods were watching.
I introduced soap.
They called it sorcery.
At age ten, I built a raised platform for the sleeping hut to avoid the seasonal floods. At twelve, I figured out a crude water filtration system using sand and charcoal. By fifteen, I had set up a rotation-based crop plan to avoid soil depletion.
They thought I was a prophet.
I tried to tell them I was just a guy who used to be an engineer. They thought "engineer" was some kind of demon. I gave up correcting them.
But I was happy.
For the first time since everything had fallen apart, I felt useful. Needed. Not because of money or status, but because my weird human knowledge genuinely helped.
The goblins treated me like one of their own. The chief called me "Soft-Skin." It was meant with affection. I think.
I helped build their homes, plan their harvests, even delivered a few goblin babies. That was... messy.
I didn't have magic. No glowing runes. No mysterious voice in my head announcing Unique Skills. Just me, my hands, and the memories of a life I didn't ask to lose.
And for a while, that was enough.
The village grew. Not by much—we were still small, humble, tucked deep in the woods. But there was laughter, food, and safety.
I remember sitting on a hill one evening, watching the smoke rise from cooking fires, listening to the sounds of goblins singing off-key.
And I thought:
"Maybe this is all I need."
Then the dream came.
...
I was back in the gambling den. Dim lights, stifling air. Cards in my hand. Opponent across the table—faceless, featureless, terrifying.
I bet everything.
The figure laughed. It placed down five perfect cards. I flipped mine.
Blank.
All of them blank.
I woke up gasping.
Sweat soaked my bedding. A low rumble echoed in the distance.
A bad omen.
I ignored it.
Should've known better.
...
The day after the dream, the humans came.
But that's another story.
All I knew was, I had once been a man with power, then a man with nothing, then a baby with everything to learn again. And somehow, despite being reborn as a weak, powerless infant in a world of monsters...
I felt more human than ever.
...
[Prologue End]