Darkness.
That was the first thing Yukio noticed. Heavy and absolute. The kind of dark that felt like it pressed in from all sides, seeping through skin, pooling in the chest.
There was no floor beneath his feet, no wind, no sound. Just... nothingness.
Then—a presence.
Subtle at first, like the faint tingle of static brushing the back of his neck. Slowly, a glimmer took shape in the black. Not light exactly, but a glow—dim and wavering, like candlelight trying to shine through a thick veil.
From it, a silhouette emerged. A girl. Or something shaped like one. Her outline flickered, refusing to fully take form. Like smoke frozen in time, constantly shifting just when it seemed to settle.
She stood still, unmoving. Her hair, if it could be called that, drifted weightlessly around her, strands flowing as though underwater.
"You must... help him," she said.
The voice didn't echo. It didn't even feel like it came from her. It resonated—low and soft—right in his chest.
"Huh? Wait, help who?" Yukio asked, blinking. His voice came out oddly muffled, like he was speaking through water.
"You will meet him soon. He must not... be alone."
He furrowed his brow in confusion.
"This is so vague. Can I get subtitles or—?"
The figure didn't respond. Instead, the flicker around her form pulsed once—brighter—and her voice came again, lighter now. Fragile.
"Please... remember..."
And then—light.
A sudden, piercing flare that filled the void in an instant. Yukio instinctively threw his arms up, but it offered no protection. The glow swallowed everything.
.
.
Yukio blinked in confusion.
A second ago, he was in his room, headphones in, halfway through "King Crimson - The Court Of The Crimson King" while reading volume 7 of a light novel about some overpowered slime.
And now?
Cobwebs. Walls.
He was in a narrow alley that looked like it hadn't seen cleaning—in years. The walls were aged brick, moss creeping between the cracks, and the air smelled faintly of iron and damp wood. A few windows dotted the walls, all dark and boarded from the inside, as if trying to hide whatever sins were committed behind them.
"...Okay. Not Kansas anymore."
He spun slowly, taking in the alley. No vending machines. No signs. No garbage bags. Just cobwebs, crumbling walls, and... his own rising panic.
"Did I die? Is this one of those death > truck > fantasy world setups?"
He took a shaky step forward, then glanced at one of the nearby windows. The grime on the glass made it hard to see, but there was just enough light to catch a vague silhouette on the other side. Someone was there.
A guy, around his age. Lean build. White hair. Black cloak. And a sword strapped to his waist—a beautifully shaped blade that looked like it had emerged from the open jaws of a black dragon, the hilt carved like scales running up its body.
Yukio's eyes widened. "Whoa... that sword's badass—"
He cut himself off. Something was off. The guy in the reflection moved with him—same posture, same eye shape, same awkward little tilt of the head when he squinted.
"...Wait."
He leaned closer to the glass. The figure did the same.
It wasn't someone else.
It was him.
'Wait..Oh hell naw! It was him!'
Yukio stumbled back a step, heart skipping a full beat. He raised his hand—so did the reflection. Turned to the side—so did the stranger.
Only it wasn't a stranger. It was his face. Only... not exactly.
His ears were longer now. His skin was paler. His hair, instead of its usual messy black, was now pure white, almost silvery under the light. And that cloak, that sword—none of it was anything he'd ever worn.
He stared at his reflection, jaw slightly open. "The hell...?"
Reality hit like a slow, creeping avalanche.
This wasn't just teleportation.
He had woken up in someone else's body.
Scratch that—he had woken up in his new body.
And it was... kind of awesome. Also terrifying. But mostly awesome.
Plus he was infinite times hotter than before!
"I'm an elf?"
Yukio reached up, brushing a strand of white hair behind one pointed ear, just to be sure. Then he looked down at the black cloak. The sword's weight pressed lightly at his hip—unmistakably real. He pulled the hem of the cloak aside, running his hand along the sheath.
The dragon on the hilt felt cold to the touch.
He shivered. "Okay... okay. Deep breath. You're fine. I've read like fifty isekai. I was built for this."
But his voice trembled anyway.
The dark alley didn't offer much comfort. And that brief memory—of the void, and the girl's voice asking him to save someone—it still lingered in the back of his mind like static.
"...Who even was she?" he muttered. "Save who...?"
.
.
A little while later, Yukio found himself sitting on the stairs in the alley, going full detective on his own body.
"Okay, checklist time," he muttered, rolling up the sleeve of his cloak and eyeing the surprisingly toned forearm underneath. "Arms? Lean. Muscular. Not too bulky. Nice."
He tapped his stomach. Yep, he had abs!
Then, naturally, his gaze drifted to his sword.
Unclipping it from his belt, he slowly drew the blade partway from its scabbard. The metal gleamed—a dark, mirror-like black, almost obsidian, with faint red veins running through it like dried magma. The hilt, shaped like a dragon's snarling mouth, was both ominous and elegant. It didn't look mass-produced. This was a one-of-a-kind piece.
He ran his fingers across the grip. "You're definitely important. Definitely cursed or magical or something. Probably both."
With some reluctance, he sheathed it and turned to the small leather pouch hanging on his left side. It looked standard enough—but definitely heavier than it should've been. Opening it carefully, he peeked inside.
His eyes blinked in surprise.
"...Whoa."
Stacked neatly inside, defying all spatial logic, were thirty nine gold colored coins, though some of them looked different. Then there were eleven silver, and thirteen copper. Their value was obvious. All of them were packed in there like a well-behaved lunchbox. Yukio swore the pouch barely looked big enough to hold half that.
"Okay. Spatial magic pouch confirmed?" he whispered, holding it up to the light. "Or some crazy inventory compression spell. Either way, I'm rich."
He cinched it shut with care, suddenly feeling way more important than thirty minutes ago.
Then his eyes drifted back to his reflection on the window's surface.
"...Man."
He tilted his head. Smirked. Raised one eyebrow like a smug anime rival.
"I'm hot."
He wasn't even trying to brag—it was just objectively true. That long white hair? The faintly elven features? That smooth but sharp jawline? He looked like the aloof side character girls would fight over in a dating sim.
"I'd marry myself if I could," he said aloud. It was obviously a line he copied from an anime he had watched some time ago, What was it called again? Something about amusement parks....
He paused.
Then glanced down.
'...Wonder if—nah. Wait. Actually, yeah. I wonder if my dick's longer now.'
There was a moment of profound silence in the alley.
"I mean, not that it needed to be. Mine was already, like, objectively respectable. Not bragging, just saying. But still, if we're upgrading everything else..."
He trailed off, suddenly aware of the way the shadows around him seemed to lean in, as if the alley itself was judging him.
"...Okay, that's enough self-discovery for now," he muttered, straightening up and brushing imaginary dust from his cloak.
Still, if this was a game world or some other fantasy realm, then step one was clear: get your bearings without dying.
And maybe—just maybe—find a mirror in private later. For, you know. Self discovery.
.
.
Yukio finally stepped out of the alley, squinting against the sudden brightness of what was unmistakably... a full-blown medieval town.
Stone streets, wooden signs swinging from storefronts, townspeople bustling about in robes and armor—it was like someone mashed together an RPG town and a Renaissance fair and threw in some dragon-looking lizards just to keep it spicy.
His eyes widened as a small creature—half-cat, half-boy—ran past him, laughing and clutching a pastry.
'Okay... demi-humans are a thing. Should've expected it since I'm an elf... But this means, there are CAT GIRLS!!'
But as he started walking, Yukio quickly noticed something weird.
People weren't looking at him the way you'd look at someone mildly lost and confused—which, fair, he was. No, their looks were sharper. More tense. Children were pulled away by their parents. Shopkeepers turned their gazes away, muttering under their breath. An old man even crossed the street just to avoid passing by him.
'Did I enter a racist district by mistake?'
His gaze flicked around—others were clearly demi-human too.
'Wait... so it's not because I'm not human. It's because I'm... elf?'
He remembered stories from anime or light novels. There was always some deep lore. Some world-ending mess.
"Half-elf... Where are these cursed elves popping out of?"
"Yeah right. Are they planning something? Why aren't the knights just capturing them already?"
"Did you know? I saw a half-elf girl yesterday. Her face was clearly 'that.' And now a male half-elf too."
'Fuck, I think this is way more intense than I thought!' Yukio went into full panic mode.
.
.
Yukio slipped into the alley, tugging his hood over his head as if it could somehow erase the sharp points of his ears and the shock of silver hair that screamed, "Please discriminate against me!"
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against the cool stone wall. The city's noise dulled behind him, replaced by the soft echoes of his footsteps in the narrow path.
'Okay, just hide out a little, maybe rethink the whole "wander out like a clueless anime protagonist" move. No big deal.'
He turned the corner at the end of the alley—
—and stopped dead in his tracks.
Three men stood ahead of him. Two tall, wiry types, one shorter but stockier with a long scar across his jaw. All of them were armed. Behind him, he heard footsteps. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed four more men closing in. One of them twirled a small dagger like he thought it made him cool.
Yukio's stomach twisted. 'Okay... seven guys. That's just... that's fine. I mean, one guy with a sword versus seven with knives and actual experience in stabbing people. Totally not balanced!'
The guy with the scar grinned. "Well, well. Looks like we caught us a little rabbit. Half-elf, huh? You don't belong here, knife-ears."
"And he looks rich, too. Let's see what he's got."
Yukio raised his hands a little, trying to stay calm. Outwardly, he looked cautious—wary but composed. Internally?
'Okay, this is actually happening. They're real. They're armed. And I don't even know if I'm left or right-handed in this new body. Do I even know how to use this sword? Did I skip the tutorial?!'
Still, his fingers drifted toward the black sword at his waist.
'No choice... If I don't at least try, I'm screwed. Calm down. Think... worst case, scream and flail dramatically, maybe they'll get confused.'
He unsheathed the sword. It moved smoothly, like the blade wanted to be drawn. The weight in his hand felt right. Familiar, even.
That... was weird.
The scarred thug frowned. "He's drawing? You got a death wish, pretty boy?"
Yukio's heart was pounding. But he took a shaky breath, planting his feet the way he thought people did in those historical dramas. Sword forward, knees slightly bent. Ready-ish.
'Okay... come at me, I guess?'
The first guy lunged.
But then something strange happened.
He tripped. Not over Yukio. Not even over anything visible. His own foot just gave out like it forgot how to exist, and he slammed into the wall with a thud that made two of the other thugs flinch.
"What the hell?!" shouted one of the back group, who then charged forward—only to have the guy next to him stumble directly into his path, sending both tumbling into a stack of empty crates that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago.
Yukio blinked. 'Wait... are they all just bad at walking?'
The scared guy growled and ran at him, knife out. Yukio reacted instinctively, swinging the sword up to block. The impact jolted through his arms, but his stance held. In fact, he didn't move at all—but the thug was sent staggering back like he'd hit a wall.
Yukio looked down at his own hands. 'That strength... I didn't even push that hard...'
Another came from behind. Yukio twisted, almost too late—but before the blade even reached him, the attacker slipped on something slick and slammed his chin into the cobblestone with a sickening crack.
'...Okay, WHAT IS GOING ON?'
One of the last thugs turned pale. "He's cursed!"
"Forget the money, run!" someone else shouted.
Yukio, breathing hard but otherwise untouched, stood frozen as the group scrambled away, limping, cursing, or dragging their fallen friends.
The alley went quiet.
He stood there for a second longer before exhaling, lowering the sword slowly.
"...Did I just win? By... doing almost nothing?" He looked down at his feet, then glanced around. "Is there like a banana peel god watching over me or...?"
He sheathed the sword, wiping sweat from his forehead. His heart was still racing.
'That was real. I could've died... But I didn't. Not even close.'
He chuckled to himself, trying to ease the tension. "Whew... First time in a fight and I didn't even get scratched. Maybe I am the protagonist."
A pause.
"...Still would've preferred the cheat skill where I decimate opponents in the blink of an eye."