The chirps of birds were a cheerful, alien sound, a stark contrast to the silence of the wooden box he'd woken in. Morning sunlight, pale and gold, streamed through the parted curtain, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Bradley was sound asleep in his bed—snoring even—a picture of peace that was entirely at odds with a boy who had, just hours ago, had reincarnated and held a gun to his own head.
Knock~ knock~
The sound was firm, authoritative, rapping against the solid wood of his door.
Bradley stirred, his consciousness swimming up from the deep, dreamless void. His eyelids fluttered open. He sat up, the neat sheets pooling around his waist, and looked at the door. For a single, disorienting moment, the polished wood walls and the scent of old paper were just a dream. Then it all crashed back—the gun, the moons, the face in the mirror.
This was real.
"Who is it?" he asked, his voice still rough with sleep. His eyes darted to the sliver of shadow under the door.
"It is I, Frederic." The voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together.
Who the hell is Frederic? Bradley's mind raced. He swung his legs out of bed, the cold floor a familiar shock.
"Give me a second!" he called out, his movements becoming frantic.
His eyes landed on the revolver, still sitting blatantly on the table. Shit. He snatched it, the metal cool and heavy in his small hand, and stuffed it into the back of the wardrobe, behind a stack of folded clothes. He glanced in the mirror. A mess of obsidian curls stuck out in every direction, and he was shirtless, his new body pale and slender. He grabbed a clean white shirt from a hanger and pulled it on, the fabric soft against his skin.
I hope they don't find anything strange about me. But then again, how would they? I'm just a kid. A kid who supposedly bashed his own brains out, but still.
He moved to the door, the wooden floor groaning a protest under his bare feet. He grabbed the handle, took a steadying breath, twisted, and pulled the door open.
And looked up. And up.
In front of him stood a man—no, a bear, to be exact.
Frederic was a giant. He filled the door frame, his shoulders so broad they seemed to block out the light from the corridor. He was built like a fortress, every contour of his black long-sleeve shirt strained over pure, sculpted muscle. Bradley had to crane his neck back to see his face, and it made his neck ache.
Goddamn, did he eat the actual Hulk for breakfast? Bradley felt infinitesimally small, an ant staring up at a boot.
Frederic had a mane of jet-black hair that fell in thick waves to his shoulders. His face was all hard planes and angles, his expression unreadable. The clothes he wore—the tight shirt, the immaculate white pants tucked into black boots—were simple, but they spoke of a disciplined, martial purpose. The pair of black gloves on his hands had strange, metallic designs etched into the knuckles. And behind him, strapped to his back with worn leather harnesses, was a greatsword. It wasn't a decorative piece; the blade was nicked and scarred, the leather of the hilt darkened with sweat and use.
The aura he gave off was a physical pressure, a silent promise of immense, controlled power.
"Lady Sara asked me to wake up all of you kids to get ready for breakfast," Frederic rumbled, his voice devoid of warmth and not cold either. "You know it's your awakening trial today, so get up and go to the washroom."
"I understand," Bradley said, mimicking the flat, respectful tone.
Frederic gave a single, slow nod and began to turn, his movement surprisingly fluid for a man of his size. But Bradley's mind snagged on a practical problem.
"Wait," he said, the word coming out a bit too quickly. Frederic paused, turning his head back, those impassive eyes fixing on him. "This might sound weird, but… where is the washroom?"
Frederic didn't reply immediately. He just stood there, his gaze a weight, studying Bradley's face. Does he suspect something? Can he see the ghost in this body?
Bradley quickly layered on the excuse, layering a hint of sheepishness into his voice. "Yesterday I kind of slipped and hit my head hard before going to bed last night, so my memory is a bit foggy…"
The silence stretched. Then, Frederic moved, his large, gloved hand rising. He pointed a single, thick finger down the corridor.
"Down the corridor, the first turn on your left and the first door on your right," he stated, his tone flat and final. "And you should be careful next time so you don't slip again."
Bradley nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. "Thank you, Sir Frederic."
Another nod. Frederic turned and walked away, his bootsteps echoing with a heavy, martial rhythm that faded slowly down the hall.
Bradley closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long, shaky sigh.
That went better than I expected. But damn, bro is carrying a fucking log of steel on his back like it's a feather. At least one question was answered. This was a world where men like that existed. A world of swords. And probably, much more.
He grabbed a white towel from the wardrobe, wrapped it around his shoulders, and stepped back out into the corridor.
It was… grand. The hallways were wide, lit by a line of elegant chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling. The floor and walls were made of polished marble, gleaming in the morning light. It was far too fancy for an orphanage.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Most orphanages in stories are shitholes. This looks more like a minor noble's manor. Compared to the cold, modern mansion of his past life, it had a certain archaic charm. He knew, of course, that there would be places far more extravagant. This was, after all, a world with two moons.
His own bare feet made soft slapping sounds on the cool marble.
He suddenly stopped and frowned. "Why the hell am I barefoot?" He asked himself. He thought of going back to his room, but it seemed too far and a waste of time, so he decided to move on, barefoot.
I've adjusted to walking, at least. My balance is better. But fighting… that's a whole other story. If this 'Awakening Trial' is what I think it is, a skinny body and a sharp tongue won't be enough. He thought as he walked.
He reached the end of the corridor, turned left, and walked on.
It's weird. Still no one else. No workers, no other kids. A cold prickle ran down his spine. The caretaker… the one the last Bradley was so terrified of. His journal entries flashed in his mind.
Fuck. I really hope I don't meet her.
He took the right turn and saw a set of double doors, steam seeping out from the gap underneath. The sound of laughter and splashing water leaked through the wood.
That's it. He paused, frowning. A shared bathroom. Of course.
Bradley had always hated socializing, especially with strangers. In his past life, his only company had been Kirby, the cynical spirit in his head. He'd been perfectly fine with that.
How annoying. Well, as long as they leave me alone, I'll be fine.
He pushed the door open.
A wave of hot, damp air hit him, thick with the smell of soap and steam. The washroom was cavernous, tiled from floor to ceiling in stark white. Dozens of bathtubs of various sizes were scattered around, some sunken into the floor. Boys were everywhere—laughing, splashing, some in groups, a few sitting alone in their own tubs.
As he stepped inside, the lively chatter faltered. The noise dipped. Eyes, curious and assessing, turned toward him.
"If it isn't the pretty boy." The voice was laced with a mocking sneer.
Pretty boy? What kind of fucking nickname is that?
He turned toward the voice. It came from a dark-skinned boy lounging in a large central tub like a king on a throne. He had short, cropped black hair and sharp green eyes. A group of other boys surrounded him in the water, their attention fixed on their leader. They were his court, and he was their prince or mafia boss.
Mafia boss? More like Diddy. Did I just walk into some kind of gangster wannabe party? Bradley thought, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers in exasperation.
"Did you not hear him calling you, fucker?" one of the lackeys snarled, glaring at Bradley.
Bradley looked at him for a beat, his expression utterly blank, then turned and started to walk away. He didn't have the time or the energy for this petty bullshit.
These are probably the ones. The ones who bullied him.
The dark-skinned boy, his pride stung by the indifference, gestured sharply to one of his larger followers.
A tall boy, easily 1.7 meters, slid out of the tub and intercepted Bradley, grabbing him roughly by the front of his shirt. He loomed over Bradley, his shadow falling across him.
How the hell is a 13-year-old that tall already? What are they feeding them, growth hormones? I'm only 1.5 meters! Bradley complained inwardly.
But his complaint seemed out a place because this was a fantasy world, so abnormal builds were common.
"You should answer when someone is talking to you," the tall boy growled, his breath hot and unpleasant, "unless you want a beating."
Bradley didn't struggle. He just looked up, a slow, cold chuckle escaping his lips. "Just because you're tall, you think you're above everyone, huh? Let go. Before I break your long ass nose."
The boy's eyes widened in shock. He looked back at his friends for reassurance, then back at Bradley, a confused anger twisting his features.
"Pfft—Hahahahaha!" The room erupted in laughter, led by the boy in the tub.
"Did you hear what he just said?" the tall boy sneered, recovering his bravado. "Break my nose, you? Don't be hilarious. I don't know where you got the courage to say that today. I'll praise you for that, but you just doomed yourself." He shoved his face closer to Bradley's. "How about a break? Yours?"
"Yeah, teach that bastard a lesson and ruin that pretty face!" another boy chimed in with a vicious smirk.
Now you've done it. Blame yourself.
With a speed that surprised even himself, Bradley's hands shot up and grabbed the back of the tall boy's head. "Get off my face with your stinky breath, you gay ass bastard."
He yanked the head down while simultaneously smashing his own forehead upward into the bridge of the boy's nose.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly crisp, a dry twig snapping. Blood, shockingly red, immediately began to pour, dripping onto the wet tile floor.
"Ugh, my nose!" the boy wailed, releasing Bradley's shirt to clutch his face. His nose was visibly crooked, a ruined mess.
Bradley smiled, a cold, sharp thing that didn't reach his black eyes. "I warned you."
With a roar of pure rage and pain, the tall boy lunged blindly, swinging a wild, telegraphed punch.
Bradley's body moved on instinct, the laggy unfamiliarity still there but manageable. He weaved back, the fist whistling past his cheek. Another swing, another easy dodge.
"Stop dodging, you rat!"
"If that's what you want," Bradley said, his voice calm.
He stepped inside the next swing, grabbed the boy's extended wrist, turned his back, and pulled the arm over his shoulder. He slid the back of his leg between the boy's legs, and with a powerful heave, used the boy's own momentum to send him sailing through the air. The boy landed flat on his back on the hard tile with a sound like a sack of wet cement hitting the ground.
BAM.
He didn't get up. A low, pained groan was the only sound he made.
"That's an Uchi Mata for you," Bradley said, his wicked grin returning.
The other boys' laughter had died. Their eyes were wide, jaws slack. The weak, pathetic Bradley they knew didn't fight back. He certainly didn't throw people around like a seasoned brawler.
The dark-skinned boy's face contorted in fury. "What are you guys doing? Attack him! Now!"
The group hesitated, glancing at their moaning friend on the floor. But their leader's command spurred them into action. They scrambled out of the water, a wave of angry, wet adolescents rushing Bradley.
"Ganging up? I guess some things never change, huh," Bradley sighed, the sound genuinely disappointed. "There goes my peaceful morning."
On the far side of the room, partially obscured by steam, a boy with long, sleek purple hair sat alone in an enormous, opulent tub. He had been watching the entire exchange, his strange, amethyst eyes locked on Bradley with quiet, unnerving intensity.
The first of the eight remaining boys lunged.
I can't let them swarm me. I'll be pinned in seconds.
Bradley spun on the ball of his foot, his body a tight coil, and lashed out with a side kick that connected solidly with the first boy's chest. The boy flew backward with a grunt, landing in a tub with a tremendous splash.
Another came from his left, arms outstretched to grab him. Bradley dropped his weight, pulling his body back just out of reach, and delivered a sharp, pushing kick to the boy's sternum, sending him stumbling back. But before he could recover, Bradley closed the gap, grabbed his right arm, and pivoted. He slid his own arm under the boy's armpit, back to chest, and in one fluid, powerful motion, bent his knees and launched the boy over his shoulder.
BAM!
The second judo throw, an Ippon Seoi Nage, slammed the boy into the floor. He lay still, unconscious.
Fuck, I have to be careful. This floor is slippery. I could kill one of them by accident. Or they could kill me.
A sudden kick caught him in the side, pulling him from his thoughts. He barely managed to cross his arms in time to block it, but the force was immense, sending him skidding backward across the slick tiles. He windmilled his arms, almost losing his balance completely, before managing to arrest his momentum.
"Fuck, my arms hurt," he hissed, shaking out his stinging forearms.
This body is pathetic. Absolutely not used to fighting. He looked at his attackers. They were fit for their age, with defined muscles and the easy coordination of the active. Then he looked down at his own slender frame, his barely-visible abs.
He clicked his tongue in disgust. This fucker, the original Bradley, was just fucking around instead of training. There's no way he would have survived this 'trial' with this body.
The remaining eight fanned out, preparing to rush him again.
"Tsk, this won't do."
His eyes fell on the towel still draped around his neck. He snatched it, twisted it into a tight rope, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, sent the tip snapping forward like a whip. It connected with a sharp TWACK! right between the legs of the lead attacker.
The boy's face went from flushed to sheet-white in an instant. A high, strangled squeak escaped his lips as his hands shot to his groin. He crumpled to the floor, curling into a fetal position.
"Ouch, sorry and not sorry," Bradley said with a fake, pained expression. "No more kids for you."
The other boys halted their advance, their bravado evaporating as they stared at their whimpering friend. Even the dark-skinned leader in the tub looked hesitant, his eyes fixed on the twisted towel in Bradley's hand.
"Come on, guys, why did you stop? Come forth." Bradley gave the towel another menacing twirl.
They took a collective step back.
"If you don't come to me, I will come to you!" Bradley declared, and he dashed forward.
The boy directly in front of him panicked, tried to backpedal, but his wet foot slipped out from under him. He landed hard on his backside.
"Terrible mistake," Bradley said, looming over him.
"N-no, please—!"
SMACK!
The towel snapped down on his bare chest, leaving an angry red welt.
"AGHHHHHHHHH!" the boy screamed, a shrill sound of pure agony.
"Ahahahaha!" Bradley laughed, a genuine, unhinged sound of release. He brought the towel down again and again.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
The other boys watched in horrified fascination, their will to fight dissolving completely.
"H-he is completely mad!" one of them stammered, backing away.
Haha, beating people is really satisfying. Ahem, when they deserve it, of course. I'm not some kind of sadistic bastard. He only stopped when the boy's chest and stomach were a canvas of red, bruised stripes, the boy sobbing quietly on the floor.
Bradley straightened up, his chest heaving, and swept his gaze over the remaining five. They flinched as one.
"He is only one! We can win if we attack together, just get a hold of that damn towel!" their leader shouted from the safety of his tub, a last, desperate attempt to rally them.
Emboldened, or perhaps more afraid of their leader than of Bradley, they charged as a group.
Bradley snapped the towel, but this time his aim was off. One of the boys, gritting his teeth against the expected pain, managed to grab the sodden end.
"Got the towel!" he yelled triumphantly.
"You are so fucked now, Bradley!" the dark-skinned boy yelled, leaping from his tub and throwing a punch at Bradley's exposed side.
"Is that so?" Bradley asked, his voice eerily calm.
He simply let go of the towel. The boy holding it stumbled backward with the sudden lack of resistance.
Bradley dropped into a crouch, and the leader's punch sailed harmlessly over his head. As he rose, he swept the boy's standing leg out from under him. As the boy fell, Bradley met his descent with a savage, rising uppercut, connecting squarely with his jaw. The boy's head snapped back, and he hit the floor with a final, definitive BAM!, out cold.
That is definitely going to hurt when you wake up.
Bradley stood, his body screaming in protest, and looked at the five remaining boys. They were statues of fear. "Your boss or whatever is down. Are you sure you want to continue?"
He was bluffing. His skinny body was at its absolute limit, trembling with fatigue. Another coordinated attack would overwhelm him.
Their silence and hesitant glances told him everything he needed to know.
"Good choice." He walked slowly toward the boy, still clutching his towel. "Can I have that back?"
The boy nodded vigorously, his hands trembling as he held out the damp, twisted cloth.
"Now," Bradley said, his voice dropping to a low, cold register. "Get your friends. And get out."
They didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled, hauling their unconscious and injured comrades, and fled the washroom, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click.
Only then did Bradley allow himself to relax, his shoulders slumping. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
I would have been extremely cooked if they'd called my bluff.
He was not scared about the boys reporting this fight because he knew their pride wouldn't let them. Plus, who would believe that a skinny boy like me almost beat 8 boys?
He turned, intending to find a tub, and froze.
The boy with the long purple hair was still there, still sitting casually in his steamy bath, his eyes now open and watching Bradley. He hadn't moved, hadn't flinched, hadn't spoken. He had simply observed.
An interesting one. Not even surprised. Bradley could feel it—a quiet, dense aura around this boy that set him apart from the rabble.
Bradley walked to the wall, hung up his towel, and stripped off his now-damp shirt and trousers, hanging them on a peg. Naked, he walked over to the large tub where the purple-haired boy sat.
"Can I jump in?" Bradley asked.
The boy's amethyst eyes met his, unblinking. They were ancient eyes in a young face.
"Sure," he replied flatly, then closed his eyes again, as if Bradley's presence was of no more consequence than a passing cloud.
Bradley slid into the hot water, the heat immediately seeping into his sore muscles, soothing the aches and the adrenaline shakes. He leaned his head back against the rim of the tub with a soft groan.
"This feels nice."
The washroom was utterly silent now, save for the soft drip of water and the faint hiss of steam.
"You fought well back there." The comment came without the boy opening his eyes.
"Thanks," Bradley replied.
The silence stretched, thick and awkward.
Now, this is awkward. Bradley thought. The spirit of me back in my past life would say that I am bad at communicating if he saw this. Well, he's not wrong. I'm fucking terrible at this.
He chuckled inwardly. Might as well just… try.
"I'm Bradley."
"I'm Adrian."
They both spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping in the quiet room.
They stared at each other for a second, the formality of the moment breaking. Then, a small, genuine smile touched Adrian's lips, and Bradley let out a short, surprised laugh. The tension evaporated.
"I hope we get along." Bradley stretched his hand across the water.
Adrian opened his eyes, a glint of something like amusement in their purple depths. He reached out and grasped Bradley's forearm in a firm, warrior's grip.
"The feeling is mutual."