Awareness returned with the sound of heavy breathing—my breathing.
The world was a blur of green and blue. A digital forest. Synthetic sunlight dappled through leaves that had no scent. My legs ached, a deep, unfamiliar burn, and my lungs screamed for air that felt too thin.
What… where…
A notification flickered at the edge of my vision: C-Rank Battle. Survival Exercise. Remaining: 32/40.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the fog. This wasn't right. I had been in my room, the glow of my laptop the only light, scrolling through the latest chapter of World Trigger. I'd fallen asleep…
Another memory surfaced, not mine, yet vividly clear. A classroom. A friendly, bespectacled girl with orange hair, Chika. A briefing on Border and Neighbors. A resolve to get stronger, to protect. A name attached to that resolve: Osamu Mikumo.
The body I was in trembled. I looked down. Black Border uniform. The familiar, slightly bulky shape of an Asteroids holder in my hand. It felt alien and heavy.
No. This is impossible.
"Mikumo! On your left!"
The voice crackled in my ear, young, urgent, and instantly recognizable. Kuga Yuma.
Instinct that wasn't mine made me jerk my head. From behind a cluster of digital rocks, a figure emerged, rifle raised. Brown hair, calm eyes that missed nothing. My borrowed memory supplied the name: Koarai. Member of Katori Squad. Aggressive, front-line attacker.
My own mind, screaming with meta-knowledge, supplied the rest: He never works alone. Where's—
A second shooter, Okudera, peeled off from the opposite side, a perfect pincer. This was a basic, effective C-rank tactic. In the manga, Mikumo had frozen here, overwhelmed, and been bailouted in seconds.
Adrenaline, pure and desperate, flooded my veins. This wasn't a manga panel. This was real. The air hissed as a trion bullet grazed my shoulder, a spark of pain and a system chime signaling a minor hit to my trion body.
I'm going to die. Again.
But the fear was met by a sudden, violent surge of information. The storyboard of this very battle unfolded in my mind's eye. I knew Koarai's pattern. He favored a double-tap: center mass, then a follow-up to the predicted dodge vector. Okudera would hang back, covering.
I didn't have Mikumo's skills. But I had the script.
Instead of trying to dodge with a body that didn't know how, I did something utterly illogical. I took a stumbling step forward, towards Koarai, raising my Asteroid gun awkwardly.
He fired. The bullet meant for my chest whizzed past my ear as my forward movement ruined his aim. The second shot came instantly, aimed where my gut would have been if I'd flinched back.
It hit empty air.
Okudera, surprised by my clumsy advance, adjusted his aim. But that half-second of adjustment was all the opening I needed. I didn't try to shoot him. My aim was terrible. Instead, I threw myself into a desperate, rolling dive behind a thick, simulated oak tree.
Two more bullets cratered the ground where I'd just been.
Silence, save for the thundering of my heart and the staticky breathing in my comms.
"Mikumo?" Yuma's voice again, a note of confusion replacing urgency. "You… moved weird. But it worked."
I slumped against the tree, the rough bark pressing into my back. I stared at my hands. They were Mikumo's hands. Slender, slightly pale. They were shaking.
I used the knowledge. I changed it.
A fierce, giddy wave of relief washed over me, followed immediately by a crushing wave of nausea. I had just piloted another person's body. I had his memories, his feelings, a deep-seated determination, a friendship with Chika, a budding respect for Yuma, all tangled up with my own 21st-century consciousness. It was a cacophony in my skull.
The system blared. "Blue 4, Bail Out. Blue 7, Bail Out." Someone else had been eliminated. The battle was moving on.
I had to move. I had to think.
The original Mikumo's goal here was simple: survive, support. My goal was now a terrifying tangle: survive, understand, and… protect. Because I knew what was coming. The Large-Scale Invasion. The neighbors. Yuma's secret. Chika's colossal trion and her trauma.
A new resolve, part mine, part his, began to crystallize amidst the panic. I was here. I was Osamu Mikumo, for all intents and purposes. And I possessed the single greatest strategic weapon in all of Border: foreknowledge.
But knowledge alone was useless without a vessel. And this vessel, Mikumo's body, was tragically weak. Low trion. Average coordination. I couldn't rely on power. I had to rely on precision. On saying the right thing, being in the right place, making the right plan, long before anyone else even knew a plan was needed.
I peeked around the tree. The area was clear. Koarai and Okudera, having failed their quick takedown, had likely moved to hunt easier prey.
My communicator lit up. A location ping, and a message from Chika. "Osamu! Are you okay? I saw you were hit!" Her worry was palpable even through text.
I lifted my finger to the comms switch, my throat tight. This would be my first test. My first words in this new life.
I took a breath, forcing Mikumo's calm demeanor to the surface, blending it with my own frantic determination. "I'm fine, Chika. Just a graze. Stick with the plan we discussed. Hold position near the north ravine. Yuma and I will regroup on you."
There was a pause. The plan we discussed? The original Mikumo had given a vague "stay safe" instruction. This was more specific. More tactical.
"O-okay! Understood!" Chika replied, her voice brightening with the clarity of a direct order.
"Yuma," I said, switching channels, my voice lower. "Don't engage the Katori pair. They're hunting as a unit. Circle wide to the east and meet at Chika's coordinates. Use the terrain."
Another pause, longer this time. Then, a curious, almost amused hum. "Roger. You're sounding different, Mikumo. More… commander-like."
The observation hit me like a physical blow. Already. The butterfly's wings had flapped.
"Just… trying to survive," I said, the truth of it almost choking me.
As I pushed off from the tree and began a cautious, low sprint towards the north ravine, my mind was already racing ahead, leaving the immediate battle behind. This C-rank exercise was a tutorial level. The real game was yet to come. I needed a plan. A training regimen. A way to turn meta-knowledge into tangible skill.
I knew the enemies we would face. I knew the strengths of my allies. I knew the tragic beats of the story I now inhabited.
And as the simulated sun glinted off my borrowed Trigger, a single, solid thought anchored my swirling consciousness.
I will not let it play out the same way.
The first move had been a desperate, scripted dodge. The next moves would be my own.
(Chapter 1 End)