Tobio woke up.
Not because of an alarm. Not because of a sound.
But because this body—somehow—knew that dawn was about to arrive.
His eyes opened before light truly entered. An internal rhythm he hadn't realized before, like something inside him was always alert. Maybe a remnant of Haruto—a child accustomed to waking up on time for public events. Or maybe something else.
He lay still for a while, staring at the wooden ceiling with the crack in the left corner.
That crack—he already knew its shape by heart. A thin line branching like a small river on a map. Every morning, he saw it, and every morning he realized: this wasn't his old room.
In the Kurogane house, the ceiling was pure white, flawless. Sometimes he would lie staring at it, counting how long until his father came home. How long until someone spoke to him.
Here, the ceiling was old, cracked, and imperfect.
But it felt more real.
Faint light began to enter through the gap in the curtain—gray, then slowly yellowish. The sun was rising behind the hill.
Tobio turned to the side.
Beside the futon, the goldfish in its plastic bag was still swimming slowly. Small circles on the water's surface. The fish seemed calm—unaware that the world outside was far more complicated. Unaware that the person who caught it last night was not an ordinary child.
Tobio sighed.
His head... didn't hurt anymore.
Last night, after the festival, the pain had slowly faded. Like a fever subsiding. Now only mild fatigue remained—like after running too far.
So the payment was temporary.
Or at least, for a desire that small, the payment was light.
He sat up.
Straightened the blanket. Folded it neatly. Placed the pillow on top.
Then his hand stopped.
'Why do I still do this?'
Folding the blanket. Straightening the futon. Haruto's habit—in the Kurogane house, the staff never did it for him. But he always did it himself. Because...
Because why?
Because he didn't want to be a bother? Because he wanted to control something in a life that was fully controlled?
Or because—in that old world—that was the only thing he could control?
Maybe.
Or maybe this habit was already ingrained.
He finished folding the blanket. Then walked to the window.
Opened the curtain.
Thin mist still shrouded the rice fields in the distance.
The world stretched out before his eyes—not the view of Tokyo city with its tall buildings, but a green expanse undulating with the contours of the hills. Rice was beginning to yellow in some plots, ready for harvest in a few weeks. Other plots were still fresh green, swaying in the wind like a sea of grass.
A few farmers had already started their activities. Small figures in farmer hats moved slowly among the rice. From this distance, they looked like dots moving in the same rhythm—bending, checking, standing, walking. The rhythm of farming that had lasted for hundreds of years.
Birds flitted from one tree to another. Their sounds mixed with the chirping of crickets that was beginning to subside. A dog barked softly in the distance—maybe the Tanaka family's dog, who liked chasing the neighbor's chickens.
Fresh air came in through the window.
Tobio breathed deeply.
The smell of wet earth—maybe there had been heavy dew last night. The smell of grass—from the fields and paddies. The smell of wood smoke—from a neighbor's house cooking breakfast with a traditional stove.
This world... was alive.
Truly alive.
Not a stage set. Not a television show. Not a tightly guarded filming location.
Just... alive.
He stood at the window for a long time, letting the morning air wash over his face.
The sun continued to rise. The mist slowly disappeared. The village began to wake.
Suddenly— The aroma of miso.
And grilled fish from the kitchen.
Tobio turned. The smell had been there since earlier, but now it was stronger. Grandma Ageha must have been up for a while.
He walked to the living room.
Grandma Ageha was flipping fish in the frying pan.
Her back was slightly bent with age, but her movements were still lively. Her wrinkled hand held the wooden spatula steadily, flipping the mackerel just as the skin browned. On another stove, a small pot of miso soup simmered gently. Small bubbles rose to the surface, carrying the aroma of seaweed and tofu.
On the table, rice was cooked in the rice cooker—steam still rising as Tobio passed.
She turned at the sound of Tobio's footsteps.
"Morning, Tobio." A smile.
But Tobio saw it—there was a slight wariness in her eyes. Like last night. The smile was warm, but behind it was observation. There were questions not yet spoken.
"You're up very early."
Tobio nodded. "Couldn't sleep anymore."
"Still dizzy?"
"Gone."
Ageha nodded. Didn't ask further. But Tobio knew—this was just a pause. Those questions were still there. Only waiting for the right time.
Like water in a river held back by a dam. Sooner or later, it would overflow.
"Sit down. Breakfast will be ready soon."
Tobio sat at the living room table.
In the kitchen, Ageha moved with the same rhythm. But Tobio felt a different silence between them.
Not an uncomfortable silence—but a waiting silence.
Like before a storm, or like before an important conversation.
Ageha brought the tray.
Miso soup in a blue ceramic bowl—tofu, seaweed, green onions. Grilled mackerel—slightly burnt at the edge, as usual. Warm white rice in a wooden bowl. Pickled radish and cucumber on a small plate. Tamagoyaki—rolled omelet—still steaming.
All the same as yesterday.
But today, Tobio ate slower.
Not because he wasn't hungry. But because his mind was busy.
His grandmother knew something. Or at least, she suspected.
'Should I ask? Or wait?'
He scooped rice slowly. Chewed. Swallowed.
Across the table, Ageha also ate slowly. But her eyes—occasionally—glanced towards Tobio.
Observing.
Assessing.
Waiting.
Ageha put down her chopsticks. A small click sound on the wooden table.
Tobio looked up.
"Tobio."
Ageha's voice was soft. But there was a firm tone within it—a tone she didn't usually use. Not angry. Not interrogating. But... firm. Like someone who had decided not to delay any longer.
"I want to talk."
Tobio put down his chopsticks. "Yes, Grandma."
Ageha took a breath. Her wrinkled hands grasped a teacup—not to drink, but to hold something. Maybe so her hands wouldn't tremble.
"Last night... at the festival... I saw something."
Tobio was silent.
Ageha looked directly at him. Her eyes—though old—were still sharp. Not like ordinary grandmother's eyes. There was a sharpness there that was unusual.
"You got dizzy after catching the fish. After winning at roulette." She paused. "Not ordinary dizziness—I know. I've taken care of you for six years. Since you were six years old, every day I've watched you. I know when you're sick. When you're tired. When you're pretending."
Tobio remained silent.
"That dizziness of yours... was different." Ageha continued. "You were pale. Your breathing was heavy. But you forced a smile."
Tobio looked down.
"I also saw the way you played." Ageha's voice didn't change—still soft, but each word like an arrow hitting its target.
"You're not a lucky child. Before, you used to lose at those games. Sae always won. You always accepted defeat calmly—never protested, never overly sad. That was one of the things that made me... worried."
Ageha paused. Her eyes glistened? No. But there was something there.
"But last night—" Her voice was almost a whisper. "Last night, you suddenly won. Twice. In a way that was... strange."
Tobio remained silent.
But inside his head, his mind worked quickly.
She noticed everything.
From the beginning.
Not just last night—but since he woke up.
This grandmother... was not an ordinary grandmother.
Or maybe, all grandmothers were like that. Watching their grandchildren with a love that made them alert to every small change.
He didn't know.
But one thing he knew: lying was useless.
Or at least—half-lying.
"Tobio." Ageha's voice softened. Much softer than before. Almost like a caress.
Her hand reached for Tobio's hand.
Warm. Rough from years of hard work. But her grip was gentle.
"I don't know what happened to you after you fell from the tree. Maybe amnesia. Maybe the effect of the fever. Maybe... something else." She paused. "But you're still my grandchild. Whatever happens. Do you understand?"
Tobio stared at the wrinkled hand holding his.
Warm.
She wasn't angry.
She was worried.
She... loved Tobio.
For the first time since waking up in this world, Tobio felt something stuck in his throat.
Not something physical.
But something emotional.
Something he had never felt as Haruto.
Someone cared about him. Not as a symbol. Not because he was useful. But because of me.
Or because I am Tobio.
Her grandchild.
The child of Kenji—her son who had died.
The only family left.
He took a breath.
Trying to control something in his chest—something trying to get out.
"Grandma."
Ageha waited.
"I... also don't know what happened."
Tobio chose his words carefully. This wasn't a full confession—but not a complete lie.
"After I fell, I woke up with a feeling... different." He looked at Ageha. "But there's something inside me that's... new."
Ageha nodded slowly. Encouraging him to continue.
"I don't know what it is. But last night... when I really wanted to catch the fish... or get that voucher..." Tobio stopped. "It seemed like my wish came true. But after that, my head hurt."
He raised his left hand. Stared at his palm. "Like there was a price to pay."
Silence.
Ageha looked down. Her eyes stared at the worn wooden table. The same table she had used since she got married long ago. Marks on its surface—scratches from knives, circles from hot cups, stubborn soy sauce stains. All memories.
Her mind seemed far away.
Maybe drifting to the past. Maybe to something she had never told anyone.
Tobio looked up. "Grandma."
Ageha didn't move.
"Grandma, there's something I want to ask."
Ageha looked up. Her eyes—now—looked tired. But also wary.
"What do you want to ask?"
Tobio sighed.
This was a question he had been thinking about since yesterday. Since that light appeared. Since he realized that he was not normal.
"What kind of world is this?"
Ageha blinked.
"Can Grandma be honest with me?"
Ageha was silent.
A few seconds.
Maybe ten.
Maybe twenty.
Outside, the sound of birds was distant. Crickets began to sing again—the sun had risen, they were still there.
Tobio waited.
He didn't push.
He just stared at his grandmother, reading the patterns on that wrinkled face.
Confusion. Doubt. Fear.
Then—something like acceptance.
Like someone who had kept a secret for a long time, and finally felt that the time had come.
Ageha took a long breath.
"This world..." Her voice was soft. Almost a whisper. "This world... doesn't only contain humans."
Tobio just stared at her. Not surprised. Not asking. Just waiting.
Ageha continued, more carefully now. Each word seemed weighed.
"There are... Angels."
A pause.
"Fallen Angels."
A longer pause.
"And Devils."
Those three words hung in the air.
Tobio remained silent. His face didn't change.
Ageha stared at him, looking for a reaction—fear, confusion, disbelief. But there was nothing.
Only calm.
That made her uneasy.
She continued, her voice nearly a whisper.
"And there are... certain humans. They possess something called... Sacred Gear."
As Those Words Came Out, Tobio froze.
Not because of surprise.
But because of déjà vu.
Something in his head—like a door opening. Memories.
Anime.
High School DxD.
Issei Hyoudou.
Angels. Devils. Fallen Angels.
Sacred Gear.
Great Red. Ophis. Trihexa.
Everything flashed in an instant.
He remembered watching it—before, as Haruto. In his large, silent room. On the laptop provided by staff for "entertainment". He watched a lot of anime back then—to fill the void. To forget that outside his room, his father was busy with politics, his mother was busy with her own activities, and no one really talked to him.
Most anime he forgot.
But DxD... was a little different.
Not because of the ecchi—he didn't really care. Not because of the lecherous Issei—a too-ordinary protagonist.
But because of the lore.
A world with three factions: Angels, Fallen Angels, Devils.
A world with Sacred Gear—special powers within humans.
And what he remembered most: Trihexa.
The Beast of Apocalypse.
A monster sleeping in another dimension, guarded by thousands of seals.
Once awakened, it could destroy the world.
He remembered that because—for some reason—that concept caught his attention. An invisible threat, sleeping behind thousands of seals, waiting for its time. Like... a system. Like politics. An invisible threat that was always there.
Tobio sat still.
His mind raced.
This is the DxD world.
The world he now inhabited is the DxD world.
A world with angels, devils, sacred gears, and... Trihexa.
But he didn't know when the timeline was.
Was the Azazel Cup incident ongoing? Had Issei already died and been reincarnated? Had the three-faction war already ended?
Or... was this a parallel world? Another version of DxD?
He didn't know.
What he knew: he only remembered a few major events. Not the whole story. Every action he took now would cause a butterfly effect.
And he—Tobio—was a new variable in this world.
'Is my reincarnation and this power not a coincidence?'
Ageha saw Tobio's silence.
Not ordinary silence—but a heavy silence. Like he was processing something very large. Like he was putting puzzle pieces together in his head.
And that made Ageha uneasy.
Not because Tobio asked—that was natural.
Not because she had to reveal the world's secrets—that she had already decided.
But because of Tobio's reaction.
Or more precisely—the lack of reaction.
Usually, a twelve-year-old child would be surprised. Or scared. Or excited—"Wow, like a show on TV!" Or disbelieving—"Grandma's joking, right?"
But Tobio... Silent.
Like he was checking data. Like he was matching information with something he already knew.
Why wasn't he surprised?
Why did he accept it so easily?
As if... as if he already knew.
Ageha felt a cold shiver down her spine.
Not fear of Tobio. But fear for Tobio.
What happened to her grandchild?
Tobio finally looked up.
His eyes were calm. Too calm for a child his age.
"So..." His voice was soft. "I live in a world like this."
He looked at Ageha.
"Thank you for telling me, Grandma. I'll be more careful."
To Ageha, that sentence was strange.
Not the content—but the tone. "I'll be more careful."
That wasn't the sentence of a child who just learned there were monsters in the world. That was the sentence of someone who had already thought about the danger beforehand. The sentence of someone who knew they could be in trouble.
Like a soldier receiving intelligence information, then nodding and saying, "Okay, I'll be vigilant."
As if Tobio was only getting confirmation, not new information.
Ageha stared at him for a long time.
Too long.
"You..." She searched for words. "You're not surprised?"
Tobio answered quietly. "A little. But... since last night at the festival, when I got that power... I felt this world wasn't a normal world."
Reasonable.
But still... something was strange.
Someone who just found out the supernatural world existed—their first reaction would be fear, or curiosity, or disbelief. Not "I'll be more careful."
As if Tobio already had a priority list in his head. And "shock" wasn't on it.
Ageha took a long breath.
A breath that came from the depths of her heart. The breath of someone who had lived too long, and knew that the world was never as simple as it seemed.
"You're really strange, Tobio."
But her tone wasn't mocking.
More like... worried.
"But at least you're my grandchild. And—" She looked directly at Tobio. "Don't do anything reckless."
Tobio nodded.
"Yes, Grandma."