A sharp whistle of an incoming shell warned me, and I dove into the trench. A violent blast slammed me to the ground, burying me under a mound of dirt. The headache and ringing in my ears was unbearable — another blast concussion for my collection.
A choking sensation made me cough. Cold air rushed into my lungs, sharp as needles. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open. Above me, a curved surface glowed dimly — matte, like a thin layer of ice concealing a world beyond.
What the hell?!
I was enclosed in some sort of tight structure. The walls around me were smooth and cold, while beneath my back, thighs, and heels, I felt a strange, springy material — almost like gel. I seemed to be naked. To confirm, I ran a hand over my thigh, and at that very moment, my prison reacted.
It trembled and began to shift, raising me from a lying position to a standing one. Not entirely upright—it retained a slight tilt—but now my weight was pressed onto my feet. The frosted surface before my eyes slid upwards, and the frame beneath it split open like a pair of doors. A rush of air washed over my face—and everything below it.
Yes. I was definitely naked.
My head throbbed, as if caught in a vice, and my vision blurred at the edges. My genitals seemed to dissolve into the haze. And then, like a lightning bolt shattering the void in my mind, the pain came.
I struggled to gather my thoughts. Where was I? How had I ended up here? The ringing in my head drowned out any answers.
A sound interrupted my daze—a sharp hiss, like a valve releasing pressure in the confined space.
Cautiously, I stepped out. My legs trembled like a newborn’s. The pod I had emerged from stood in the corner of a small room, its walls gleaming with a metallic sheen. The space was strange—sterile, like an operating theatre, yet eerily silent, as if time itself had stalled.
I looked around. Along the walls, five more pods were positioned in two neat rows, lying horizontally. Mine was the only one standing open.
I approached the nearest closed pod. Through its transparent window, I saw a person. A teenager at the edge of adulthood? The boy looked around eighteen — maybe a little older. He was asleep… or in hibernation… or a coma.
A fresh wave of pain shot through my skull. I shut my eyes and waited for it to pass.
When my vision cleared, I moved forward again. On one of the walls — one without pods — I spotted a built-in screen. At least, I assumed it was a screen; the surface was far too dark to be a mirror.
Then something made me stop.
I caught my own reflection.
Smooth skin. Sharp cheekbones. Deep-set, eyes framed by thick brows. Soft black hair falling over my forehead. I reached out, brushing my fingers against my cheek, but the sensation—no, it wasn’t what I was used to.
Where was my stubble?
This face… wasn’t mine.
The realisation struck like thunder. I didn’t know what I used to look like, but this — this wasn’t me. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I ran my hands over my shoulders, my chest, checked the most essential parts. The body was toned, strong — but foreign. Like wearing a suit that didn’t quite fit.
“What the…” The words escaped me.
My voice sounded too clear, almost ringing, which only irritated me more.
A sudden click broke the silence. A faint rustling caught my attention — a pod was pulsing with a brighter light. The person inside twitched. A moment later, his eyelids fluttered, and his fingers gave the slightest tremor.
I took a step back. Another wave of panic crashed over me. Why am I here? Who are these people? What kind of bloody isekai is this?!
Wait — isekai! At least it wasn’t a truck… and now a new world? So, when do I get my overpowered magic and personal harem? …Although, no. This place reeked of science, not magic. Hopefully, they wouldn’t cheat me out of the harem part.
I stepped closer to the pod, peering through the transparent window. The light inside was dim, but I could make out the face. He was… handsome. A softly rounded face, short blond hair. His skin was smooth, flawless — just like mine.
That put me on edge.
Wait… what if I’m the one being prepped for a harem?
A shiver ran down my spine. What if I was a clone? Or worse — a genetically engineered pleasure doll? Or am I hallucinating?
I walked along the row of pods. Inside each one was another attractive young people. But they were all different. In the second pod, a dark-skinned girl with thick curls lay motionless. The third held a lean boy with a tanned face and long, straight hair spilling over his shoulders. The fourth — an Asian girl with a short bob and a dragon tattoo curling around her neck.
Different genders. Different races. Different features.
Clones don’t look like this, do they? And test-tube hybrids don’t usually have tattoos — unless they’re barcodes. I ran a hand over my own neck, half-expecting to find a scar, a tag — something to prove I was an experiment. Or maybe to prove I wasn’t. But there was nothing.
I approached the final pod. Inside lay a girl — thin, almost delicate, her pale skin almost translucent under the pod’s soft glow. Her face was serene, almost angelic.
For some reason, I lingered.
“Who are you all?” I murmured, though, of course, no answer came.
“Who are we?”
I stepped away from the pods, trying to piece everything together. But before I could, a sharp hissing sound behind me made me spin around. The doors had slid open. A man in a white coat stepped into the room.
Tall and lean, with sharp features and close-cropped silver hair. His eyes fixed on me with clear irritation.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low and measured, but the tension in it was unmistakable.
“I…”
My first instinct was to cover myself.
“…was just looking,” I finished, realising — rather belatedly — how perverted that sounded.
The man stopped a few steps away, giving me a slow, measured once-over. His gaze was cold and analytical—like I was an exhibit in a museum.
“You were instructed to remain in place,” he said sternly.
“No one told me anything,” I replied.
He let out a sigh and shook his head, like a teacher disappointed by a student who hadn’t done their homework.
“I personally sent you a voice command via your neuro-interface the moment you woke up,” he said, moving to the dark mirror-like screen on the wall. His fingers danced across the still-black surface, and a sudden chill ran down my spine.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, but he ignored me.
He turned, studying me with sharp focus—then frowned.
“Well, that explains your behaviour,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
“What explains it?” I asked, trying to make sense of his words.
“Your neuro-interface is inactive,” he said. “That’s… unusual. The operation logs indicate successful implantation, but that would explain why you never received the command.”
“Operation?” I echoed.
The doctor gave me a long look, as if assessing my mental state, then turned back to the dark screen.
“What do you see?” he asked, gesturing at it.
“A black, mirrored surface.”
He turned back to the screen, scrolling through invisible data with his fingertips, his expression tightening.
“Neuro-interface implantation is a standard procedure,” he murmured, eyes still locked on the display. “All cadets receive one. It allows integration with the network — so we can maintain communication, monitor your condition, and assist with adaptation. But in your case…” He frowned again. “It seems you’ve... dropped out."
"Dropped out? Of what?" I asked.
“Not out of the network — that’s certain. You never connected to it in the first place. The interface is there, physically implanted, but for some reason, it’s inactive. And that’s… an anomaly.”
“One in a million,” I muttered.
For a moment, he looked at me with a mix of exhaustion and irritation, as if dealing with a particularly unruly child. Then he stepped closer, pulling out a small device that resembled a pen and raising it towards my head.
“Lean back,” he instructed, nodding towards the open pod.
Awkwardly, I complied. Covering myself didn’t exactly add to my grace.
The doctor simply shook his head, as if my embarrassment was mildly amusing.
“This is just a quick scan. No need to worry,” he said, leaning in. The device in his hand emitted a faint hum, radiating gentle warmth as he moved it near my temple.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A scanner. I’m checking your interface. Either it failed to synchronise with your brain, or…” He hesitated. His gaze sharpened, growing almost wary.
“Or what?” I demanded, irritation creeping into my voice.
“Or you have… a memory gap.” He stepped back, examining the device before looking at me again. “I’m seeing anomalies in your brain activity. Certain patterns are missing.”
“A gap? What does that mean?”
He sighed and ran the scanner around my head once more, as if hoping for a different result.
“A memory gap means parts of your past have been erased or blocked. Your brain is functioning, but large sections of data are inaccessible. It could be due to trauma, a procedural error, or…” He paused. “Or it was done intentionally.”
“Intentionally? And who the hell would do that?” My heart pounded. My hands would have curled into fists — if they weren’t otherwise occupied covering my treasure.
“We didn’t,” he said quickly, almost defensively. "Relax, I’m just reciting protocol. It’s a classified anomaly case. Think of it as winning the lottery — with a four-million payout." He arched an eyebrow. "And no, the odds aren’t one in a million, but three."
Then, shifting to a more official tone, he continued, making it clear his personal remarks were over.
“There’s a chance this happened before you arrived here. Someone could have implanted a suppression virus.”
His bureaucratic mask cracked, revealing humanity again.
“In your case — unlikely. Too much effort to erase a random orphan.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “Do you know who I am?”
The doctor raised his hands in a calming gesture.
“Jake Sullivan. Lewis Home for the Gifted. Orphaned at twelve. Relax. We only know what’s in the system.”
Oh, this was definitely an isekai.
Orphan? Check. Minimal attachments for easy plot progression. Four million instead of magic? Also check. At least the names sounded normal. I’d hate to wake up as some Feng Xiao. It’s like watching a Chinese drama for over two dozen episodes and still having no clue what the characters' names are. And whenever two characters talk about a third one, you’re always guessing — do they mean the young lad, the old master, or maybe his granddaughter?
The doctor must have noticed my reaction —but misread it. He made another calming gesture and, in a gentler tone, said:
“We’ll fix this. But first, I need to make sure you’re stable.”
“Stable? Are you serious?” I snapped, pushing myself upright.
Some isekai stories started with disabilities for extra suffering. I really hoped this wasn’t one of them.
“Calm down,” he ordered dryly.
I exhaled sharply and leaned back against the pod again, trying to steady myself. My hands were trembling.
The doctor stood there for a moment, silently observing me, then added:
“This seems to be more complex than we initially thought. But you’re not the first case like this. The procedure is well-established. In most cases, it can be corrected.”
“And if it can’t?”
“Then there’s more money involved.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “For now, we need to see if your neuro-interface can be activated. If we can switch it on, we might be able to retrieve some of your memories — even if they’re blocked. If not…”
He trailed off.
“If not what?” I pressed.
“Then we reset the process. You could start from a blank slate.” His gaze met mine. “With a very large sum of money.”
Reset. Blank slate… He said it so casually, but the words sent a chill through me.
Would I survive that process? Because one thing was certain — I wasn’t Jake Sullivan. Whoever that kid had been, I felt sorry for him. But I wasn’t about to get wiped out of this body. Especially not with that much money on the line. Something told me I’d never had that kind of cash before.
“…Can I just take the money now?” I whispered.
“No,” he said flatly. “Standard protocol. You have a chance to recover your memory, and we will use that chance.”
Translation: we’ll do everything we can to avoid paying you.
The doctor put the scanner away and pulled out another pen-like device from his pocket.
“Now, relax,” he said. “You might feel a slight tingling, but don’t worry.”
With that, he pressed the device to my neck.
Something cold touched my skin.
“Just don’t kill me by accident,” I muttered, closing my eyes.
The doctor didn’t answer.