It was a lonely summer.
The type that smells like melted concrete and disappointment. My music show had been cancelled. Again.
Maybe I should've tried those newer band instruments. The electric ones. Flashy, popular, loud. The kind people these days seem to love.
But no—
I had fallen in love with the violin.
A delicate, demanding thing. It takes patience to appreciate it… something this era sorely lacks.
My thoughts weighed heavier than my violin case.
Should I even continue this career?
Or finally admit defeat and finish that physics major I've been dragging like a corpse behind me?
Lost in thought, I began walking aimlessly down the footpath.
That's when I heard it.
"Hey—LOOK OUT!!"
I looked up.
A blur of sky.
Then steel.
A bundle of metal rods—maybe five hundred kilos of construction-grade "oops"—was already mid-air above me. My brain could barely process the image before—
CRACK.
---
I don't know how long it had been.
When I opened my eyes, the world was white.
Not the blinding, clinical kind.
More like... soft light painted with clouds.
Standing before me was a man—if you could call him that. Ethereal. Like someone's idea of a "wise god" generated by an AI prompt.
"Is this heaven?"
"Am I dead?"
I asked, not sure I wanted an answer.
"No. And yes,"
he replied, his voice echoing through... nothing.
Then, like reading from a report card, he explained.
"Your soul was never meant to be born on Earth. There was a bureaucratic error—divine misrouting, if you will. You were always meant to be born in another world."
What...?!
So basically, I died because of a damn clerical mistake? Like getting the wrong Amazon package and it just explodes in your face?
My skin darkened. Literally.
My form began to distort, shadows creeping up my limbs.
"Control your emotions,"
he said calmly,
"or you'll become a vengeful spirit."
No shit, Sherlock.
"Sorry," he added. "It was our fault."
That didn't helped, even slightly.
He continued.
"The world you were meant to be in is... different. Fantasy. Magic. Swords. Dragons. Kingdoms. You know—standard stuff."
That piqued my interest. I had watched a few isekai anime in my time.
"So... you're giving me a cheat, right?"
"No."
"WHAT?!"
"I can't grant you special powers. However, I can offer you a few... upgrades. Photographic memory. Heightened intuition. Superior focus. You'll learn faster, react quicker."
I nearly cursed him again.
No overpowered system? No stats? No hidden skill tree?
Lame.
He seemed to sense my irritation.
"Oh. And... you won't be reborn as a human."
"Motherfu—"
"Go now."
He waved his hand before I could get the full insult out.
Suddenly, I was falling.
No, not falling—sinking.
Into space.
Into silence.
Into a darkness so deep, not even thoughts could breathe.
In the Biegoya region of the Demon Continent—lives a quiet, resilient race: the Migurds.
Recognizable by their blue hair, crystalline blue eyes, and petite bodies, they dwell in homes carved from the empty shells of the beast, Giant Stone Turtles, their tribe hidden beneath the shadows of turtle shells.
Inside one such shell-house, a group of Migurd women were rushing back and forth in alarm.
"More warm water! And bring the herbs I asked for—quickly!"
shouted a stern-faced woman. Though youthful in appearance, her eyes betrayed decades of wisdom and leadership.
"And someone shoo those men away from the entrance!"
A couple of younger girls jumped at her command, scattering in all directions.
The pregnant woman lying in the center of the room screamed again. Sweat clung to her pale skin. Her legs trembled as another contraction seized her.
"Breathe, child. Breathe. Push."
The midwife's tone softened, but there was tension in her voice.
Another woman nearby, older, muttered under her breath.
"That's why we warned them... Not to get involved with outsiders."
"The child's too big... for a Migurd birth. This is dangerous,"
someone else whispered.
But the mother, young Kurmi, heard none of it. Her world was pain and chaos. Her cries echoed through the shell house, spilling into the quiet village beyond. A small crowd had formed outside, some watching in concern, others simply praying for a safe delivery.
Hours passed. Agony, breath, pressure. Then—
A wet gasp.
A new cry.
The baby was born.
The room exhaled all at once.
Kurmi, soaked in sweat and tears, slipped into unconsciousness—still alive.
But then the midwife caught her first proper look at the child.
"Th-this...!"
Every woman in the room stared.
The infant bore the signature blue irises of a Migurd—yet the pupils were thin and vertical like a reptile's slit.
Tiny scales adorned the sides of his eyes, and jawline and even across his forearms. They shimmered faintly, a pale silver-blue like moonlight on a blade.
Silence stretched.
Then, one of the girls, with hesitant steps, approached and looked closely.
"He's... actually kind of cute," she whispered.
"Aww, look at his chubby cheeks!"
"His scales sparkle!"
In moments, the tension dissolved. The younger girls giggled and fussed over the newborn, their fear replaced by excitement.
But the elder midwife—she did not smile.
She stared at the baby. Then at Kurmi. Her mind raced.
Kurmi... No. It can't be.
Could the father be... one of the Dragonfolk Tribe?
She shook her head violently.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Those dragonfolks would never come near us. And they are an extinct race—no—she's been pregnant for ten years...! That's...
Her thoughts froze.
Ten years... That's not natural. Not for a Migurd. Not for any race.
"Tch... This is troublesome," she muttered.
For now, she set those thoughts aside and gently wrapped the child in a cloth of warm herbs and mana thread.
"First things first. The baby's alive. Kurmi's alive. That's enough for now."
She cradled the strange, beautiful newborn in her arms and whispered,
"Welcome to the world, little one. May the gods be kinder to you than they were to the rest of us."