Chapter 2: Awakening in a Familiar Yet Foreign World

Discord: https://discord.gg/5Azep9Ju) (IT HAS FEMBOYS, TRUST ME)

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Darkness.

A suffocating, all-consuming blackness stretched infinitely in all directions. No sound. No air. No sensation. Just the void.

Ethan Kuroda floated in nothingness, aware yet unmoored, as if his very existence had been stripped down to its barest essence. There was no body, no breath, no heartbeat—just thoughts, unanchored and drifting like debris in a cosmic sea.

Was this death?

A vague recollection surfaced: headlights, a screech of tires, the crushing force of steel against bone. Pain. Fear. Then… silence. He remembered lying on the pavement, his vision swimming with neon reflections, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. But that moment had felt real. This felt like an unfinished thought, hanging in the empty void.

How much time had passed? Seconds? Hours? Eternity? The concept of time itself felt meaningless in this abyss. Panic should have set in by now, but there was only an eerie sense of waiting. Like something—or someone—was coming.

Then, a sound.

Faint at first, like a whisper carried on an unfelt breeze. A low hum, a vibration that grew stronger, closer, until the void itself seemed to shudder. Light flickered in the distance—a single pinpoint in the vast nothingness. It pulsed, rhythmic and deliberate, like the beating of a celestial heart.

A voice followed. Smooth, composed, yet brimming with untold power.

"Huh. Took you long enough."

Ethan's formless consciousness stirred. The voice wasn't menacing, but it wasn't exactly friendly either. It was the kind of tone someone used when they were bored, as if waiting for him to catch up.

"So, let's get this over with. You're dead. Probably figured that part out, yeah?"

The realization settled in like a weightless stone. There was no arguing against it. No desperate clinging to denial. He was dead. No respawns, no second chances—

"Well. Not exactly."

The voice interrupted his thoughts as if it had read them directly.

"See, you got hit by Truck-kun. Classic isekai scenario. Which means you're about to get yeeted into a whole new world, my guy."

A pause.

"...You're welcome, by the way."

Ethan's formless self processed this. Truck-kun? Isekai? Was this a joke? A fever dream? He had watched enough anime and read enough light novels to understand the trope, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely.

The glowing entity in front of him seemed to sigh, as if already exasperated by his internal monologue.

"Alright, let's cut to the chase. You're getting reincarnated. But not as some overpowered protagonist. No cheat codes, no god-tier abilities handed on a silver platter."

The light pulsed again, shifting slightly in color—now tinged with something almost amused.

"Instead, you're getting… a challenge."

Something about the way it said that made Ethan uneasy.

"You'll be Motohama. Yep. That Motohama. The walking punchline from High School DxD. The sidekick of the sidekick."

Ethan's mind stalled. Motohama?

The Glasses Pervert? The guy whose entire existence revolved around spouting three-sizes measurements and being a background perv? That was who he was going to be?!

The entity gave him no time to protest.

"Oh, and there's a twist," the entity continued, enjoying this far too much. "You're getting a personality infusion. A bit of… let's say, Naoya Zenin energy."

Ethan reeled. Naoya Zenin?! The arrogant, misogynistic bastard from Jujutsu Kaisen? The guy who made Ryomen Sukuna look like a feminist icon by comparison? That was his 'gift'?

The glowing being chuckled.

"Oh, don't give me that look—well, you don't have a face right now, but you get the idea. You're not gonna be him exactly. Just… a touch of his personality. Enough to make things interesting."

Ethan wanted to scream. This was some cosmic-level trolling. He had no problem with Naoya as a character, but as a persona to inhabit? He wasn't looking to be some over-the-top misogynistic jackass!

The light flickered, and Ethan got the sense that it was shrugging.

"Too late. Choices have been made. You're already locked in. So, congratulations! You're about to speedrun misogyny in 24 FPS."

Ethan internally facepalmed. This cannot be happening.

The glowing entity wasn't finished.

"Oh, and one last thing."

The tone shifted—just slightly, but enough to send a chill through Ethan's incorporeal self.

"I'm giving you Projection Sorcery—Naoya's technique. It's not nerfed, but I'm not giving you his experience on how to use it. You'll have to figure that part out yourself. If you're smart, you'll make it work."

Ethan's frustration was momentarily overridden by curiosity. Projection Sorcery. The ability to lock movements into predetermined 24 FPS frames, drastically increasing speed, precision, and efficiency. In Jujutsu Kaisen, it was a ridiculously powerful technique when mastered, allowing its user to outmaneuver opponents with inhuman fluidity. Even without Naoya's refined knowledge, it was still an insane upgrade over Motohama's original nothing-tier abilities. But will it be enough in a world of gods and demons where entire countries are one bad day away from being erased from the map?

The entity seemed satisfied with his momentary intrigue.

"Alright, enough chit-chat. Your new life starts… now."

The void ripped apart.

A force yanked Ethan downward, violently and mercilessly, like he was being pulled through a black hole. Sensory overload crashed into him—sight, sound, pain, taste, smell—all rushing back at once. His lungs burned, his nerves screamed, his heartbeat roared in his ears as something slammed into him.

Memories that weren't his own flooded his mind. A different name. A different life. Motohama.

Then—

Light.

Ethan—or rather, Motohama—gasped awake, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving, his vision spinning wildly. The familiar, musty scent of an unkempt bedroom hit him first. The faint hum of an old laptop, the distant sound of birds outside. His fingers curled against fabric—sheets, coarse and slightly damp from his own panic.

And then, the final confirmation.

A mirror.

Across the room, reflecting his new reality.

Glasses. Short dark hair. A slightly scrawny face that screamed "background character."

Motohama.

Ethan—or whatever was left of him—stared at his reflection, his breath uneven.

And then, slowly, as the weight of everything truly hit him…

He smirked.

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The smirk on Motohama's—no, Ethan's—face faded fast. The initial surge of adrenaline drained from his system, leaving behind a strange mix of excitement and dread. The reality of his situation weighed down on him like a thick fog.

He reached up and adjusted his glasses—a habit ingrained into this new body. The frame felt slightly bent, an imperfection that only cemented the fact that this wasn't some dream or illusion. His fingers trembled slightly as he took a deep breath, forcing himself to take stock of his surroundings.

He was alive. But he wasn't Ethan Kuroda anymore.

He was Motohama.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He turned, scanning the room with sharper awareness. His bedroom was exactly what one would expect from a teenage boy who had long since given up on tidiness. Books were stacked in uneven piles on his cluttered desk, some open to pages that had long been forgotten. Empty soda cans and instant ramen containers sat precariously on the edge of his nightstand. A cheap gaming laptop hummed quietly, the screen still displaying some forgotten game menu, illuminating the dimly lit space.

The air carried a mix of stale sweat, body spray, and something distinctly artificial—like the lingering scent of processed snacks and unwashed laundry. Posters of various anime adorned the walls, though they were slightly crinkled from years of exposure to humidity. A single bookshelf stood against the wall, its lower half filled with manga while the upper shelves housed schoolwork, a few trophies, and old notebooks scribbled with half-baked ideas for stories he had never finished.

Stumbling towards the mirror, he took in his new reflection with an almost morbid fascination. A thin frame, thick-rimmed glasses, and a face that screamed 'side character.' No striking features, no chiseled jawline, no athletic build—just an ordinary high schooler with a reputation for being part of a perverted trio.

"This is really happening…"

His voice was different—higher, a little awkward. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling its slightly greasy texture. He grimaced. Clearly, this body's previous owner hadn't been too keen on self-care. That was going to change.

Then he felt it.

A slow pulse beneath his skin. A subtle, almost electric hum that ran through his limbs, coiling and uncoiling like a dormant beast waiting to be unleashed. Cursed Energy.

Ethan—no, Motohama—froze. His breath hitched. This wasn't just a joke. The cosmic entity that had dumped him here hadn't been lying. He actually had Naoya Zenin's technique—Projection Sorcery. And more importantly, he had the Cursed Energy to use it.

He instinctively understood it, the way it flowed through him, waiting for his command. Unlike Naoya, he didn't have the refined technique passed down from generations of the Zenin Clan, but he wasn't completely clueless either. His own interpretation of the skill felt different—less rigid, more instinct-driven.

Instead of the strict, calculated movements Naoya had used, Ethan could already tell that his own use of Projection Sorcery would be more fluid. He didn't have the discipline of a traditional martial artist, but he had something else—adaptability.

He needed to test it.

He raised his hand, focusing on the energy beneath his skin. At first, nothing happened. Then, a strange clicking sensation—like a film reel locking into place—ran through him. His fingers twitched, moving faster than he had anticipated, almost like they were skipping frames in a low-FPS animation. The motion was slightly jarring, but still controlled.

A slow grin crept onto his face.

"Oh… Oh, this is going to be fun."

A sudden pounding on his door shattered his concentration.

"Motohama! Get up already, man! We're gonna be late!"

That voice—Matsuda. Which meant…

Issei Hyoudou was real too.

The protagonist of High School DxD. The ultimate pervert turned supernatural powerhouse. The guy who was fated to attract legendary women and engage in world-shaking battles.

Ethan's stomach twisted as he was brought back down to earth. This world wasn't just about comedy and ridiculous fanservice. It was a world teeming with monsters—devils, fallen angels, dragons. The kind of beings that could obliterate him if he wasn't careful.

He glanced down at his hands. Normal. Unremarkable. He clenched them into fists, feeling the cursed energy surge slightly in response. He wasn't Naoya Zenin. He lacked his experience and mastery. But he had something more valuable—knowledge.

He knew who the key players were. He knew which fights were coming, which enemies lurked in the shadows. He knew the timeline.

And that meant he had a chance.

If he played it right, he wouldn't just survive—he would thrive.

The knocking on his door turned into full-on banging. "Motohama! Dude, come on, we're seriously gonna be late! Issei's already outside!"

Ethan exhaled, steadying himself. Right. Step one—blend in. Don't attract supernatural attention too soon. Step two—get stronger. Train. Prepare. Step three—rewrite his fate.

If the universe wanted him to play the role of a smug, arrogant bastard?

Fine.

He would make being Motohama look good.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he called out, grabbing his uniform from the chair. It smelled faintly of sweat and deodorant—disgusting, but it would do for now. One more thing to fix in his new life.

As he buttoned up his shirt, he caught his reflection in the mirror once more.

No more being background character.

He smirked.

Time to see what this world had in store for him.

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The pounding on the door jolted Ethan—Motohama—out of his thoughts. His body was still adjusting, his mind still sorting through the memories of a life that wasn't entirely his. The transition wasn't immediate, nor was it complete.

"Motohama! Get up already, man! We're gonna be late!"

Matsuda's voice rang through the door, impatient and full of energy, as always. Ethan inhaled deeply, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. Right. Blend in.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he called out, grabbing his uniform from the chair and slipping it on. The fabric felt cheap, slightly wrinkled. He grimaced. This body had some bad habits, and his previous self hadn't been too keen on things like ironing. Another thing to fix.

He buttoned up his shirt, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at the mirror. Motohama. The glasses, the unimpressive build, the forgettable face.

For now.

He adjusted the frames and smirked. Time to move.

The Walk to School - Observing the Pieces

The morning air was crisp, tinged with the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant exhaust of early commuters. Matsuda grinned at him as he stepped outside.

"Damn, you actually woke up on time today. You feeling alright?"

Ethan shrugged, adjusting his glasses. "Figured I'd try something different."

Behind Matsuda, Issei Hyoudou was dragging his feet, still half-asleep. "Why do mornings exist…?"

"Because school exists," Matsuda quipped, throwing an arm over Issei's shoulder. "And school means the finest selection of eye candy in all of Kuoh!"

Issei's face lit up instantly. "You're right. Let's go."

Ethan let them banter, playing his part with the occasional nod or smirk, but his mind was elsewhere. Issei had no idea what was coming for him.

Kuoh Academy came into view, the massive gates welcoming another day of routine. For most students, at least.

Ethan's gaze flickered across the schoolyard.

Akeno Himejima, standing with a small group, her playful smile perfectly in place.

Kiba Yuuto, effortlessly charming as he greeted passing classmates.

And, of course—Rias Gremory.

She stood near the entrance, her crimson hair catching the morning light. She wasn't looking at him—good—but her presence was impossible to ignore. Even now, she was waiting, watching for Issei.

Ethan exhaled. As long as her focus stayed on him, I'm in the clear.

Matsuda and Issei had already rushed ahead, and he followed, slipping seamlessly into the crowd.

Morning Classes - Settling In

The classroom buzzed with conversation, students chatting about homework, weekend plans, and general nonsense. Ethan took his seat, letting the familiar setting settle over him.

This part? This part he could handle.

Routine was easy. The real challenge would be what came after.

As the teacher began the lesson, Ethan tuned in just enough to avoid suspicion. Math first. Not his favorite, but not particularly difficult either. He worked through the equations on autopilot, his mind elsewhere.

He stole occasional glances around the room. Kiryuu, the class gossip, was whispering something to her friends. Issei was half-asleep, Matsuda was doodling on his notebook, and most of the class was somewhere between paying attention and daydreaming.

Ethan tapped his fingers against the desk rhythmically, subtly flexing them, feeling the energy beneath his skin. Cursed Energy was there, waiting, unrefined but present.

He exhaled as he tried to calm his impatience.

He needed control.

He needed to be stronger.

But that would come later. Right now? He had to maintain the act.

Lunch Break

Ethan made his way toward the back of the school building, a quieter spot where few students lingered. Matsuda and Issei had tried to drag him into their usual antics, but he had waved them off with a vague excuse. He needed a moment.

The cafeteria was too crowded for his liking anyway. The noise, the constant chatter, the clatter of trays and chairs scraping against the floor—it was an overload. This, however? A shaded, relatively empty corner of the school was ideal.

He flexed his fingers. Time to test this.

Focusing, he tapped into his energy.

24 FPS.

The world shifted—not quite slowed, but his own movements sharpened, refined.

He stepped forward—once, twice, three times. Each motion clicked into place, perfectly framed, faster than normal but not unnatural.

Then he stopped, exhaling.

Still inefficient. Still draining.

Sweat clung to his skin. I need more practice.

He took a moment to breathe, rolling his shoulders. What was different from Naoya's usage?

The Zenin heir had used Projection Sorcery with a degree of precision that felt like a choreographed dance. Ethan wasn't trained that way. His approach was more instinct-driven, less calculated, which made it messier.

A noise behind him made him freeze.

He turned, only to see nothing out of place. Just the faint chatter of students in the distance.

Paranoia? Maybe. But if there was one thing he couldn't afford, it was getting careless.

He adjusted his glasses and sighed. Another time.

Final Period - End of the School Day

By the time the last class rolled around, Ethan found himself slipping into the rhythm of school life. English class dragged on, the teacher's voice a dull hum in the background. He understood the material well enough, but his mind kept wandering.

The supernatural world would come knocking sooner or later. He needed to be ready. Not just physically—but mentally.

As the bell rang, students began packing up. Issei stretched in his seat, groaning. "Finally, freedom."

Matsuda grinned. "Yeah, yeah, freedom to go home and do homework."

Issei groaned louder. "Don't remind me."

Ethan let out a small chuckle, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Act normal. Keep the routine. Buy time.

As he stepped outside, he cast one last glance toward the main building.

Something told him time wasn't something he had much of.

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The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Kuoh Academy's campus. Ethan—Motohama—walked alongside Matsuda and Issei as they made their way out of the school gates. The day had gone as smoothly as it could have, given his circumstances. He had managed to keep his cover, stay unnoticed, and more importantly, get a better grasp on his new body.

But he knew this peace wouldn't last.

"So, are we hitting up the arcade today or what?" Matsuda asked, grinning as he threw an arm over Issei's shoulder. "Or are you heading straight home to drool over your magical girl DVDs again?"

Issei scoffed, shoving him off. "For the last time, it's not drooling—it's appreciating the artistry."

Ethan let out a small chuckle, playing along. "Yeah, sure. Appreciating. That's what we'll call it."

Matsuda snickered. "Exactly. Don't worry, man, we support you. Even if your tastes are questionable."

The usual banter continued as they strolled down the street, the trio blending into the crowd of students heading home or to their after-school activities. Despite the easygoing atmosphere, Ethan's mind was elsewhere.

He needed a plan.

He couldn't keep relying on luck. His Projection Sorcery was still too raw, too inefficient. He needed training, a proper space where he could push himself without attracting attention. The sooner he figured that out, the better his chances of survival in this world.

As they passed by a convenience store, Issei perked up. "I'm grabbing a snack. You guys want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good," Matsuda waved him off. "I gotta head home before my mom flips."

Ethan hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "Same. Catch you tomorrow?"

"Of course!" Matsuda grinned. "Another glorious day of high school hijinks awaits."

With that, the trio parted ways. Matsuda headed off in one direction, while Issei ducked into the store. Ethan, however, slowed his pace, taking a detour down a quieter street as he eased up on his act.

Finding the Right Space

Ethan's feet carried him toward the outskirts of the residential district, his mind racing through possibilities. He needed an isolated place, somewhere he could push his abilities without worrying about prying eyes.

After walking for nearly half an hour, he spotted an old, abandoned lot behind a closed-down warehouse. The area was fenced off, but sections of the barrier were rusted and broken—easy enough to slip through.

The lot itself was spacious but cluttered with debris—rusting metal sheets, stacks of wooden pallets, and discarded tires. Weeds had long since claimed parts of the ground, growing through cracks in the pavement. A perfect place to test his abilities without anyone questioning weird movements or sudden bursts of speed.

This could work.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he hopped over a low section of the fence and landed lightly on the other side. The faint hum of the city in the distance provided a backdrop of ambient noise, making the place feel even more secluded.

Ethan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Time for a test.

Refining His Power

He centered himself, feeling the flow of Cursed Energy within him. It still felt unnatural, like trying to flex a muscle that had never properly developed. He clenched his fists, letting instinct take over.

1 FPS.

He shot forward, but this time, he wasn't thinking in sequences—only in moments. Each frame demanded a recalibration, his body adjusting step by step instead of committing to a full trajectory. He wasn't accelerating smoothly; he was reconstructing his movement in real-time, each frame clicking into place with ruthless precision.

2 FPS. 3 FPS. 4 FPS.

Each shift in motion built momentum, but with no predefined path, his body struggled to keep up. He twisted mid-step, trying to cut right—

And froze.

A miscalculation.

His instincts had traced a path too sharp, too efficient—one his body simply couldn't follow. His center of gravity locked up, his frame frozen between impulses. His body tried to force itself into a position it physically couldn't reach, and for a split second, he was trapped.

Then everything collapsed.

The built-up momentum slammed into his muscles, and he was flung off balance, skidding hard across the lot. He caught himself before fully crashing, breath coming in short bursts.

Damn it.

That was the risk—if he didn't trace a viable path, his own technique would betray him. He needed to map each frame, but also account for what his body could actually handle.

Again.

He reset, shaking out his limbs before launching forward once more. This time, he adjusted more conservatively, instinctively adjusting each frame without exceeding his limits. One step, one frame at a time.

5 FPS. 10 FPS. 15 FPS.

Faster. Sharper. Smoother.

Still, the energy expenditure was high. Every second he spent forcing his body into frame-perfect movement drained his stamina like an overclocked engine. The technique was powerful, but at his current level, it was unsustainable.

By the time the sun had nearly set, sweat clung to his skin, and his muscles ached from exertion. The physical strain wasn't unexpected, but the mental exhaustion was worse. Tracing every frame demanded absolute focus—one slip, and he could lock himself into another impossible movement.

He exhaled, sitting on an old concrete block, running his fingers through his damp hair. If I keep pushing like this, I'll burn myself out before I even get to my first real fight.

A solution presented itself—one he had been avoiding.

I need a teacher.

Someone with more experience, someone who could help him refine his technique instead of figuring it out the hard way. But that led to a problem.

Who the hell could he even turn to in this world?

Kuoh Academy had supernatural beings, but getting too close to the Occult Research Club or the Student Council too soon was dangerous. Rias, Akeno, and Kiba were strong, but they were also devils. Would they even entertain training someone like him?

He exhaled sharply, shelving the idea for now. I'll get stronger first, then look for opportunities.

Progress, but not enough.

He needed more control. More refinement. And most importantly, he needed to figure out how to use this technique in an actual fight. The old Motohama wouldn't have lasted a second against the threats in this world. If he didn't improve, neither would he.

A sharp breeze cut through the lot, sending a chill down his spine. He took it as a sign to wrap up for the day. The last thing he needed was to push himself too hard, too fast.

As he made his way out of the lot, he knew one thing for certain.

This was just the beginning.

And the moment he turned the corner back onto the street, he knew his problems weren't waiting for him to be ready.

A presence lingered nearby.

It wasn't hostile—not yet—but it was watching.

His instincts sharpened. Too soon. I shouldn't be attracting attention yet.

Keeping his pace steady, he turned his head just enough to catch a reflection in a shop window.

Koneko Toujou.

The small girl—small, but unnaturally strong for a woman—was trailing him at a distance. Her expression was unreadable, but her golden eyes were locked onto him with quiet intensity.

Why is she following me?

He had been careful. He hadn't shown any drastic changes in his personality. He hadn't stepped too far outside his established role in the school's social structure. So why did it feel like the Occult Research Club was already onto him?

Ethan inhaled, keeping his heartbeat steady. Not good.

He had two options. Confront her or play dumb.

The old Motohama wouldn't have noticed her at all.

And that's exactly what I need to be right now.

Suppressing his instincts, he let out an exaggerated yawn, stretching as if he were just another tired student making his way home.

Then, without changing his pace, he turned onto another street—a longer path home, but one that would take him through a more crowded area.

If she followed, he'd know for sure.

Seconds ticked by.

Then minutes.

By the time he reached his house, the weight of her gaze had vanished.

He shut the door behind him, exhaling. He wiped the sweat off the back of his neck as he sat down on the ground, his back against the door while anxiously closing his eyes.

Close call. 

He had successfully avoided suspicion—for now.

But he knew this wouldn't be the last time he felt those eyes on him.

The supernatural world was already starting to take notice.

And whether he was ready or not, he was now playing a very dangerous game.

TO BE CONTINUED.