Chapter 0 – Gacha Rebirth

The badge around my neck was bent, sweat-stained, and still glittered with the words:

**"Sailor Mercury – Level: Genius Girl!"**

The blue wig had started slipping an hour before I left the con, and I hadn't had the energy to fix it. My boots were killing me. My bag was too full. And my phone died in the middle of a fanfic update.

I wasn't thinking when I stepped into the street. Just… tired.

There was a horn. Bright light. That was it.

No drama. No slow-motion dive to save a toddler. I wasn't even texting.

Just one wrong step.

Then nothing.

Not pain. Not even cold.

Just… stillness.

---

When I opened my eyes, I wasn't on asphalt.

The floor was hard and too clean. Not linoleum. Brighter than that. Not reflective, either. The walls weren't walls. Just space, stretching in sterile directions with no windows or corners. Fluorescent light hummed overhead, but there were no bulbs or panels. Just light, like someone told it to exist and it did.

Rows of desks ran off into the white. Uniform shapes. Each had a nameplate and a stack of softly glowing folders.

It looked like an office, but wrong. Like someone designed it after watching one too many workplace sitcoms and forgot what real humans liked.

My boots were gone. So was the wig.

I was wearing a plain school uniform—nothing from any specific country. The sleeves were clean, but the skirt was too crisp. Like it had never been worn before.

A screen flickered beside me. Red letters glowed on a paper slip it spat out.

> **Soul ID: A-31804**

> Status: ELIGIBLE FOR SPECIAL REBIRTH PACKAGE – ERROR REASSIGNMENT

> Please report to Clerk-17 at Station B-12.

My fingers tightened around the paper. It was warm.

I said the only thing that made sense at the time:

"…what the hell."

---

Clerk-17 had a face, technically. It just didn't bother with details. Smooth features, vaguely humanoid. No eyes. No mouth. Just a coffee mug that said *"SMITE ME WITH PAPERWORK"* and a robe that looked ironed by a spell.

He didn't even look up at first.

"Sailor Mercury, huh?" he muttered, flipping through a file. "Solid pick. Understated genius. Better than another Levi Ackerman."

"Wait—what?"

"You're dead. It's fine. Happens." He finally glanced up. "You were supposed to go to Recycle Queue 7, but we had a hiccup."

He held up the paper from earlier. "Someone named Hector the Hero got your slot by mistake. Swapped karma and vessel. So—divine compensation protocol kicks in."

"Compensation," I repeated, because apparently that's all my brain could do right now.

He pointed to two floating wheels behind him. Both enormous, both covered in symbols. One said *"World Selector."* The other pulsed with things like *"Alchemy System,"* *"Summoner Contract,"* *"Plot Armor,"* *"Skill Creation,"* and *"Mascaromancy."*

"You get one spin each. World first. Then ability."

He didn't ask if I was ready.

The wheel moved on its own.

---

Names flickered across it:

**Naruto. Marvel. Warhammer. Discworld. Lord of the Rings. One Piece. Narnia. Bleach. Fate.**

Then:

**Harry Potter.**

It slowed.

Clicked.

Stopped.

> **World Selected: Wizarding World – Alternate Branchline (Pre-Canon Initiation)**

Something fluttered low in my stomach. Not nerves. Just surprise. Familiarity.

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.

Clerk-17 noticed. "Fan?"

"All of it," I said quietly. "Books. Films. Articles. Fanworks. I tracked wand cores like stats."

He didn't look impressed. Just nodded. "Next."

The second wheel spun.

I watched the entries blur:

**Reality Rewrite. Elemental Bending. Gamer UI. Dungeon Architect. Divine Interface. Shadow Craft.**

One name pulsed brighter than the rest for half a second.

**Mascaromancy.**

Then it clicked.

> **Power Selected: Mascaromancy – Fiction-Based Magical Mask Creation**

Clerk-17 read from my file. "You'll be able to craft physical masks—made by hand, not conjured. Paper mache, wood, clay, metal… whatever you can work with. Each mask represents a fictional character you know well."

"And wearing them gives me…?"

"Their form. Their power. Not their mind. No possession. No bleed-through. Your personality stays your own. Each transformation drains magic over time. Stronger abilities drain more."

I stared at the wheels. "Any character? From anywhere?"

"If you know them intimately enough to recreate their essence, yes. But you'll start small. That's policy."

"So… not just anime. I could become… Artemis from myth? Or Cu Chulainn?"

Clerk-17 made a vague hand gesture. "If your knowledge's deep enough to construct the identity, yes. Gods. Spirits. Creatures. But you'll need to grow into it."

I nodded slowly. "And the masks?"

"They're real. They don't vanish. They wear down with use. Paper ones might last a handful of times. Wood and metal? Longer. Eventually, as your magic grows, you'll be able to hold forms longer. Some indefinitely."

He paused. "And if you have children while in such a form—well. The blood remembers."

That took a second to click.

"Wait. You mean—"

"Divine lineage rules apply. Yes. If you wear a god mask long enough to pass it on, your descendants may inherit traits. Powers. Even Mascaromancy itself. That's baked in now. Bloodline flag's active."

I sat down. Didn't even realize I'd done it.

He slid a glowing seal across the desk and stamped it on the paper. "You'll drop into a new body one year before Hogwarts age. Soul-state memory retention's authorized. You'll remember everything."

"…everything?"

He shrugged. "You spun 'Power.' Not 'Amnesia and Second Chance'."

Something pulled at me. Light stretched across my skin. I looked at my arm—symbols appearing like ink on paper.

Clerk-17 sipped from his mug. "Don't let fiction define you. Use it. Learn from it. Build with it."

And just like that—

The office vanished.