He didn't know it yet, but in that precise instant, Earth had briefly collided with a parallel reality. Particles of mana—an energy unknown to his universe—leaked through the rift and found in Keinji the perfect vessel. For a few seconds, he felt weightless, almost ethereal, moving like a ghost toward the muggers.
The criminals, focused entirely on Marcos, never sensed his approach. The precarious lighting of the square, cursed by yellow streetlamps that barely fought off the shadows, was his ally. Under that sickly, flickering glow, Keinji acted. Drawing upon an unnatural strength and the sepulchral silence, he swiped the rider’s pistol without him even noticing. With his other hand, he shoved the motorcycle. Thanks to the vacuum eliminating air resistance, the bike and both men were hurled against the asphalt with devastating violence.
"Hands on your heads! Now!" Keinji’s command roared as the world’s sound rushed back in.
However, his tactical victory was betrayed by the environment and sheer physical exhaustion. The intermittent yellow light created long, deceptive shadows, masking the fallen second mugger's movement. Combined with the dulling effect of the beer and the fatigue of a thirty-hour journey, Keinji failed to notice the barrel of a gun pointed at his gut.
?Click.
The shot hit his abdomen. The searing heat of the projectile was followed by a cold surge of adrenaline. Without hesitation, the ex-soldier retaliated: two dry shots, executing both aggressors in cold blood. To him, it wasn’t a choice; it was the neutralization of a threat. When silence returned, the pain finally found him. Keinji collapsed to the ground, feeling the hot blood soak his shirt while Marcos, in a blind panic, begged for help.
Twelve minutes of superhuman endurance passed before the ambulance arrived. Inside the vehicle, the wail of the siren brought a painful nostalgia, echoing Tokyo and the faces of his parents. The swaying of the stretcher and the scent of antiseptic blurred with the metallic tang of his own blood. He felt his life slipping through the fingers of Marcos, who squeezed his hand with desperate strength.
"Keinji, please, hang in there!" Marcos screamed through sobs, tears dripping onto his friend's chest. "You survived a bomb! A bullet won’t take you down! The event is tomorrow—you can’t die now!"
Keinji tasted the iron of blood in his mouth and felt the weight in his eyes. He looked into Marcos’s eyes, and in his mind, the voice of his brother from 2002 echoed—the exact moment he had inherited another's will. The cycle had to continue. He forced a pale smile and handed his friend the same burden he had carried for years:
"I won't die, Marcos..." his voice flickered, a mere whisper amidst the chaos of the siren. "But I need you to take my place... Live."
As he uttered the word, the world around Keinji began to disintegrate. His consciousness didn't cease; it expanded. He saw himself observing the ambulance from above, a tiny white box cutting through the dark asphalt of S?o Paulo. He rose toward the firmament, piercing through the smog-heavy clouds of the metropolis. High above, he saw the phenomenon: two immense universal bubbles, like cosmic cells, that had collided and were now drifting apart. Fate had plucked him from the very crack of time.
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Darkness returned for what felt like ten minutes of an exhaustive mental struggle. He felt the void, a total absence of weight, until light finally triumphed. When his vision focused, Keinji felt his lungs burn with the first gasp of air. He tried to scream, to ask for silence or for Marcos, but the sound that came out was a sharp, piercing wail. Time and space had converged into a new beginning.
His vision, still blurry, registered a high ceiling of classical aesthetic—dark oak beams and a luxurious chandelier holding candles with blue flames, something he had never seen before. The air smelled of dried herbs and hearth-fire. He was wrapped in silk and linen, a softness that contrasted sharply with the harshness of the ambulance stretcher. Keinji tried to reach for his abdomen, searching for the wound, but the shock was absolute when he raised his arm: before his eyes were tiny, pink hands. The hands of a newborn, just delivered to an unknown lineage.
"Ren Valerius..." A sweet, exhausted voice, heavy with maternal relief, echoed above him.
Beside him, on an immense bed, lay a woman of stunning beauty, though her health was visibly strained by the effort of labor: Iris Valerius. She looked at him as if she were seeing a miracle. At the foot of the bed, a man of commanding posture and a crimson velvet cloak—Marquis Arthur Valerius—observed his new son with proud gravity. He was now the fourth child of the Marquis.
The words they exchanged sounded like an exotic, melodic blend. To Ren’s ears, it was as if Brazilian Portuguese and Japanese had organically fused, creating a sound that was familiar yet incomprehensible.
?"Learning a new language, even if it sounds like a remix of my old ones, is going to suck..." he thought, the mind of a 27-year-old veteran trapped in a body that couldn't even support its own head. "At least it’ll be my only hobby while I wait for these limbs to grow."
Suddenly, the oak door of the room burst open with a controlled bang. Three curious children invaded the room, dodging the maids trying to maintain the protocol of silence outside.
The first to arrive was a four-year-old boy with neatly combed brown hair and light eyes that already showed a premature seriousness: Leon Valerius, the heir and eldest brother. Right behind him came the second brother, Kael, three years old, with dark brown eyes and an expression of pure scientific fascination for this "tiny being" that had just arrived. Finally, the two-year-old sister, with bright blue eyes and silver hair inherited from her mother: Maya Valerius, who until that moment held the title of the youngest.
Marquis Arthur, seeing the genuine excitement of his children, signaled for the maids to withdraw. He allowed the children to approach the bed, surrounding little Ren. They were the picture of noble perfection, each displaying the colors of House Valerius. Maya stretched out a chubby finger and touched Ren’s cheek, letting out a giggle of pure delight at the softness of the baby’s skin.
Ren, however, felt a profound sense of awkwardness and a comedic discomfort. He, an ex-soldier who had faced bombings and tactical operations, was now the target of childish curiosity. He furrowed his tiny brow and made a face of legitimate disgust, trying to maintain his mental dignity while being showered with affection and adoring gazes.
"Look, Father! He looks like a grumpy old man!" Leon remarked, drawing laughs from the Marquis and Marquise.
As he was observed by his new family, Ren felt the biological fatigue of the infant body overcome him. The mana he had absorbed in the rift between worlds seemed to be settling into his new core, warming his chest from the inside out. He looked at the luxurious ceiling one last time before drifting off, thinking of the "Live" he had left behind in S?o Paulo.
He was no longer the lonely orphan of Tokyo or the tired man of Brazil. He was now Ren Valerius. And though he couldn't speak or fight yet, he felt that this world of nobles, magic, and strange tongues would have much to fear once he finally managed to stand on his own two feet.
The Rift and the Transition: This is the turning point! You might notice how the "mana leak" during the S?o Paulo scene explains why Keinji was able to move with such speed and silence before the transition. In the world of Ren Valerius, nothing is accidental—everything follows a logical, tactical flow.
Mushoku Tensei or TBATE, you’ll find that Ren’s path is paved with a bit more... "tactical grit."