Chapter 66: Rebirth
Dawn crept in. She forced her eyes open.
A tidal wave of exhaustion crashed through her, from the tips of her toes to the fog in her brain. The phantom pains of last night still echoed in her muscles, her bones – that horrifying sensation of being consumed by an invisible fire, her very flesh seeming to melt away. The memory was branded into her mind, a torment she prayed never to endure again.
This was only the fourth wish. It had already pushed her to this breaking point. She couldn’t fathom the kind of devastation the remaining wishes would unleash.
To think Senpai and that enigmatic Lord Mask-Taker actually considered this agonizing process a viable method for eternal youth… The thought was more than remarkable; it was chillingly insane.
Lying there, a sliver of icy rationality cut through the haze. She could feel it – the undeniable, alien changes rippling through her new form. A distinct heaviness on her chest that wasn’t there before. A strange, unnerving void between her legs. Even without looking, without daring to confirm with her own hands, she knew what her body had become.
Her height felt roughly the same, yet her legs seemed longer, more slender, while her torso had subtly shortened. A new, unsettling geometry.
The past few nights, sleeping in a nightgown had been tolerable. Pajamas, however, now felt foreign, ill-fitting. Before this… metamorphosis, her original upper body had been longer, stronger than Senpai’s. Her legs, the reverse. Similar heights, yes, but their fundamental shapes had been worlds apart.
After last night, those differences were gone. Erased.
“Monday,” she muttered, the word a lead weight. “No more skipping school. I have to get up.”
Dragging herself upright was a battle. First, the bathroom. She let the pajamas fall to the floor and faced the mirror, confronting the girlish reflection that stared back.
“She really is the school’s famous beauty,” she thought with a detached, almost clinical admiration. “To have a face that captivating… and a body this perfect to match.”
Senpai’s family home was modern, free of the stiff traditions that often marked older households. No tatami mats, no constant kneeling that could subtly alter the curve of one’s legs. A rare blessing, considering.
“More importantly,” a colder, more practical thought surfaced, “with this body, this face… even someone who knew me intimately would never guess. They’d never see me.”
“And Senpai… she must be going through the same thing, in my old skin.”
The real breasts meant the padded fakes were obsolete. But the fakes still concealed two razor-sharp blades – a precaution from her past life. She’d have to retrieve them, then dispose of the padding quickly, discreetly. If anyone found them… trouble.
“The one bitter pill,” she mused, flexing her new, delicate fingers, “is the strength I’ve lost. This female form… it’s weaker.”
It was obvious even at a glance. Her arms and legs were noticeably thinner. Not gaunt, but the hard-earned muscle was gone, replaced by a softer, yielding flesh. Fighting? Out of the question. Even strenuous tasks now seemed like monumental challenges.
This new vulnerability was a heavy chain.
“And then there’s the is remaining issue, my health. After the sixth wish, when this transformation is complete, a full hospital check-up is non-negotiable.”
A quick shower. Then, the school uniform. No need for the concealing pantyhose today. She mimicked Senpai’s usual style: black, over-the-knee socks. The plaid skirt’s hem rested just so, revealing that calculated strip of smooth thigh – the “absolute territory,” as the some particular groups on the internet called it.
Hairstyle. Senpai always wore her dark hair loose. She herself preferred something more practical, like a ponytail. But for now, drastic changes were too risky. Best to maintain the illusion.
“Only two days at school in this body,” she reminded herself. “Skipped the rest. I barely know half the names in my class. Until I’ve mastered this new existence, I need to be a ghost. No sudden moves, nothing to draw unwanted attention.”
“Still… skirts are a nightmare.”
She watched her reflection, attempting a few sharp turns and bends. The skirt flared wildly.
“Controlling this thing is an art form I haven’t learned. A quick turn, a dropped pen, a sudden jump… one wrong move and it’s instant exposure.”
“Thinking about it, Senpai was a magician. In all the time I’ve known her, I never once saw her look flustered or awkward in a skirt. Is that some innate female sixth sense? A superpower they don’t tell you about?”
“And it’s not just accidental slips. There’s the other, darker worry: hidden cameras. I’ve heard the horror stories – perverts planting tiny lenses in restrooms, up through drains… always watching.”
Lost in these unsettling musings, she continued to experiment, twisting, turning, slowly deciphering the unspoken rules of skirt-wearing.
“Ah, so that’s how it’s done.”
“No wonder Senpai, and other girls in short skirts, often stand with their hands clasped behind their backs. When you turn or bend, that simple posture can press the fabric down, keep it from betraying you.”
“But it has to look natural. Press too hard, and the hem puckers strangely. The movement itself becomes stiff, suspicious.”
Men, when they clasped their hands behind their backs, usually gripped a wrist, their hands resting near the beltline. Straighten the spine, and it projected an air of confidence, of authority.
But young women like Senpai did it differently. Fingers interlaced, the backs of their hands pressed lower, against the curve of their backside, palms down. It looked playful, almost innocent. And it served a very practical, skirt-taming purpose.
“Such a tiny gesture, yet so much thought behind it. Whoever figured that out was a quiet genius.”
She filed the observation away. Clearly, she needed to become a keener student of these subtle, everyday details. The world was probably full of these little tricks, these silent strategies she’d never noticed, blinded by her former gender.
Downstairs, she fixed a simple breakfast, then turned to the night’s surveillance footage from her phone and laptop, a grim ritual.
Eight times speed. The timestamp on the recording blurred, racing from 10:40 PM towards the pale light of dawn.
But only time seemed to move. The doors and windows in her bedroom remained still, untouched. No flickering shadows, no unexplained anomalies. Both camera feeds were smooth, unbroken.
The meaning was stark and unavoidable: last night, in that locked room, she had been utterly, terrifyingly alone with whatever force was reshaping her. No intruder. No external entity.
The surveillance confirmed her chilling suspicion.
“If I’m right about this… then what in God’s name was that incident with the swapped hair? What did it mean?”
“And more importantly… how is Senpai tangled up in all this?”
She wrestled with the questions, but answers remained elusive, like smoke. Shaking her head, she forced the thoughts down. No hard evidence, no solid leads. Just speculation spiraling into more speculation. She wouldn’t become like Kishida Masayoshi, lost in a maze of his own theories.
“Past eight already.” A jolt of mundane urgency. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”
Since the… exchange, Senpai’s shoes all fit perfectly. She slipped into a pair of school loafers at the entryway, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the morning.
Fluffy white clouds drifted across a pale blue sky. The air hummed with the scent of unseen blossoms, of life renewing itself. She tilted her head back, letting the cool morning breeze play through her – Senpai’s – hair. It felt like greeting a new, terrifyingly uncertain dawn.
“From this moment,” she whispered to the empty street, a vow spoken to the wind, “I am — Yomikawa Tsuko.”
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