Prologue

"It's terminal lung cancer."

"Pardon?"

At some point the area around my chest had started to prickle and wouldn't stop, so I went to the hospital. They diagnosed me with terminal lung cancer.

I barely drank and barely smoked, and I hadn't really had any symptoms to speak of. Lung cancer. The shock was no small thing.

"This is a joke, right? Haha. No matter how I think about it, it's only a little sting, and you're telling me it's terminal?"

"I'm sorry, but it is terminal lung cancer. It's almost astonishing that you would describe that pain as a mere prickle. That you've been living an ordinary life in a body like this is, by any common sense I have, impossible."

"Doctor? If this is a prank, it's an awfully cruel one... It is a prank, isn't it?"

"...I'm sorry."

All my life, the only thing I had ever been told was that I was healthy. More precisely, I looked so healthy that healthy was all anyone ever said.

"Waaah! He hit me!"

"Where'd you sell your conscience? You threw the first ten punches, and now you're tattling?"

"You look far too fine for someone who got hit ten times. Lying is naughty. Go stand over there with your hands up!"

"No, teacher, that's—"

In kindergarten I took ten hits and landed one, and for the sole reason that I looked unhurt, I was the only one who got punished.

"Teacher, I think I've been getting bullied at school lately."

"Hey. Even so, you mustn't lie!"

"Pardon?"

"If there were marks, or you at least looked like you were in pain, I could understand. You show up with no evidence at all—how am I supposed to help you?"

"Teacher? This, where it's bruised—"

"Where's the bruise?"

Through middle school and high school I was bullied, and because the body that had been beaten still looked healthy, they treated me like a liar. And then—

"Hey, you fucker, you faking sick?"

"No, sir! It really hurts!"

"A bastard who hurts walks around looking that fine? Get down, you little shit. Army life's pretty cushy for a fucking newbie, huh?"

"No, sir!"

In the army they called it malingering even though I was in a cast. And then—

"Assistant Manager Kim. Putting in for sick leave? A man who isn't even sick doesn't get to take sick leave."

"Section Chief Lee, I really am sick right now. I'll rest one day and come back."

"This is exactly when we're busiest. Don't you think you're only thinking of yourself?"

At the company I was cursed out as the guy who looked perfectly fine and still took time off to rest.

Being treated that way left me feeling thoroughly foul, but I went on living with the belief that being healthy was everything. Terminal lung cancer? This had to be God playing a trick.

"...How much time do I have left?"

"A month, at the longest. You'd do well to prepare yourself."

I heard the doctor's verdict, stepped out of the hospital, and regret came flooding in like a tide.

"So I'm terminal with lung cancer."

I felt hollow. It had been a hard life, but I had lived it diligently enough in my own way, scrimping and saving all I could for a comfortable old age.

On the way home from the hospital I could feel, unmistakably, that the pain had gotten worse. Before, it had been the occasional sensation of a needle pecking at me. Now it was a needle driven in deep and pulled back out.

"Should've just not heard it."

Looking at the painkillers the doctor had given me only made my chest feel tight for no good reason.

That night I took the painkillers, forced the pain down, and managed to fall asleep—only for a new agony to start, as if a knife were gouging through my chest.

"Ngh... painkillers. I have to take the painkillers..."

I tried to get up and find them, but the pain was so severe the strength ran out of me. Every attempt to rise came to nothing, and little by little even breathing grew difficult.

Was I going to die like this? It was too much of a waste, dying now. If this was how I was going to go, I should have spent every last bit of money first.

The closer death came, the more stray thoughts seemed to crowd in. Was this what people meant when they talked about your life flashing before your eyes?

Then the pain that had felt like dying vanished all at once. Suspicious of its sudden absence, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠opened my eyes with care—and seated at a table in front of me was a potbellied middle-aged man in sunglasses.

"You with us? We're short on time, so I'll be blunt. You're dead."

"Pardon?"

"You died."

"Just like that?"

I was fairly sure the doctor had said I had about a month left. I'd already thrown my resignation down. It might not have been a full month, but I'd meant to enjoy everything I still wanted to do before I went... and I was dead.

"Your body reached a point where the pain was more than it could bear, so of course you died. To put it precisely, I'd say your condition was never something that could be endured in the first place."

"I see."

The man told me the cause of my death as if it were nothing worth remarking on, and I accepted that I was dead.

"You came to terms with death faster than I expected."

"Well, the doctor said a month at the longest. Dying at any moment wouldn't have been strange. So—who are you? A reaper? Or a god?"

"A god."

"Do gods usually guide the dead in person? From what I've heard, a reaper is the one who guides them."

I had grown up being told that a reaper came to lead the dead, so a god arriving himself seemed strange enough to ask. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The man who had introduced himself as a god lifted the corner of his mouth.

"Your life was so wretched that I came to grant you a wish, at least. Ordinarily a reaper would have come. You, sought out by me in person, are the special case."

"Then it doesn't matter what the wish is? Reincarnation, for instance. A past life. Even something like possession—that's fine too?"

"Doesn't matter. Granting only one feels a bit cheap, so I'll do up to three."

Whatever the wish, he would grant three of them. At those words I didn't hesitate. I spoke the wish I had wanted my entire life.

The first would be the wish I actually wanted. The remaining two would be there to keep the first from sliding off in some strange direction.

"Make my body healthy, but make me look like a sick person, and reincarnate me that way. Not mentally—physically. No matter what I do, make me look like a sunfish."

"I'll give you a chance to take those words back."

"I have no intention of taking them back."

Cheat powers in another world, and a one-man rampage? Regressing, and living in perfect ease? I wanted none of that.

What I wanted was to be worried over by someone else, even once. Comforted by someone, even once. Nursed by someone, even once. That was my Wish.

"Fine. I'll grant your wish. But don't go blaming me later. I clearly gave you the chance to take it back."

"Don't make me uneasy for nothing. Just hurry up and grant the wish."

"Step through that gate and the wish will be fulfilled at once. It's the place most similar ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to where you lived. There will be differences, of course, and there you'll live as a perfectly sound person who only looks sick. Satisfied?"

"Extremely."

"Time's up, then. Enjoy the next life."

The god vanished with a wave of his hand, and I threw myself toward the Reincarnation Gate without a second thought.

Looking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like a sick person, so that other people would worry about me? How happy that would be. And even if I really was sick, I wouldn't have to hear anyone call it faking. With that, I could endure whatever hardship came. At least the me of that moment was glad.

But now I curse the past me who made that choice.

"No, what the fuck... nobody said anything about me becoming a woman!"

"Cut the bullshit and change me back to my original sex!"

"I never chose the pretty-girl part, you fucker."

I had become a Sickly Beautiful Girl. One who only looked sick.