It was morning again.
And for some reason, I felt unreasonably energetic—like I'd just chugged an espresso brewed from hope and delusion.
The past few weeks of dreams had been ridiculous.
No—not just ridiculous.
Spectacularly dumb.
And worse?
They all ended the same way.
I die.
I've been everything from a frog to a roasted chicken on a stick.
A fish that got souped.
And don't even get me started on the broomstick incident.
The more it kept happening, the more I started wondering…
Were these really just dreams?
Or were they...my past lives?
A cold chill slithered down my back—
that special kind of panic when you realize your soul might have a tragic kill-streak.
Because if it's true...
Then I wasn't just dreaming nonsense. I was watching my death montage in HD. Even back on Earth, I died pathetically.
And now?
Now I'm literally a dice.
An object. Again.
It's like fate is playing darts with my life.
Would I die in this life too?
Would someone misplace me during a boss fight and roll me into a volcano?
It sounded ridiculous. But the terrifying part? It was possible. Especially if I kept hanging around the one and only Chaos Incarnate—Lyra Swift. The girl who could weaponize a fart into acid poison.
Still, I didn't want to ruin my good mood.
Because last night?
Last night was... different.
The dream wasn't dry. It wasn't tragic. I didn't die as an omelet.
It was...
Hot and cold.
Yes.
Hot and cold.
There was emotion.
There were warm, suspiciously soothing sound effects.
There was bonding.
And somehow...
It was very, very wet.
Don't ask me how.
Don't ask me where.
And for the sake of everyone's sanity and what's left of narrative integrity, I gave up on writing a thesis about it.
All I know is—
I woke up feeling amazing.
I punched my fist into the air above me.
Like every cell in my mana-formed body had just received a standing ovation.
"Man," I whispered, rolling my shoulders—
Mana-formed. Perfectly toned. Extremely stretchable.
"What a dream. 12 out of 10. Would subscribe again."
I felt satisfied.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
And, for some reason… vaguely romantic.
It was the kind of dream that leaves you feeling like you just starred in your own slow-burn drama—and finally got the girl in episode 99.
Then I went for a bath.
Because when you wake up dripping in inner peace, you rinse it off like a smug gentleman with confidence.
I strolled toward my little mana-shower tucked into the corner of my soul space…
and that's when I noticed something strange.
"…Huh?"
I glanced down.
One of my mana roots was…
Swollen.
Puffed up.
Like it had dreams, goals, and a gym membership."
It practically just woke up with ambition, humming along with the morning rooster.
"Oh wow. I never thought mana magic could reach this deep into a man's anatomy."
I nodded solemnly.
Very approving.
The root was basking in its full morning glory.
All of it.
I swear—today is my best day.
Nothing could possibly go wrong—
Life was good.
Until—
"AAAAAAAAAAAA !!!"
Lyra.
Of course.
Screaming outside like she'd just been dumped by a squirrel.
Or maybe a cabbage.
Either way—emotionally devastating.
I sighed.
"She's probably overreacting about something dumb again like—nevermind."
I ignored it.
The water was waiting.
I peeled off my shirt.
Warm mist curled through the air.
Clean tiles. Fake indoor plant in the corner.
Ambience: Maximum.
I like to stay flexy—even if I'm technically a reincarnated dice.
And just as I was about to step toward the mana-shower…
I caught a glimpse.
A reflection.
A moment of pure, undeniable, SSR-tier symmetry.
My abs. Again.
Good. Gracious. Mana.
No matter how many times I see them, it never gets old.
They weren't just toned.
They were sculpted. Etched by fate itself. Carved from mana and misfortune.
There was depth. There was dimension.
Each line glistened like it had been blessed by divine lighting.
The V-line? Sculpted by Art. A national treasure.
Honestly? I'd nominate myself.
You know how some isekai protagonists have cheat skills and golden stat ratios?
I, Dan Cross, flex with a golden curve ratio.
"Wow…" I whispered to myself, turning slightly for maximum definition.
"Those lines… those curves… thirteen years well spent. No regrets."
If I were a girl?
I'd be on the floor.
Knocked out. Emotionally ruined.
I'd nosebleed myself straight into a coma.
I was at peace. I was perfect. I was practically sparkling.
And then—
The world screamed back at me.
BANG!
The air rippled—and in she came.
Messy hair. Fire in her eyes.
Murder in her aura.
Lyra Swift.
Entering my private space uninvited like an angry bulldozer fueled by secondhand embarrassment.
We locked eyes.
I was standing there. Shirtless. Mist rising behind me. Holding my shirt like I was mid-commercial for magical body wash.
She froze.
Her brain was clearly buffering between shock and meltdown.
"Lyra?!" I asked.
We stared.
Time slowed.
Why was she looking at me like that?
Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Brain clearly offline—as usual.
Wait—
Her gaze wasn't on my face.
It was locked on the golden ratio.
My abs.
Her eyes widened.
I swear I saw sparkles.
No one's ever looked at me like that—not even the mirror.
This was dangerous.
There was chemistry.
Way too much chemistry.
She was staring like she'd just unlocked a hidden romance route.
Panic hit me like I'd just remembered I hadn't changed my underwear... since last week.
And tonight?
It was probably my wedding night.
What if she jumps on me?!
What do I do?!
I've only ever flirted with mangoes!
I'm not prepared for anything beyond fruit-based interactions!
And then—
She vanished.
Silence.
Just mist. Just me. Just... slightly panicked.
"…What was that? She's really random sometimes."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Crisis avoided. PG rating intact. Dignity: 47% stable.
"Whatever," I muttered. "I'm taking my bath."
Until—
She came back.
Didn't say a word.
Just stared at me again.
Not at me.
At the abs.
There was danger in her eyes.
The kind of danger you feel when you accidentally compliment the villain's outfit.
She looked like she was about to rip me apart with emotional scissors.
Then—
She raised both hands.
Wind magic flared.
"W-WAIT—LYRA—!"
WHAM—WHAM!!
Too late.
Double wind blasts.
No prep. No mercy. No reason.
I went flying like the blanket in my dream—full of hope and expectation, only to be betrayed by brutal truth.
I hit the wall.
The whole cube shook.
My soul left my body, and even it looked disappointed.
I groaned.
"WHAT DID I EVEN DO?!
I JUST WOKE UP AND GOT BLASTED LIKE A GLITCHY NPC!"
FMDL.
-----------------------------------------------------------
It was breakfast time.
The sun outside my soul cube was shining way too brightly. Birds were probably chirping. The world felt fresh.
Lyra, though?
A little weird this morning.
She kept dazing off mid-sip like someone had unplugged her brain, and her ears turned red every five minutes—just like she was running on bugged software.
I wasn't sure what was going on.
Maybe she had a weird dream.
Maybe she dreamed I caught her writing "Mrs. Lyra Frei" in her journal.
Yeah. Yup. Must be that.
Her diary was off the record—
I tried to peek at what she was writing more than once, but my gentleman instincts always stopped me.
It's not cool to invade a young girl's privacy.
Good call, past me. Solid moral compass.
Otherwise, why else would she randomly blast me across the room like I'd just stolen her diary and leaked it to the kingdom?
Still—
As a gentleman of honor and excellent emotional regulation, I wasn't about to let a kid's morning tantrum ruin my vibe.
Not today.
Yesterday's dream was still playing reruns in my head. And honestly?
It was so good, my mood might stay on "sunshine and sparkles" mode for the rest of the week.
Yep.
I was still chilling.
Still victorious.
Still humming.
🎵 "Abs in the mirror~ feelings unclear~ got wind-blasted by a girl who might be near~ But I'm still okay~ My day still great~~" 🎵
That one was a banger. Made it up on the spot.
Might release an album later.
"V-Line Symphony in D-Major."
While humming, I floated lazily beside Lyra as she sat at the table—
face still redder than a roasted tomato in a sauna.
She didn't say a word.
She just poked her eggs.
Poked them again.
Then stabbed them like they insulted her cooking in front of Gordon Ramsay.
Today, this girl was a walking red alert.
Self-note: emotional hazard status—critical.
Possibly hormonal.
Probably in denial.
Definitely emotional.
Absolutely dangerous.
Either way, I was not about to ask questions.
Well hey—
I had my own priorities.
Specifically: mango juice and boiled egg.
Peak breakfast. No debate.
I floated over to grab my portion—hovering like a breakfast ninja.
First things first—I bowed my head and whispered a quick prayer. Gotta thank God before the meal.
And then came the best part.
I activated performance mode.
My dice cube pulsed—growing slightly larger.
Just big enough to swallow the whole egg in one bite.
Yeah.
Dice size upgrades.
Don't ask how.
It's normal for a man to get bigger.
You know… puberty.
Perfectly natural.
We don't talk about it.
Or else—the Author gets flagged.
My magical mouth popped open—reserved only for eating, sass delivery, and the occasional dramatic monologue—and chomped the boiled egg like a pro. Followed by a long, exaggerated slurp of mango juice straight from the cup.
It was glorious.
Mesmerizing.
Possibly disturbing.
Across the table, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa all watched with the same look they always gave me during meals:
A strange blend of awe, confusion, and blinking pause only therapy could fix.
What can I say?
The charm is real.
When I do things, people watch—mouths open, minds blank.
A living GOAT.
Basically an entertainer with abs.
Then—
unexpectedly—
Lyra opened her mouth.
(Okay, not literally. It was our internal voice channel. But still—rare event detected.)
Her tone?
Wobbly. Suspiciously casual.
Like she was trying way too hard to sound normal.
Like someone skipping over the part where they committed a war crime.
"S-So… why do you look like you're in such a good mood today?"
A pause.
Then she forced a laugh that sounded like it needed backup dancers.
"Not that I care or anything. Just… curious. Did you have a good dream or something? Since usually you're always complaining about the weird ones."
I blinked.
Sipped my mango juice.
Replied casually—like breathing.
"Nah. Just a regular dream."
"Nothing worth mentioning."
"Just a guy coming home to his wife. I didn't recognize them—probably nobody important. Just a dream about a happy baby. Y'know, classic family bonding. Making memories and stuff."
I shrugged like I'd just described toast.
Totally normal. Flat. Boring.
Lyra didn't say anything back.
But for a split second?
I swear her eyes twitched faster than light.
Her silence stretched just a second too long.
Like she was waiting for something. Or bracing for it.
"Well… maybe there's something worth mentioning, now that I think about it."
Her hand paused mid-reach, like even her body didn't know how to process that shift.
Was it just my imagination, or did her ears just roll a nat 20?
They looked bigger. Pointier. Emotionally alert.
I sipped my juice again. Kept it casual.
"I didn't die this time."
"The woman mentioned a dice."
"… and she felt familiar."
I hesitated for half a second. Then kept going—light tone, heavy subtext.
"She gave me this really strong motherly feeling. Like... too real, y'know?"
"Maybe she was my mom. In a past life or something?"
I gave a little shrug.
"But I dunno. It was all really hazy."
After a moment of silence...
Lyra didn't respond.
She just sat there—not poking her eggs anymore, not fidgeting.
One hand rested on her lap, fingers curling slowly into a fist—tighter with every second—like she was squeezing her thoughts into silence. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just sat there, clenched and quiet. And for a second, I saw it—just the tiniest tremble in her fingers. Like something cracked inside her but refused to spill.
I could feel it.
That quiet kind of nervous.
The one where your thoughts are too loud to chew.
Something in her face—it wasn't just shock. It was fear. Determination. Like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump.
Then—without looking at me, without even looking at her food—she turned to Grandpa.
Her voice was steady. Calm.
But her eyes?
Sharp. Focused.
Like she already knew the answer...
"Grandpa… I think I'm old enough now."
"Tell me—who is Dan?"
"How did we get him?"
"You said he's our family heirloom, right?"
"Can an artifact be separated from the soul inside it?"