Consciousness, as if sinking into a warm and viscous swamp, was slowly, irreversibly, swallowed by darkness.
The last thing he remembered was collapsing exhausted onto the single bed in his cheap rental after work, the screen still flickering with an unfinished PowerPoint presentation and a caustic instant message from his supervisor.
It was another night of endless overtime, another profound experience of what it meant to be a "corporate slave."
His surname was Li, his name ordinary, and his life trajectory equally unremarkable. In the vast and rapidly operating social machine of China, he was nothing more than an insignificant cog, repeating the cycle of commuting, working, eating, and sleeping day after day. His dreams had long been ground down into the humble Hope of a two-day weekend and on-time paychecks.
He had fantasized countless times about escaping, perhaps by winning the lottery, or finding a job he truly loved. Even late at night, while scrolling through web novels, he had absurdly thought that if he could just wake up and transmigrate to a fantasy world of swords and magic, like those protagonists, even if the beginning was difficult, at least he could live a different life, escaping this suffocating reality.
However, death came so silently, without even giving him a chance to say goodbye.
No truck, no lightning strike, no heroic act; just a quiet extinguishing of the candle flame of consciousness during a deep sleep after extreme exhaustion, as if a system crashed, cleanly and without a ripple.
Perhaps it was overwork, or some hidden illness; the reason no longer mattered.
What mattered was that when consciousness, like a flickering candle in the wind, weakly rekindled, what he faced was a reality completely beyond imagination, even more absurd than his worst nightmares.
He "woke up," but this "waking" was filled with strangeness and discomfort.
First, there was a sensory disarray; his vision was blurry, as if seen through frosted glass, only vaguely distinguishing the outlines of light and shadow and intense patches of color.
In his ears was a noisy heartbeat, thumping, strong, and powerful, yet so unfamiliar, completely different from the tired, caffeine- and anxiety-driven heart he remembered.
This was followed by a maddening sense of powerlessness. He wanted to raise his hand to rub his eyes, wanted to turn his neck to observe his surroundings, but his limbs felt bound by invisible shackles, incredibly heavy, only capable of small, uncontrolled twitches.
What frightened him more was that he couldn't speak; only meaningless "goo-goo-ga-ga" sounds came from his throat, like... like a baby.
Panic, like an icy tide, instantly engulfed his mind.
A baby? He had become a baby? What was this situation? Reincarnation? Transmigration? After a brief moment of bewilderment, the instinct for survival forced him to calm down and begin piecing together this fragmented reality.
He struggled to blink his eyes, trying to bring his blurry vision into focus.
After a difficult attempt, the scene before him gradually became clear.
It was an extremely luxurious room, with a high ceiling adorned with exquisite frescoes, and an intricate crystal chandelier reflecting soft, warm light.
He lay on soft silk bedding, which carried a faint fragrance.
The room's decor leaned towards classical Western style, with heavy velvet curtains drawn tightly, blocking out external light.
Several oil paintings hung on the walls, seemingly landscapes and portraits, but they were too far away for the details to be clear.
This was a magnificent cage, and he was a prisoner trapped within it, unable even to turn over.
He was an infant with an adult's mind, and this immense cognitive dissonance nearly drove him to a mental breakdown.
The plots he used to read in novels, where infants displayed prodigious talent, now only made him feel incredibly absurd and pained.
He couldn't even autonomously express or control his most basic physiological needs—hunger, excretion—only relying on instinctive crying to attract attention.
This state of complete dependence and incapacitation, for a modern adult accustomed to independence, was a torture worse than death.
He began to force himself to observe, to gather information. His gaze swept over every corner of the room, trying to find any clue that could explain his current situation.
Finally, his gaze fixed on a wall-mounted, elegantly designed wooden calendar.
The calendar was made of exquisite materials, and a string of letters and numbers on it pierced deep into his memory like a needle.
C.E. 56
"C.E."... Cosmic Era?
This abbreviation... why did it feel so familiar, yet carry such a strong sense of foreboding?
He desperately searched his past memory bank. As a typical "corporate slave," his entertainment time was limited, but not entirely absent.
Anime, games, movies—these were his ways of relieving stress.
And the "C.E." calendar system seemed to hold a central position in a certain work... a work filled with war, tragedy, political machinations, and... giant robots.
His heart rate suddenly accelerated, almost bursting through the chest of his tiny body.
"No... it can't be..." A terrifying thought, like a venomous snake, slithered into his mind, making him feel cold all over.
He tried to recall more details about the C.E. era, about the world's setting... Coordinator, Natural, ZAFT, Earth Alliance Forces, genetic discrimination, bloody conflicts... a series of terms uncontrollably surged, each carrying heavy weight.
Just as his mind was in turmoil, completely overthrown by this sudden conjecture, the room's door was gently pushed open.
The footsteps were light. First to enter was a young woman dressed in a standard maid's uniform.
Her face was pretty, but her expression was slightly reserved and submissive. Seeing him lying in the crib, a subtle flicker of pity crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by professional respect.
She walked to the bedside, skillfully checking his condition, her movements gentle, yet carrying a routine detachment.
Immediately after, a tall figure entered the room, bringing a strong sense of oppression. It was a middle-aged man, appearing to be around forty, dressed impeccably in a well-tailored dark suit.
His face was handsome, with sharp features, his short golden hair neatly combed, and his blue eyes as sharp as an eagle's, yet unfathomably deep, revealing a chilling coldness and indifference.
This was the aura of a superior, mixed with an indescribable arrogance and... disgust.
Yes, disgust.
When the man's gaze fell on him, there was not the slightest joy or warmth of a new father in his eyes, only undisguised scrutiny, and a critical dissatisfaction, as if he were looking at a defective product.
Even through the blurry senses of an infant, he could clearly feel that bone-chilling coldness.
"Hmph." The man let out a very soft snort, full of disdain. "Still like this? What an eyesore."
His voice was deep and magnetic, but his tone was like ice. "He's becoming more and more like that good-for-nothing 'Mu.'"
"Mu"?!
This name, like a second clap of thunder, exploded in his mind.
If "C.E. 56" had only given him an extremely ominous association, then the name "Mu" almost nailed that terrifying conjecture to the cross of reality.
Mu La Flaga—the man who piloted the Moebius Zero, later became an important combat force on the Archangel, and was the "man who makes the impossible possible" with a complex background!
The man ignored any potential reaction he might have had, turning to the maid and giving orders in a decisive, unquestionable tone: "Listen, from today onwards, 'educate' him strictly according to the plan I've set. I want him to grow up as quickly as possible, to become a qualified heir, an existence that can surpass, no, completely replace 'Mu.' The Flaga family doesn't need two good-for-nothings, especially at this critical moment."
The maid respectfully bowed her head: "Yes, Master."
"Give him a name," the man seemed to decide on a whim, his gaze sweeping over the crib again with a casual cruelty. "Let's call him... 'Xia Ya.' I hope he can at least be more useful than that clone brother who only deserves to live in the shadows."
"Xia Ya"? Was it because this body of his also inherited those distinctive golden hair and blue eyes?
Or did the name itself contain some malicious irony or twisted expectation?
He couldn't know, and he didn't want to know.
The man's instructions continued, revolving around how to raise him, what ideologies to instill, and the setting of his future role.
Every word was like an ice pick, piercing his last shred of hope.
C.E. 56.
Mu.
Flaga family.
Replacing his brother to become the heir.
Golden hair, blue eyes.
A cold, ambitious, and unfeeling middle-aged "father."
All the clues pieced together, forming a picture he least wanted to see.
He suddenly realized that the cold middle-aged man was, without a doubt, the notorious ambitious schemer from the SEED world, the one who orchestrated the cloning project and had an extremely twisted view of both his biological son and his clone son, even intending to use them to achieve his ambitions—Al Da Flaga!
And he, this unfortunate soul who had just transmigrated to another world, not only failed to achieve the peaceful life he yearned for, but instead plunged headfirst into the abyss of the Mobile Suit Gundam SEED universe, filled with war, hatred, conspiracy, betrayal, and despair.
What was even more critical was that his transmigration identity was none other than the son of Al Da Flaga, the "younger brother" of Mu La Flaga—this infant now named "Xia Ya"!
The time point was C.E. 56. There were still 14 years until the First Bloody Valentine (C.E. 70) and 15 years until the Battle of Jachin Due (C.E. 71).
This period was precisely when the conflict between Coordinators and Naturals was intensifying, and the clouds of war were gathering.
Not only was he not an outsider, but he was born right into the eye of the storm, and in a family notorious for tragedy and distortion!
There was no idyllic pastoral life here, no easy daily routine, no gentle and lovely elves or beast-eared girls.
What awaited him was a cruel society of genetic determinism, an all-out war that could erupt at any moment, the original sin and curse of bearing the "Flaga" surname, a controlling father who saw him as a tool, and a "brother" Mu, whose future was filled with confusion and pain.
His hoped-for transmigration was an escape from his "corporate slave" identity, seeking solace and freedom for his soul.
But reality slapped him hard, pushing him from one fire pit into another, and this one was hellishly difficult.
Becoming the son of Al Da Flaga, being raised as Mu's "replacement" and potential rival, born at this point in time... this was practically a starting point with death flags planted all over him!
An unprecedented sense of despair instantly gripped him.
His adult rationality and cognition, at this moment, became the heaviest shackles.
He clearly knew the future trajectory of this world, the tragic fate of the Flaga family, the cruel ruthlessness of war.
He saw a path to destruction, an almost unalterable track, and he was firmly fixed on this train called "fate," speeding towards an inevitable abyss.
He wanted to scream, to resist, to escape, but his tiny body couldn't even produce clear syllables, only continuing to let out meaningless "waah waah" cries.
This time, the crying was no longer an infant's instinct, but stemmed from the deepest fear and breakdown of an adult soul.
Tears uncontrollably welled from his eyes, blurring his vision and blurring the luxurious yet cold frescoes on the ceiling.
The luxurious crib, at this moment, was like a gilded cage, even more like an exquisite coffin, prematurely announcing the tragic end of his life in this other world.
"It's over..." He wailed silently in his heart, "My life in another world... ended on the very first day it began. This isn't transmigration; this is... a direct route to hell!"
Al Da Flaga coldly glanced at the crying infant, unmoved, and turned to leave the room, leaving behind the maid and him, who was plunged into utter despair.
The world outside remained silent, but for "Xia Ya" Flaga, his life had already been stained with the unique, unfathomable gray and blood-red hues of the SEED universe.
