Reborn With Six Divine Power

The Weak Who Shouldn’t Have Existed

Ren had learned something early in life.

If you were weak, the world would remind you—every single day.

The morning air of Tokyo was cold, biting through the thin fabric of his worn school uniform. Ren pulled his bag tighter against his chest as he walked, head lowered, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet. The trek from his grandmother's small apartment to school was long—too long for a child his age—but distance was the least of his problems.

School was worse.

Much worse.

The moment Ren stepped through the school gates, the noise swallowed him. Laughter. Shouting. Footsteps. And then—

"There he is."

The voice was lazy, amused. Cruel.

Ren's shoulders stiffened.

A hand shoved him from behind, sending him stumbling forward. His bag slipped from his grip, books scattering across the concrete. The laughter came immediately—sharp and piercing.

"Careful, poor boy," a male voice sneered. "Books cost money. Oh wait—you don't have any."

A foot pressed down on his notebook before Ren could reach it.

The boy looked up slowly. Three boys stood over him, all taller, all stronger. Their uniforms were clean. Their expressions bored.

"Apologize," one of them said.

Ren opened his mouth, then closed it.

He had apologized yesterday.

And the day before.

And every day before that.

It had never helped.

The kick came without warning.

Pain exploded in his side as Ren rolled across the ground, gasping. Another laugh joined in—lighter, sharper.

"Honestly, he's so pathetic," a girl said, adjusting her hair as she looked down at him. "Why does he even come to school? Everyone knows his family's cursed."

Ren froze.

"Did you hear?" she continued, voice sweet with poison. "His father murdered his whole family."

"That's not true—" Ren tried to say.

"Oh?" Another girl tilted her head mockingly. "Then why was he arrested? Why was he executed in public? Hm?"

The words hit harder than fists.

Ren remembered that day too clearly.

His father, kneeling.

Hands bound.

Face bruised but calm.

Protect your grandmother. Protect your sister.

Those were his last words.

They hadn't been enough.

Someone grabbed Ren by the collar and yanked him up. His feet barely touched the ground.

"Hey, say it," one of the boys whispered close to his ear. "Say what your father was."

Ren's lips trembled.

"…A criminal."

The punch came anyway.

He collapsed again, vision blurring. The bell rang moments later, signaling the start of class.

"Disgusting," one of the girls muttered as they walked away. "He even bleeds like trash."

Ren lay there until the yard emptied.

No teacher came.

No student helped.

He gathered his books with shaking hands and stood, body aching, heart hollow.

This was his life.

Ren didn't go home immediately after school.

He never did.

The long walk back was quieter, but that only made his thoughts louder. His grandmother's small apartment waited at the end of the road—a place that smelled faintly of medicine and old wood. A place that used to feel warm.

Now it felt empty.

Too empty.

The door was already open when Ren arrived.

That was wrong.

"Grandma?" he called out.

No answer.

The silence was thick—heavy enough to suffocate.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was blood.

It stained the floor in dark, sticky patches. His breath hitched as he followed the trail, heart pounding louder with every step.

Then he saw them.

His grandmother lay against the wall, eyes open, unseeing. His little sister was beside her, small hands curled uselessly at her sides.

Ren screamed.

The sound tore out of him, raw and broken, echoing uselessly through the apartment.

Later, they said it was a robbery.

Later, they said there was nothing they could do.

Later meant nothing.

That night, Ren sat alone on the rooftop of the apartment building, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the city lights below.

He felt empty.

No—he felt tired.

"Tired of being weak," he whispered.

Weak enough to be bullied.

Weak enough to lose everyone.

Weak enough to survive.

What was the point of living like this?

If he were stronger…

If he mattered…

If he wasn't born wrong…

The thought crept in quietly.

If I disappear, it'll stop.

Ren stood.

The wind was cold against his face as he stepped closer to the edge. The city stretched endlessly below—indifferent, uncaring.

"I wish…" His voice cracked. "I wish it would just end."

He stepped forward.

In another world.

Far beyond Tokyo.

Beyond space.

Beyond logic.

A childlike god tilted his head.

"Hmm?" he murmured.

Before him floated countless threads—souls, worlds, possibilities. His fingers danced as he tested a new construct, curiosity shining in his pale eyes.

"Personal Magic Prototype: Burst," he read aloud. "Let's see how it reacts to an unstable soul."

He selected one at random.

No prophecy.

No destiny.

No malice.

Just curiosity.

The magic activated.

Ren felt it before he hit the ground.

Something ignited inside him.

Not light.

Not warmth.

Pain.

It started in his chest, then spread everywhere at once. His blood felt like it was boiling, veins screaming as invisible pressure expanded violently from within.

"—?!"

He couldn't scream.

His body convulsed midair.

Muscle tore.

Organs failed.

Bones cracked.

There was no saving him.

Ren died before he hit the ground.

Silence.

Then—

"…Oh."

The God of Personal Magic blinked.