05. Transhumanization?

Returning to his room with a drive-thru hamburger set, he brings a tray to the dining table and begins eating—placing fries, cola, a cheeseburger, and an extra plain hamburger on it. He opens the ketchup packet provided and dips the fries, then brings them to his mouth.

Just moments ago, his mind was filled with thoughts of 'gold'—yet now his body feels utterly strange. Everything he holds seems unnaturally light. When he focuses, distant objects come into sharp clarity. He can see the face of a driver in an oncoming car just before they pass. Physically, he feels no fatigue.

What exactly has happened to my physical capabilities? This requires verification, no doubt.

I went out onto the balcony barefoot and gave a little jump, since testing it in my room might disturb the people downstairs. I leapt so high I nearly bonked my head on the underside of the balcony above.

"Specialized biological organ. … Its function enhances the host's motor capabilities." That's it—

Thanks to Ain’s mention of improved motor function, I’ve finally stepped outside the limits of ordinary humanity.

I pulled out my old workout gear from the lower storage box in the closet and changed into it. The waistband felt loose—my waistline had loosened, too. Glancing down at my abdomen, I couldn’t say it was six-pack territory, but it definitely felt tighter than before.

Since the training pants were loose, I tightened the drawstring at my waist—pulling it taut so they wouldn’t slip down. I’d switched to a watch with a timer. Finding a five-meter tape measure, I tucked it into my pocket alongside my wallet and room key.

Slipping on running shoes, I headed to the nearby small park. The park was located five hundred meters from the entrance to my apartment building, but after a light jog, my watch’s stopwatch read exactly two minutes. Simple math put my pace at fifteen kilometers per hour—no heavy breathing, no fatigue.

The park was quiet before noon, perfect. I drew a line on the ground with my running shoes, then stood with both feet inside the line for a standing broad jump.

Precisely—like a rubber band snapped upward—the body soared high, then flailed its legs about before landing. A line was drawn at the heel's position. The distance from there to the starting line was measured with a tape measure. Five meters wasn’t enough; an intermediate mark was made, and the measurement continued from there—totaling approximately seven meters fifty centimeters.

Not being well-versed in such events, it’s hard to say, but this score probably isn’t a world record. Vertical jumps could be measured against a suitable wall, but unfortunately, the park was open and unobstructed, so no suitable spot was available—this was left untested. Still, one can’t help but suspect it would’ve been a *biyōn* of epic proportions if tried.

He checked the wallet for loose change, then moved on to confirm things at the nearby batting center. Up until now, he’d managed to barely graze a 130-kilometer-per-hour fastball, but never once had he made solid contact—no real hit, not even a glancing one.

At the counter, he bought two coins and stepped into an empty box. He took a few light swings, selected only the 130-kilometer-per-hour fastball, and pressed the start button.

Standing in the right-handed batter’s box, he let the bat dangle loosely beneath his body with one hand, then slowly raised it, bringing it upright in front of his face, eyes fixed on the pitching machine. He brought his free left fist to his mouth, gave a soft “cough” to clear his throat, then drew the bat back, shifted his left foot slightly forward, adjusted his stance, and settled into his batting position.

Come on, then!

Spat!

A soft click, and the softball shot from the rotor-style pitching machine. Oddly slow. Swinging the metal bat with full force, the ball only grazed the tip—just a whisper of contact. Either from the ball or the bat’s tip, a faint, acrid smell of burning rubber lingered.

Second pitch: this time, no rush. Waited calmly. At about fifty centimeters from the plate, initiated the swing.

PAN!!

The ball exploded with a loud crack.

Third pitch: full swing clearly unwise. Tapped it lightly instead.

KEEN!!

Surprisingly crisp sound for a softball. The ball soared, rattled the net at the back of the batting center, and dropped.

Not bad. If this keeps up, even the home run marker—something I’ve never dared aim for before—might be within reach.

Fourth pitch,

KEEN!!

Close. Fifty centimeters left of the home run marker.

Fifth pitch,

KEEN!!

‘It’s in! Home run!!’

The announcement blared through the arena in a cheerful voice.

A customer who’d been batting nearby turned to look in our direction. Naturally, one would notice.

Fifteen pitches remained, but I reset the system, inserted another coin, set the ball speed to maximum—160 kilometers per hour—with random pitch type and trajectory, then pressed start. This was the most difficult setting in the entire batting center.

Zap!!

The first pitch came in straight—slightly faster than the last, perhaps, but unmistakably a fastball, clear and direct. A touch low on the inside corner.

Keen!!

A line drive shot straight into the back net, which trembled violently.

Second pitch: a sharp, wide-breaking curveball just clipping the outer edge of the strike zone.

Keen!!

‘It’s in! Home run!!’

Again, the announcement echoed through the hall.

Drawing any more attention from the crowd would be pointless, so I stepped out of the box.

What good would it do to keep overthinking it? If I were younger, maybe, but now that I’m no longer a baseball player—though I suppose that’s not even relevant anymore—I’m probably a superhero.

The prize for the home run, handed out at the counter, was two boxes of premium tissues. When the attendant asked for my name, I just gave her a polite smile and dodged the question.

Final work: *The Dark Familiar, Me—Ascend the Ladder of Evolution*

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