Noir sat still on a bench in the middle of the day. The pond in front of him shimmered, catching the sunlight that pierced through the clouds. A cool breeze, rustled through the trees, making their branches dance in slow motion. He simply gazed at the sky, perhaps finding solace or simply emptying his mind.
Noir shifted his eyes from the sky, now resting upon the shimmering surface of the pond. He experienced a deep sense of calm as the light, now free from the clouds, moved across the water. The water's soft, nearly undetectable flow appeared to reflect a renewed sense of peace inside. He allowed himself to fully immerse himself in the rare, serene moment.
However, time made its presence known, as it always does. Noir was awaken from the thoughts as he looked at his watch. When the hour came, he got up from the bench, his long black coat swaying as he did so, and started to walk home.
Vibrant life lined the path. He saw a child with his mother, and the cool breeze was filled with their laughter. In stark contrast to his typically reserved manner, a strange, unnecessary joy blossomed in his chest—a pure, unbidden feeling. His normally vigilant black eyes softened as he went on, lingering on the flowers blooming along the walkway.
His lips formed a soft smile, an uncommon occurrence that suggested a more tender side beneath his stern black turtleneck and pants, as well as his long, black hair that fell to his waist. His journey was changed from a simple walk into a moment of unexpected, transient contentment by this brief encounter with simple beauty and innocent happiness, which was a silent gift.
Noir's loving elderly neighbour waved from their porch as he got closer to his house. With a tiny, sincere smile on his lips, he returned the gesture and entered the peaceful home. No cherished soul was left in this world to share it with him; it was a place he lived alone.
His footsteps reverberated softly in the silence as he made his way upstairs. He had a framed photo of his family on his desk. He looked at it, and a soft smile came to his lips, though there was a faint glimmer of tears in his eyes. His past, which was both joyful and sad, was profoundly weighed down by this simple image. Nevertheless, Noir had managed to smile and embrace joy despite the sadness in his ridiculous outlook on life.
Life had been cruel to him from an early age. After losing his parents when he was still a young child, he moved in with his uncle and aunt. Noir wasn't your average kid, though, even back then. He had an extraordinary outlook on life and self-control from the start, and he was a remarkable realist. People were drawn to his quiet strength by his helpful nature, which naturally won them over. But when his uncle and aunt died in an accident, tragedy struck again, too soon. Noir lived and was only left with superficial wounds on his body but deep ones on his spirit.
Noir had, however, chosen a less-traveled route in spite of the overwhelming loss and grief. He actively looks for happiness in every small area of life, putting aside any sadness he may encounter. Even in the darkest recesses of his memory, this tiny, tear-tinged smile for his departed family was a silent testament to his enduring spirit, a sign of his radical acceptance and unrelenting search for light. It was a smile of profound love rather than despair.
He was sitting at his desk with the picture in his hand, the cool frame a physical reminder of a world long since gone. Then all of his senses abruptly went black. The world disappeared into emptiness.
He suddenly regained his sight after gasping, a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He was in a place he didn't know, surrounded by a weird, shifting grey mist that obscured his features for more than a few feet. Words that twisted and dissolved before they could form meaning, strange whispers that echoed in his ears, a chaotic symphony of indistinct sounds that he couldn't understand. He felt disoriented.
The mist then dissipated, exposing a surreal world with an abstract, inexplicable process of creation. Instead of being in a room, he was standing on one end of a long, rectangular table in a magical palace that defied reason and had neither a ceiling nor typical walls. At the sides rose tall, elaborate pillars that vanished into the formless grey sky above. An enormous crimson moon hung impossibly in the sky behind the end of the table he faced, illuminating the sky with a blood-red, ethereal glow.
In the dark light of the moon, a shadowy figure sat at the other end of the table. His long black hair fell over shoulders that appeared too wide and motionless, and he wore a dark grey suit with a long coat that hung to the floor. In an invitational gesture, the figure held up a hand. A deep, resonant voice that was unquestionably pleasant and full of ancient power said, "Take a seat, Mr. Kagenou."
As Noir gazed into the man's eyes, two abyssal, lifeless black voids that promised nothing but an eternal emptiness, a chill went down his spine. Noir's mind whirled with frantic, incoherent webs of questions. What was this place? Who was this being? Why was he here?
As if hearing his unspoken thoughts, the mysterious person spoke again, his voice echoing in the vast, pillar-lined space. "Welcome to my Castle of Fabrications, Noir Kagenou. Be honored, for I am passing this sefirot castle on to you."
Noir's eyes widened, disbelief warring with a creeping sense of terror. "What… what's going on?" he managed to stammer, his voice thin in the immense silence. "What is this place?"
The figure's lips, unnervingly still, seemed to form a smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Kagenou… Let's play a game…" His voice deepened, the pleasant tone now laced with an undeniable, chilling authority. "I am the Host and you... are the Fool and this… is your new beginning."
With those words, everything blacked out for Noir once again.
This time, a torrent of unfamiliar memories began flashing in his head, vivid yet fragmented, like shattered pieces of a different life. Alder Wilson. A 22-year-old historian. Just cleared his university entrance exam a few days ago. His father, a soldier, died in the military. His mother lost to illness. An elder sister, Grace Wilson. An even elder brother, Thomas Wilson, who did all the earning. Pension money from their father. The memories were a chaotic jumble, only in fragments, and nothing more could be made up properly.
When he gained consciousness, he found himself in a completely different place. He was sitting at a desk in a room, but it wasn't his own. He stood up, stepped back to the middle of the room, and looked around. The late afternoon sun, a comforting, familiar presence, streamed through the tall, mullioned windows of this new bedroom, casting long, warm shadows across the polished wooden floor. He stood for a moment just past the threshold, a subtle weariness in his bones, and let his gaze drift across the space that was slowly, piece by painstaking piece, becoming truly his.
To his left, the grand desk, a solid anchor of dark, carved wood, beckoned with its promise of quiet study. He noted the growing stacks of books, each volume a potential key to some new insight, alongside the scattered papers that hinted at unfolding mysteries and the reassuring gleam of the desk lamp, ready for the long nights ahead. The accompanying chair, with its intricate back, seemed to invite him to settle in, to delve into the arcane.
His eyes then moved to the center of the room, to the bed—a magnificent creation of dark, carved wood, its headboard a testament to forgotten craftsmanship. The white linens, crisp and clean, offered a stark contrast to the rich, deep tones of the frame, and the sight of the heavy, familiar blanket folded at its foot brought a small, private sense of contentment.
Beside it, the slightly smaller bookshelf, already groaning under the weight of his expanding collection, was a constant reminder of the knowledge he sought and the secrets he guarded. He appreciated the solid, reassuring presence of the large wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, a practical item that nonetheless held a certain unassuming dignity.
Finally, his gaze settled on the right side of the room. The tall, dark wardrobe stood sentinel, its broad doors promising ample space for his meager but growing collection of attire. Adjacent to it, the vanity, adorned with an assortment of mundane yet essential items, offered a brief glimpse of his reflection in its ornate mirror, a stern, tired face looking back. It was a space designed for contemplation, for preparation, for the careful donning of a facade.
He took a quiet breath, the scent of old paper and polished wood mingling faintly in the air. This room, with its careful balance of elegance and practicality, of light and shadow, felt like a sanctuary, a quiet harbor in a world that was becoming increasingly loud and perilous. It was, indeed, Alder Wilson's room, and for a fleeting moment, a profound sense of peace settled over him.
He was confused, and a faint, unfamiliar curiosity pulled him towards the right side of the room. The tall, dark wardrobe stood sentinel, its broad doors promising ample space for his meager but growing collection of attire. Adjacent to it, the vanity beckoned, adorned with an assortment of mundane yet essential items. He approached it, the faint scent of old paper and polished wood clinging to the air, and let his gaze drift to the ornate mirror.
His breath caught.
The face staring back wasn't his.
A stranger's eyes, dark but lacking the familiar, weary depth of his own, stared back. The set of the jaw was different, sharper, less refined than he remembered. The curve of the nose, the subtle lines around the eyes – none of it was Noir Kagenou.
His hands, clad in the simple, light fabric of a linen shirt, instinctively rose to touch the mirrored surface, then his face. It was real. Solid. Yet utterly, terrifyingly alien. He wore a pair of dark trousers that felt strange, too loose or too tight in places, clinging to limbs that were and were not his.
But then, his hands went higher, reaching for his head. Where his own long, black hair, which had cascaded to his waist, should have been, there was only a short, unfamiliar crop. It barely brushed his collar. This, more than the unfamiliar face or body, sent a jolt of genuine distress through him. His hair had been a part of him, a constant, a symbol of his identity. Now, it was gone.
"This… this isn't me," he whispered, the words ragged, barely audible in the quiet room. His voice, too, felt subtly different, a shade lighter, less resonant. "This isn't my face. My body. My… my hair!"
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his calm, threatening to shatter the meticulous self-control he'd cultivated over a lifetime. He spun away from the mirror, then back, desperately trying to reconcile the impossible image with his immutable sense of self.
What in the heavens had happened? Why was he in a different body? Why was his most precious feature stolen from him? The chilling pronouncements of the 'Host' echoed in his memory, his deep voice like a tolling bell: "This is your new beginning."
"Have I… transmigrated?" The word, a concept from the fantastical tales he'd occasionally dismissed as whimsical, felt absurd on his tongue, yet terrifyingly real in this moment. He ran his hands over his arms, felt the steady thump of a healthy heart within this unfamiliar chest.
"But then what about this Alder guy? Is he dead? There are no injuries on this body, no sign of poisoning either. There's nothing that says he simply... vanished."
He turned back to the mirror, examining the reflection with a new, frantic intensity. The stern, tired face of Alder Wilson stared back, healthy, alive, undeniably present, with his unfamiliar short hair. Yet, it was occupied by the bewildered mind, the very essence of Noir Kagenou.
The profound sense of peace that had settled over him moments before shattered, replaced by a dizzying storm of questions and a growing, unsettling realization that his very existence had been fundamentally altered. The game, it seemed, had already begun, and he was nothing more than a pawn in a body that wasn't his own.
His breath caught, and he was frozen in place as he heard footsteps approaching, growing steadily louder until they stopped right outside his door.
Knock! Knock! Knock!