"Ahh—this pain... it's knocking my head so hard..."
"Ahh—grww… why is my neck… hurting too?"
His hand drifted to his throat.
It was sore bruised. Heavy.
As if a rope had once whispered around it… tight and final.
He was lying on the floor—cold, hard, and cracked in places.
Above him, the ceiling fan spun slowly, lifelessly. From it, a torn tie dangled.
It swayed… like a pendulum that had just counted down someone's end.
A stool lay nearby—its one leg broken, splinters stabbing out like accusations.
Beside the study table, there was nothing extraordinary. Some clipboards pinned to the wall, barely holding on, some resting awkwardly on a chair, others lost under the quiet chaos on the desk.
Pictures of superheroes—faded, curled at the edges—still hung proudly. A broken mirror leaned near the corner.
Books and papers were scattered across the floor, as if even they had grown tired of holding in pain…as if they, too, had tried to escape.
"Ahh..."
"This—this pain is killing me..."
He groaned, pressing a hand to his head as he slowly pushed himself up.
His legs trembled like newborn branches in the wind, but he stood—
on his own feet. It felt like standing after a hundred year. Like the ground was unfamiliar, like gravity had forgotten him.
His breath hitched.
His heart beat—but faintly.
His limbs, cold.
His thoughts… fogged.
"Am I… dead? Or alive?"
His voice cracked, swallowed by the heavy air.
He looked around—the dim light, the swaying tie, the broken mirror, the silent pages.
"Is this hell?"
A shiver ran through him.
"Or… heaven?"
He moved forward—
one slow, uncertain step at a time.
This place. He couldn't remember it.
Had he ever walked like this before?
Or was he learning again… like a child?
The room was quiet.
Not peaceful—just… still.
Its condition hung somewhere between forgotten and remembered.
Not broken, not whole. From the corner, flakes of dry paint slipped from the wall, falling soundlessly like tired snow.
The ceiling fan above—covered in thick, unmoved dust—creaked as if groaning from years of silence. It hadn't turned in a long time. Not since everything stopped.
To his right, an open window breathed in the cold wind. It kissed his skin like a whisper: you're still alive.
Books had collapsed onto the floor,
as if they'd finally given up standing.
Pages fluttered lightly.
Some open,
some closed,
some torn.
He looked around, His eyes drifted to the broken mirror shard on the corner. A jagged piece of glass—small, sharp, forgotten.
He bent down slowly, hands trembling not from pain, but from something colder: uncertainty.
He picked it up.
A face stared back.
Half of it.
The other half was lost to the cracks in the mirror—like the rest of him.
"...Who is this?"
His voice was hoarse.
Unfamiliar.
It didn't feel like it belonged to him.
"Is... is it me?"
His fingers brushed his cheek, then the image—as if trying to feel both at once, as if confirming they were the same. But they didn't feel the same.
Not at all.
"...Who am I?"
"Ahh… my neck… grwww…"
He groaned again, pressing his hand against the bruised skin, still burning from the rope's memory.
His eyes drifted across the messy floor—
books scattered like wounded soldiers. And then one caught his attention.
A book.
Old.
Its cover worn. Dust blanketed it like time had forgotten it. He reached out and picked it up. It was heavier than he expected—
With a quick wipe of the cover, the title revealed itself, faint but still alive under the dirt: blue ink, barely glowing in the dim light.
He slowly opened it.
Not a storybook.
Not a novel.
Not even a journal.
It was…
a school diary.
The pages were scribbled with crooked handwriting. But on the inside cover, neatly written in faded ink:
Kami, 17
The Migean Empire
Ferox
Aeon – Street No. 111
His fingers trembled as he turned the page. There scrawled in shaky, almost desperate handwriting: I HAVE TO DIE
The words hit him like a scream.
His heart dropped.
The room felt colder.
Without thinking — he threw the diary across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud.
"No—no—no…"
He stumbled back, his back hitting the study table. His hands shot to his head. It throbbed — like someone was pounding nails into his skull.
Visions - Flashes - Sounds that weren't real—but were.
That dream - That joker - That twisted laugh.
His mother—
her eyes, distant… empty…
Her voice.
Her voice.
Her last words.
This is the only way.
The cold glint of the knife.
The warmth of his blood.
The kitchen floor.
Her face…
His eyes widened.
He gasped.
"What is this happening?"
"I remember… I remember!"
"I was in the kitchen… and she—"
"She kills me!"
He fell to his knees. He couldn't believe it. No—he refused to.
"Maybe I'm still dreaming… maybe I didn't wake up…"
His breath quickened. His mind spiraled. He clenched his fist—tight—then slammed it into the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Thud. Thud. THUDDD.
He didn't stop. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn't stop. He wanted to wake up. He needed to wake up.
"Please—please—wake up—wake up—"
CRACK.
Blood seeped from his knuckles, dripping onto the cold wooden floor.
His skin tore, fingernails cracked—
but he was still there.
Still breathing.
Still in that room.
The dust.
The wind.
The silence.
The blood.
He stared at his hand, shaking.
Red.
So red.
He dropped it onto the floor, like it no longer belonged to him. His lips trembled.
"…It's real…"
"It's real…"
He leaned forward, pressing his bloodied hand to his chest.
"I'm not dreaming anymore…"
"This pain is mine"
The fan creaked above. A single page from the diary fluttered against the wall. Outside, the cold breeze passed through the window.
"It's not a dream… not even surreal."
"It's real."
His voice trembled as he looked around, disoriented.
"But… where am I? How did I get here?"
His eyes caught sight of something pinned crookedly to the wall a single page from the diary fluttered against the wall a torn diary page, yellowed at the edges. With a trembling hand, he reached for it. The handwriting was shaky, rushed, and stained. He read:
Sorry, Sister.
I've been permanently expelled from school because of my fighting. I fought because they bullied me...
I know I don't deserve a mother-like sister like you. I only ever hurt you.
After Mom and Dad died in that car accident, you were the only one who stayed by me. You gave me everything — your time, your dreams, your strength. And what did I give you in return? Nothing but pain and suffering.
But don't worry. I'm going to free you from all of this...
Forget me.
Take care of yourself.
I have to die.
Goodbye.
He suddenly looked up. A tie hung loosely from the ceiling fan, swaying slightly in the still air. Beneath it lay a broken stool, toppled on its side.
His breath caught in his throat. It hit him all at once — the weight of the letter, the silence in the room, the unmistakable signs.
Now he understood.
"He tried to kill himself…" he whispered.
But then a chilling thought crept in.
"But… how is he still alive?"
He glanced down at his own hands. No wounds. No rope burns. Just trembling fingers and a racing heart.
"No… the one who's alive…"
He swallowed.
"...is me."
He opened the window. The land stretched far and wide beneath a pale morning sun — serene, untouched, almost sacred in its stillness. Rolling fields shimmered with dew, and not a single sound broke the silence.
His breath hitched.
"Am I… in another world?"
"Is this reincarnation? Transmigration?"
He backed away from the window, shaking his head.
"What the hell is this…?"
Now, he was Kami — age 17. A citizen of the vast Migean Empire, residing in the Ferox District of Aeon City, Street No. 111.
A new name. A new world. A new life… or perhaps a borrowed one.
He was a student — was. Permanently expelled after a violent incident at school.
His only family in this world was his elder sister, Aria. She worked long hours at a trading company just to keep them afloat. Their parents… were gone. Lost to death long before he ever opened his eyes in this strange land.
"I've seen situations like this in movies…" Kami muttered.
Reborn in another body — the passing of a soul from one life to the next, after death.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But… can I go back?"
The door creaked open — not loudly, but just enough to fracture the silence. A soft footstep followed… then another. Light. Careful.
Whoever entered did so with caution, not command. They paused, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light.
"Kami…"
A familiar voice broke through the stillness — trembling, concerned. Footsteps rushed forward, faster now. A warm, soft hand suddenly wrapped around his.
"Why are your hands covered in blood like this?"
Kami turned.
It was Aria.
His sister. The pain in her eyes was unmistakable — raw, unspoken, and heavy with worry.
"Just… what did you do to yourself?" she asked, her voice cracking.
Kami gave a faint smile, one that tried to hide everything and failed.
"Nothing much, sis. Just… nothing."
But the lie didn't pass her.
Without another word, Aria rushed to the cabinet, pulled out a first aid box, and knelt beside him. Her hands were quick but gentle as she wrapped the bandage around his wounded hand.
She didn't speak. Neither did he.
"Why didn't you listen to me?"
Aria's voice shook — not with anger, but with exhaustion.
"When will you finally grow up and take care of yourself?"
She pressed the bandage a little tighter, frustration slipping through her trembling hands.
"I won't always be here to look after you, Kami."
Kami sat quietly, watching her. To her, he was still the same younger brother. But inside… he wasn't.
This was their first meeting — for him. The soul inside this body was no longer the Kami she knew… it was Ren.
And yet, as he listened to her scolding, to the way her voice cracked with hidden care, he understood it. Deeply. Genuinely.
He didn't reply with excuses. Instead, he gently raised his hand and placed it on her head — soft, steady, unfamiliar.
"Don't worry," he said with a quiet smile.
"I've grown up now."
"From now on, I'll take care of myself… and of you too."
Aria blinked, caught off guard by the calmness in his voice. For a second, she stared at him — as if seeing someone both familiar and entirely different.
"Always with the fancy talk," Aria muttered with a soft sigh, shaking her head. She placed a few coins beside him on the table.
"I'm heading out now. I'll be back soon"
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked out — the door clicking shut behind her.
Silence returned.
Kami remained seated, his eyes slowly drifting around the room. Left… then right. As if trying to gather meaning from the scattered pieces of someone else's life.
A tie swayed from the ceiling fan above — like a pendulum counting down moments he couldn't remember. Books lay strewn across the floor. Clipboards. Torn sketches. Crumpled pages.
He stared at them all, his chest tightening with a strange ache.
"Why… does this all feel familiar?"
A fog clouded his thoughts, thick and heavy. He gripped his temples.
"What just happened to me…?"
"I didn't remember anything properly"
His voice was barely a whisper now.
"Not even my name… not even… what I looked like"
He sat there, still and uncertain — a soul reborn in a life full of fragments he couldn't piece together.
DING! DONG!
DING! DONG!
The sudden chime of the doorbell echoed through the quiet room.
"H-Huh…? The bell rang?" Kami flinched, startled by the sharp sound cutting through his thoughts.
His heart pounded as he stood up. Slowly, cautiously, he walked toward the door. But just before he could reach it, something slid through the gap beneath.
A letter.
He quickly bent down and picked it up, his eyes scanning the envelope. There was no sender name — only a bold date stamped across the front.
His breath caught.
"June 15… 812?"
He stared at it, lips parted in disbelief.
"Is this… the year 812?"
The room suddenly felt colder, heavier.
"No way… I've come into the year 812?"
He backed away from the door, gripping the letter tightly. Time itself had become a stranger. And so had he.
He didn't read the letter.
With a sudden rush of anxiety and confusion, Kami threw it aside — letting it land somewhere behind him — and bolted out the door.
Outside, the world unfolded before him like a forgotten dream.
The sky above the ancient city was bathed in hues of soft amber and rose, as if the heavens themselves had been brushed by an artist's hand. The rooftops were carved with age, the streets cobbled and alive with the quiet hum of a distant morning.
Kami stood frozen on the stone steps, eyes wide.
"W-Wow…"
His breath left him in a whisper.
"It's… really beautiful"
He turned slowly, taking it all in — the peaceful streets, the gentle breeze, the warm colors painting the sky.
"I've… come into a pretty nice world"
For a moment, the fear faded replaced by something like wonder.
Kami stood just outside the door, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
A thin cloud of dust rose as an old wooden cart rolled down the path, pulled by a dappled gray horse whose mane shimmered in the golden morning light. The cart creaked softly with each turn of its worn wheels, the sound blending with the hush of the wind that whispered through tall grass lining the stone-paved road.
He couldn't take his eyes off it.
"Whoa… that was amazing"
A wide grin spread across his face.
"This old city has such a beautiful charm"
"Let's explore it more"
As he stepped into the heart of Aeon City, the streets opened up like a painting come to life.
Cafés spilled out onto cobblestone squares, candlelit tables glowing gently beneath linen awnings. Laughter danced in the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the rich aroma of fresh bread, rosemary, and wood-fired ovens. A young painter sat near the central fountain, sketching the BLACK SUN with charcoal-stained fingers, eyes lost in the world he was creating.
"Come, come! Fresh meat! Sale! Sale!" vendors called out with practiced cheer, waving a strip of cloth in the air.
Kami sniffed the air.
"Mmm… that smell is really good"
Tucked between two old stone buildings, a small pastry shop caught his eye. Its wooden sign gently swinging in the breeze, carved with elegant vines and the smiling face of a croissant.
The scent hit him first — sweet and buttery, with layers of vanilla, cinnamon, and warm fruit filling the air like a silent invitation.
His stomach growled softly.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, stepping forward with a smile.
"You've arrived just in time—our morning batch is still warm from the oven," said the pastry vendor with a cheerful smile.
"Every pastry here has a story. And if you sit by the window, I'll even tell you mine—over tea, of course"
Kami blinked, caught off guard by the sudden warmth in her voice.
"Ah… no thanks," he whispered awkwardly, taking a small step back.
But before he could turn away, a sudden clang of cymbals erupted through the square.
BANG—CLANG—CLANG!
Colorful confetti burst into the air, spiraling down in a swirl of red, blue, and gold. All heads turned as a thick velvet curtain—where none had been just seconds ago—parted with dramatic flair.
From its shadowed folds, he emerged.
Tall. Thin. Dressed in a patchwork coat stitched from mismatched fabrics of crimson, violet, and dull gold. Bells jingled softly with every slow step of his curved shoes.
His face was painted — a smile stretched unnaturally wide across his lips, frozen and flawless.
Too wide to be kind.
Too perfect to be real.
But it was his eyes that struck Kami the hardest — one shimmering blue, the other gleaming gold.
Kami stood still, a strange chill sliding down his spine.
"What… is this?" he murmured.
Laaaaadies and gentlemen!
His voice rang out across the square, smooth as silk and sharp as glass.
Children with empty hearts… and grown-ups with broken dreams.
He spread his arms wide, the sleeves of his patchwork coat flaring like wings.
Today, I offer you laughter, lies, and a little madness — served fresh, with a smile
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a single card high into the air. It spun once, twice—then with a sharp snap, it exploded into a fluttering dove that soared above the crowd.
Gasps rose around him.
He bowed low, almost touching the cobblestones, before springing up onto a unicycle that balanced perfectly on a tightrope strung high above flickering torches.
The flames danced below him.
He juggled — knives, playing cards, and burning sticks — spinning them through the air with impossible precision. Each motion was seamless, each throw a spectacle. And through it all, he laughed.
Then, balanced upside-down on one hand atop the unicycle, he whispered to the silent crowd below:
"They say the world is a stage…"
A slow grin twisted his lips.
"But I prefer the circus…"
"…Because here, we all wear masks"
"Hello"
A soft, melodic voice spoke from behind.
Kami turned.
A girl stood there — graceful, striking, dressed like a witch straight out of a fantasy tale. Her dark robe shimmered faintly in the sunlight, stitched with silver stars and crescent moons. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop her head, and her eyes held a strange glimmer — somewhere between mischief and melancholy.
She handed him a folded poster with a sly smile.
"I'm Neko no Namida," she said.
"From the Clown Dominion"
Kami blinked, confused.
"Clown Dominion…? What is that?"
"Ah, that's a secret," she giggled, tilting her head. "We only tell you after you join"
Then, a little more simily:
"But we do circus acts to earn a bit of coin — just enough to survive in this cruel, spinning world."
She held up two fingers.
"We're low on members. That's why we're recruiting now."
Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"So… wanna join?"
Kami raised an eyebrow, glancing again at the colorful flyer.
"Miss Ne…ko?"
She rolled her eyes with a teasing sigh.
"Not Neko. It's Neko no Namida"
"Right, right," Kami chuckled awkwardly. "Neko no Namida. But still… what is this Dominion exactly?"
Her smile widened — unreadable.