Gulp… gulp…
The sound of liquid being swallowed echoed softly in the otherwise silent garden café.
A delicate porcelain teacup was set down gently on the table with a faint clink.
"So…" The gentle, almost musical voice belonged to a woman sitting elegantly on a white wooden chair. Her long dress, pure white, flowed down in soft folds, pooling slightly around her feet. A wide-brimmed white hat shaded her face, but sunlight filtered through the leaves above, occasionally catching her pale, porcelain skin.
She didn't raise her voice, yet her words seemed to carry effortlessly through the still air.
"How's your mission going?"
The man seated across from her didn't hesitate. "Everything is going as planned," he said firmly, his tone respectful but steady. "You don't need to worry about anything, my lady."
The woman rested her left hand lightly on the table. With a slow, fluid motion, she leaned forward. Her eyes—calm, unreadable—locked onto his. The faint curve of her lips turned into a smile that was almost too perfect.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned closer still. The scent of roses seemed to follow her, mingling with the aroma of tea. Before long, the two were so close they could feel each other's breath.
The man shifted uncomfortably. "What's wrong, my lady?" he asked, a hint of unease in his voice.
She didn't answer. She only kept smiling, her gaze fixed, unwavering.
Seconds passed—too many. His heartbeat quickened. His face began to flush, but not from embarrassment. A strange warmth crept over him, curling around his skin.
He glanced down. Tiny sparks of flame were blooming on his clothes.
His breath caught. His eyes went wide.
In an instant, the warmth turned to unbearable heat. The sparks flared into hungry tongues of fire, licking up his sleeves, racing toward his face.
He stumbled back, his chair toppling over, and screamed. The fire devoured him mercilessly, wrapping his entire body in a blazing shroud.
His voice rose in agony, but no one came to help. No one would come.
The woman simply sat there, sipping her tea with dainty grace, her eyes never leaving the writhing figure before her.
The fire roared higher. The man's screams grew hoarse… and then stopped.
Only the sound of crackling flames remained. Moments later, there was nothing left but a heap of blackened ash scattered across the paving stones.
The woman set her empty cup down and gazed at the ashes. She leaned slightly forward, her smile deepening into something darker—almost predatory.
"This is my first step," she murmured to herself. "I will definitely make him mine."
---
I woke up.
My first thought—my hope—was that I'd see my parents. My room. My own face in the mirror.
But no.
As my eyes opened, the same dull sight greeted me—the old, rusty room, the musty smell, the creak of the bed beneath me.
I sat up slowly. Why am I still here?
This wasn't a dream. I knew that now.
My gaze drifted to the desk across the room, piled high with neatly arranged books. I got up, pulled out the chair, and began going through them.
Arisawa—that's who I am, or was—had always loved reading. Fiction, history, anything. And in situations like this, when you're lost in an unfamiliar place, the best thing to do is look for information.
I combed through the books one by one. Most were ordinary—novels, academic texts, worn encyclopedias—until I noticed a small book hidden inside the desk drawer.
Its cover was brown, the corners faintly red, as though stained. The edges were frayed, and it gave off the faint smell of old ink and dust.
I opened it.
To my surprise, I could read it perfectly. Every word made sense, as if it had been written in my own language.
It was a diary. The handwriting was neat, slanted slightly to the right, written with ink. Dates were marked at the top of each entry.
The first thirty to forty pages were ordinary—accounts of graduation, family moments, friendships, little stories from daily life.
Then I turned to page forty-six.
The tone changed completely.
He—Cliffdon—wrote about being threatened by someone. The details were sparse, deliberately vague. No names. Just fear. He wrote about an ominous promise: They will take me away.
From that point on, the entries grew darker. He spoke of wanting to flee the country with his sister. He believed she had no idea about the danger looming over them.
The diary continued until page 103. The last entry chilled me to the core—it was a goodbye letter to his sister. He claimed he would take his own life, cutting his neck with a knife.
I stared at the page. My hands trembled slightly.
Setting the diary down, I ran my hands through my hair and gripped my head.
None of this matches my memories. Even though I was still me—Arisawa—I had fragments of Cliffdon's life in my mind. But nothing about these threats, this plan to run, or… his suicide.
"Try to remember… try to remember…" I muttered, pacing.
Finally, I grabbed my watch, coat, and hat, pulled on my shoes, and left the room.
I hoped to see his—no, my—sister. But the small apartment was empty. She must have left for school without saying goodbye.
---
I stepped out into the streets of Dehlar, the capital of the Labarious Empire. The Williams family had moved here twenty years ago for my father's government job.
The air was crisp, filled with the smell of baking bread, horses, and the faint tang of coal smoke.
I stopped at a bakery near the apartment—one I recognized from Cliffdon's memories.
"Just a loaf of bread," I told the old man behind the counter.
He smiled warmly. "How's your sister doing, young man?"
"She's fine," I said, returning the smile. "A little careless, though."
He handed me the bread—fresh from the oven, its crust a perfect golden brown. "Don't worry. If you can't find a job, you're always welcome to work here."
I tipped my hat. "Thanks for the concern, Mr. Hammerdon."
---
The city was alive with movement.
Men in black coats and hats strolled alongside others in brown or grey—colors marking wealth or the lack of it. Stalls lined the streets, selling fresh produce, bright fabrics, and trinkets. The clip-clop of hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels echoed over the hum of voices.
In the center of the city stood a massive statue—a man holding a book, immortalized in stone. Beyond it, gleaming in the sunlight, rose the white marble facade of the Parliament building.
I sat at the statue's base, tore off a piece of the bread, and bit into it.
The world seemed to freeze.
"So… good…" I whispered.
The crust was crisp, the inside soft and warm, the aroma rich. It was the best bread I had ever tasted.
---
After wandering a while longer, I noticed a crowd gathered around a street performer.
A magician.
He bowed to the crowd, lifted his top hat, and showed it empty. "Watch closely," he said, then reached inside.
"Five… four… three… two… one!"
A white rabbit appeared in his hand. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
Then he announced his next act required a volunteer. Many hands shot up, but when he scanned the crowd, his eyes settled on me.
"Ah, you, sir!"
Before I knew it, I was on stage.
Why had I agreed? I should've gone home.
He brought out a large box—like a locker. "Please step inside," he instructed.
I hesitated, then complied. The door shut. The crowd counted down from ten.
When it opened, I was gone.
---
Ah… it hurts…
I opened my eyes.
I was lying on a wooden floor, the air cool and still. I looked around. The room was vast, dim, and dominated by the massive gears and pendulum of a clock tower.
I stumbled toward an open window and looked out.
My stomach dropped.
This was the central clock tower of the city—fifteen kilometers from where the magic show had been.
"How…?"
A voice cut through the air, sharp and almost mocking.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Williams."
I turned.
A tall man stood near the stairs. His smile was too wide, too knowing. He wore a white shirt, black trousers, and a deep purple waistcoat. A brown hat sat atop his long hair.
He bowed slightly.
"I would perhaps like to introduce myself. My name is Jeater…"
The smile sharpened.
"…or you can just call me… the Clown."