The initial confusion of awakening began to dissipate like mist in the sun, but not by the light of reason, but by fragments of a life that wasn't mine. Disjointed images, fleeting sensations, and echoes of foreign emotions invaded my mind like shards of glass. It hurts. Each one, a small splinter of a stolen existence.
Jun Kumohari. The name echoed within my mind, a label stuck to a body that was now mine. Son of a Japanese magnate... a powerful figure, a titan of industry... who unfortunately "passed away from illness." The quotation marks around "illness" were my own, an instant cynicism that colored the memory. The word sounded false, poisoned. And then, the burial. The haste. The feeling of something... incomplete.
"Ah, how confusing," I murmured, my voice still strange, but now carrying a tone of theatrical exasperation. I brought a hand to my head, ruffling my black hair, dirty with soil. My eyes, however, remained fixed on them, analytical and icy, brutally contrasting with the performance. "But who are you two?"
They visibly flinched. Their bodies trembled like willow rods in a strong breeze. The image was almost comical: two young gentlemen, dressed as if for a dinner at the mansion, paralyzed with terror in the middle of a cemetery, garden shovels in hand, facing a walking corpse interrogating them. The reality was absurd. They had, literally, just finished burying a body. And now that body had not only resurrected but was demanding explanations.
With a weary sigh that wasn't entirely feigned—the fatigue of this new body was real—I let myself slump onto the cold ground. My back rested against the churned earth of my own grave, a macabre detail that didn't escape me. I sat there, looking up at them from below, a position of vulnerability I knew to be illusory. The power, in this bizarre interaction, was entirely mine.
It was then that one of them, the one who seemed a bit older or at least less shaken, seemed to fight through the shock. His trembling lips parted.
"You... you don't remember us?"
The question was stupid. So stupid it almost made me laugh. The arrogance that had always been my second nature rose to the surface, filtered through Jun's personality that was still dissolving within me.
"Obviously not," I retorted, my voice laden with a sarcasm so acidic it could corrode metal. "If I remembered, I wouldn't have asked." The logic was so basic, so childish, that his question felt like an insult to my intelligence—or lack thereof, in his perception. What's with him? Was he an idiot who couldn't hear the obvious?
My cutting tone seemed to hit him physically. He took a step back, his pale face growing even more ghostly under the moonlight. I saw the conflict in his eyes: fear, duty, confusion. He hesitated, swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the shovel's handle as if it were a lifeline.
Finally, he seemed to gather strength from somewhere deep, perhaps from training in protocol or from an even greater fear of disobedience. "L-Let's go back, Sir," he stammered, his voice cracking.
In a near-automatic motion, he approached, movements hesitant and stiff. He shed his fine wool coat, a gesture of courtesy that seemed absurdly out of place, and placed it over my bare, dirt-caked shoulders. The fabric was soft, expensive, and still carried the residual warmth of his body.
And it was then that I felt it. His fingers, as they adjusted the coat on my shoulders, touched my skin for a fraction of a second.
They were trembling. Trembling uncontrollably.
A thought, superficial and almost naive, crossed my mind: 'Is he afraid? Or is he still just startled?'
Almost instantly, I dismissed the doubt. The motivation for the tremor was irrelevant. The fact was, he was trembling. It was a given. A variable. A clear demonstration of his fragile position in this game that had barely begun.
I didn't care about his fear.
Their courtesy was almost a conditioned reflex, so automatic and precise it couldn't be genuine. They were my age, about thirteen, faces still soft with youth, but their manners were those of veteran servants, not peers or friends. Every movement was calculated to serve, every downcast glance avoided mine. The question echoed in my mind, silent: are they the servants' sons? Heirs to a tradition of subservience, trained from the cradle to bow their heads to the young master Kumohari. It was the most logical explanation, yet still insufficient. There was a nervousness in them that went beyond respect, a sharp fear that smelled of guilt.
Answers. I wanted them now, but I knew I wouldn't get them here, in this cold cemetery, from two frightened boys. The answers would be locked away in the Kumohari mansion, and likely, in the presence of the man I was supposed to call father.
"Alright, let's go." My voice sounded flat, decisive, cutting through the heavy silence. It wasn't a request; it was an order. I rose with a fluidity that still surprised me, the muscles of this new body responding with an obedience its previous owner had probably never known. The soil from my grave clung to my pants, a macabre detail I ignored.
I walked toward the vehicle parked a few meters away, an elegant, dark silhouette under the moonlight. One of them—the one who had trembled—moved quickly, almost stumbling in his haste, to open the rear door for me. A smooth and silent gesture, perfectly executed, as if he'd done it a thousand times. I got into the car; the interior was immaculate, cold leather and the smell of newness, a brutal contrast to the dirt and decay I had just left.
They settled in the front, both of them. The driver's seat remained empty. One of them, the one who seemed slightly more composed, leaned forward slightly.
"Kumohari Mansion." His voice, still slightly trembling, echoed in the silent interior of the car.
Immediately, the vehicle's dashboard illuminated with a soft blue glow. An artificial voice, smooth and androgynous, responded without any hesitation.
[Understood.]
The engine started on its own, a nearly inaudible hum, and the car began to move with a ghostly smoothness, gliding out of the cemetery as if guided by an invisible hand.
A car with Artificial Intelligence. Interesting. It seemed like a Tesla from my previous world, but perhaps a bit more advanced. Considering none of the three of us were of legal driving age, it was a brilliantly pragmatic solution. An autonomous vehicle eliminated the need for an adult driver, for witnesses.
But then, the logic of the absurd struck me. The car's utility was unquestionable. The morality behind its use tonight, however, was grotesque.
What clueless, irresponsible idiot uses two children to bury another?
The question burned in my mind with a mix of disdain and fascination. The cruelty was so stupid, so blatant, it bordered on incompetent. Whoever was behind this wasn't a master of evil; they were a dangerously negligent amateur. Or, they were so powerful they believed themselves above any consequence.
Ugh, it's strange to refer to myself as a child.
The observation surfaced intrusively. I, who had gambled with deities and manipulated cosmic cards, was now trapped in a thirteen-year-old's body, being driven home by a robot car after digging my own grave. The irony was so thick I could almost taste it, bitter and metallic like blood in my mouth.
I leaned my head against the cold glass, watching the ghostly tombstones parade past the window, then giving way to the city lights. The borrowed coat smelled of teenage fear and expensive cologne. My hands, clean now but with dirt under the nails, rested in my lap.
The game had changed boards. The stakes now involved a wealthy family, a suspicious father, and two terrified servants.
.....
The study in the Kumohari mansion was a sanctuary of power and silent opulence. Heavy ebony bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that smelled of aged knowledge and wealth. A massive desk, carved from a single ancient tree, dominated the center of the room, its polished surface reflecting the soft light of a Tiffany lamp. The air was heavy with the woody scent of expensive leather, high-quality paper, and the distinct perfume of The Macallan, a single malt Scotch that cost more than a common man's monthly salary.
Behind the desk, Seiji Kumohari was the very image of ruin sculpted in expensive lines. His Italian silk suit, impeccable hours before, was now slightly askew, his tie loosened. He was slumped in his leather armchair, as if the spine that held his empire upright had dissolved. In one hand, he held a heavy crystal lowball glass, where a finger of amber liquid rested, no longer being drunk, only contemplated like an oracle of despair. His face, usually a mask of impenetrable authority, was crumbling. Red, swollen eyes stared into the void beyond the desk, surrounded by deep grooves of an anguish that eroded every feature. Depression was a heavy mantle over his shoulders, visible in every deep, trembling breath he took.
Across the desk, seated with a rigid posture that defied the comfort of the upholstered chair, was Yoko. She was a violent contrast to the masculine darkness of the study. Her dress was a vibrant red, silky and cut with an aggressive elegance that screamed of wealth and unshakable confidence. Her chestnut hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—a deep, unnatural ruby color—fixed on Seiji with an intensity that bordered on defiance. She was spectacular, dangerous, and cold as an ice dagger.
"The boy is dead..." Seiji's voice finally broke the silence, rising from the depths of his chest like a distant roll of thunder. It was deep, laden with a pain so profound it seemed to crack the very wood of the room. "Are you happy now, Yoko?"
The question hung in the air, poisoned and heavy. Yoko didn't flinch. Her lips, painted a red that matched her dress, remained firmly sealed. Her ruby eyes didn't blink. She remained silent, a statue of ambition and coldness, calculating that silence was her only bulwark against the storm she felt brewing.
But Seiji wasn't interested in bulwarks. He wanted to demolish fortresses.
"Why did you do this to my son?" His voice rose a pitch, the pain giving way to the first flash of raw fury, a rage that began to burn through the fog of his despair.
It was the wrong question. Yoko's silence broke. She stood up so fast the chair scraped against the wooden floor with a sharp screech. Her hands, with perfect red nails, slammed down hard on the polished surface of the desk.
"He was a bastar—"
The insult, sharp and venomous, never finished.
"HE WAS MY SON!" Seiji's roar was not human. It was the cry of a wounded animal, a betrayed titan. He too rose, and the room seemed to shrink with the sudden fury emanating from him. The very room shook. The crystal glasses on a sideboard tinkled softly. On the desk, a thin crack appeared in the solid wood where his hand had struck. The whiskey glass cracked, a fine line running through the crystal.
"MY SON! HE CARRIED MY BLOOD!" He bellowed, his face now a mask of pure rage, each word a hammer blow. "JUST BECAUSE HE WASN'T YOURS, IT DIDN'T GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO LET MY SON DIE SICK BECAUSE OF YOU!"
Yoko, for the first time, seemed to recoil a millimeter, his absolute fury finally piercing her icy armor. But her hatred was a flame of its own.
"I WOULDN'T LET HIM GET IN THE WAY OF YUKI AND YURI'S INHERITANCE!" She shrieked back, her voice a serpent's hiss. "HE DIDN'T DESERVE IT!"
The declaration of guilt, the admission of her conspiracy by omission, echoed through the room. Seiji stared at her, and all his rage seemed to condense into a terrible, deadly calm.
"And now..." he whispered, his voice as sharp as a shard of steel, "NOW THEY WON'T DESERVE IT EITHER!"
Toc. Toc.
Two short, firm knocks on the heavy office wood. The sound cut through the tension like a knife, a grotesque intruder at the climax of that marital war.
Seiji, his face still transformed by titanic fury, turned to the door with an animalistic snarl. The focus of his rage, momentarily, shifted from Yoko to the intolerable interruption.
"NOT NOW!" His roar echoed off the book-lined walls, making the crystal on the sideboard tinkle again. It was a shout laden with all the authority of a man who was never disobeyed, an order that should have frozen the blood of any servant on the other side.
But the person on the other side was not a servant. Or, if they were, they were one of superhuman courage.
The doorknob turned. Smooth. Decisive. The heavy dark oak door swung open, creaking slightly on its hinges, completely ignoring Seiji's decree of fury.
The magnate, already exhausted by grief and rage, inflated his chest to release another bellow, one that would make the intruder tremble to their soul. But the sound died in his throat.
He stopped. All the fury, all the pain, all the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders seemed to evaporate in a single, gasping instant.
In the doorway stood a youth. His hair was a messy, black mass, falling over a pale forehead. His eyes, a deep and serene brown, stared at Seiji without fear, without hesitation. He wore a fine suit—the same one he had likely been buried in—but it was now tattered, stained with dark soil and dampness, with tears that revealed pale skin beneath. His feet were bare, caked with cemetery earth. Over his shoulders, wrapped around him like an improvised cloak, was a fine wool coat, too large for him, clearly borrowed.
And the face...
Ah, the face.
Seiji Kumohari felt his heart stop. It was a face he had sworn never to see again, except in photographs and the nightmares that now haunted him. It was thinner, paler, with shadows under the eyes that spoke of an ordeal no young person should endure. But it was unmistakably...
"J-Jun..." The name escaped his lips not as a shout, but as a stolen sigh, a fragile thread of a voice carrying the weight of a world of despair and disbelief. He moved like a sleepwalker, stepping away from the desk, his steps clumsy and uncertain. The fury that had consumed him had dissipated, leaving behind only an empty, devastated man.
He stopped just inches from the youth, his tear-filled eyes tracing every detail of that impossible face. His large, trembling hand rose, hesitating for a second in the air, afraid the vision would dissolve like smoke at his touch.
"Is it really you...?" Seiji's voice was rough, thick with raw emotion. "My son..."
And then, Jun smiled. It wasn't a broad or jovial smile, but a subtle, weary curve of the lips. A smile that carried the shadow of secrets and an unimaginable journey. A smile that, to Seiji, was brighter than any sun.
"I'm back," Jun said, his voice soft but clear, cutting through the electrified silence of the study.
Across the room, Yoko remained motionless. Her face, once twisted with rage and ambition, was now pale as death, her ruby eyes wide with pure and absolute terror. Seiji's threat still hung in the air, but it was now overshadowed by a miracle—or a nightmare—that had materialized before her. The bastard son wasn't dead. He was standing. And he was smiling.
Seiji's world had narrowed to that single point: the face of the son he thought he'd lost. His trembling hand finally touched Jun's arm, feeling the cold reality of that skin beneath the tattered fabric. It was solid. It was real. A choked sob escaped his lips, a mixture of overwhelming relief and disbelief that stole his breath. The tears, held back for so long, finally welled up in his eyes, obscuring his vision for a moment. He was no longer the all-powerful magnate; he was just a father.
But as Seiji succumbed to the wave of emotion, Jun wasn't focused on him.
Over his father's shoulder, his brown eyes—which now seemed to hold the depth of someone much older—locked onto Yoko's. She was still frozen, a statue of horror dressed in vibrant red. Her world, meticulously built on ambition and cruelty, was crumbling before her ruby eyes. The corpse she had ordered buried had not only breathed but was now in the sanctuary of her power, smiling.
And Jun smiled.
It wasn't the tired, relieved smile he had given Seiji. This one was different. A smile that curved on only one side of his mouth, playful and dangerously arrogant. A smile that didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and analytical, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. It was an expression brimming with unshakable confidence, the confidence of someone who had already bet and won against a deity and didn't see a frightened woman as a threat, but as a piece to be moved.
It was a silent smile that carried a message as clear and sharp as a blade:
'I'm back.'
'Bitch.'
Yoko, however, did not see the smile. Her brain, short-circuited by pure and absolute shock, was struggling just to process the factual reality of his presence. She saw the silhouette, the dirt, the borrowed coat, the eyes fixed on her. Her nervous system was flooded with icy adrenaline, unable to decipher the nuances of a facial expression. The message, however, was intuitive, primal. She didn't need to see the smile to feel its meaning—the triumph, the challenge, the promise of retribution that emanated from him like a force field.
She did not retreat. She could not. Her muscles were locked, her feet rooted to the luxurious wooden floor. The only movement was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, which clenched into fists so tense that her red nails dug into her own palms.
The silence in the study was no longer heavy with the couple's discord. Now it was charged with shock, with a father's agonizing relief, and with the silent terror of a stepmother watching her plans crumble and a ghost—a very real and very smiling ghost—take his place at the table.