Ouch.
What's happening to my body? Why do I smell smoke?
It burns.
The words spilled out from scorched lips, a cry that felt so alien to Toon Horst. His voice was hoarse as the smoke clawed at his throat, each breath only feeding the flames that were devouring him.
His skin blistered and cracked, red flesh bubbling beneath the charred surface. Yet, death seemed to play a cruel game, refusing to take him.
Flames clung to Toon Horst like a relentless curse, wrapping around his chest, arms, and face with the insatiable hunger of a living beast. Each flicker of fire gnawed deeper into him, blistering skin, cracking bone, marking him as its own.
The stench of charred flesh and singed hair filled the narrow street, choking him. Smoke curled into his lungs, clawing down his throat like shards of glass. Every breath only fueled the inferno consuming him.
He screamed, the sound raw and broken, more beast than man.
"WATER! SOMEBODY—WATER!"
But the crowd just stood there, staring.
Dozens of eyes glinted in the firelight, cold and unfeeling. Their shapes blurred through the smoke, mere shadows of indifference. Some whispered, their voices low and sharp, as if they were already etching his death into memory. Not a single hand reached out. To them, he was no longer a man just a warning, just a spectacle.
His vision swam. The heat burned so deeply it felt like his very soul was blistering. His knees buckled, and for a heartbeat, he thought the fire would pull him down into the stone itself, burying him alive in flames.
He clawed at his own chest, tearing away strips of his shirt that had melted into his skin, only for his nails to drag loose, blackened flesh away with it. The agony was beyond human it was something primal, something that chewed at the edges of his sanity.
"Please—!" His voice trembled, barely more than a whimper. His eyes flicked nervously over the crowd of onlookers. No compassion. No mercy. Some even grinned, finding amusement in his torment. A child perched on someone's shoulders pointed at him as if he were part of a twisted carnival act.
The fire blazed higher, its crackling sound drowning out the pounding of his heart. His hair turned to brittle ash. His lips cracked open, bleeding, yet his body stubbornly refused to give in. The flames craved more.
Why is there a public execution happening in broad daylight, with no judge, no words, nothing?
"WHAT IS THIS OLD FUCKING CHINA?!"
The world spun. He sank to his knees, his face just inches from a puddle of filthy water in the street. The fire hissed and spat as droplets hit his scorched skin, a cruel mockery of relief. With the last ounce of his strength, he plunged his face into it.
Steam erupted. His scream shattered the silence.
But in that reflection through the boiling ripples and blood trickling down his face he saw something unrecognizable. Eyes silver, glowing faintly like molten metal under the moonlight. Cheekbones sharper than he remembered. Hair blackened but somehow wrong.
The face staring back wasn't his.
Toon Horst blinked. The reflection staring back at him from the water's surface was a stranger's face.
"Who is this?" Toon Horst whispered to himself, struggling to piece it all together.
This isn't me.
What on earth happened?
Have I… somehow transmigrated?
The idea gnawed at him like a cruel prank. Transmigration felt like something straight out of novels and manga, not something that could happen in real life. His logical mind dismissed it, but his body this unfamiliar, scorched shell that felt so alien seemed to scream otherwise. He didn't want to accept it. But no amount of denial could alter the reality: wherever he was, it definitely wasn't home.
A sharp pain shot through his head.
"Oww… my head."
His knees buckled as a dam broke within him.
Memories that weren't his own surged in. Fragments. Shards. A chaotic slideshow of agony and ash.
A tiny apartment, flames consuming walls and furniture until all that was left was charred remains.
A group of young men, laughter hiding their desperation, each one marked by the streets as a criminal.
Gunfire tearing through the night, blood soaking into the pavement, brothers falling one by one.
Police sirens. Cold handcuffs. Mugshots. Courtrooms where faces disappeared forever behind iron bars.
Toon stumbled back, gripping his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The flood of images clawed at him, threatening to shatter his skull. He leaned against a damp wall, forcing himself to stay upright. His silver eyes shone through the haze, reflecting both pain and a dawning horror.
Then, silence.
He let out a slow breath, trembling, as the migraine began to fade.
"My clothes are gone… burned to ashes. At least my pants survived," he muttered, trying to inject some humor into the grim situation. The charred remnants hung loosely on him, reeking of smoke and blood.
"What do I do now? I have no clue where I am… but some things are clear."
The body he now inhabited belonged to a boy named Zemin. No last name. No legacy. Just Zemin.
Toon's lip curled in disdain. "What kind of fool goes through life without even a last name?"
Zemin was eighteen. A dropout. Once bright, perhaps, with decent grades but swallowed by the underworld long before he could put them to use. The streets had claimed him.
And this city Kurayamiya. A name that slipped off the tongue like ash. The syllables had a Japanese ring to them, yet the place felt stranger, heavier. It was foreign, yet oddly familiar. Was it really Japan? Or just a distorted reflection of it? He couldn't quite figure it out.
Toon found himself on a mission not by choice, but out of necessity: piecing together Zemin's existence from fragments of memory. Faces flickered in the shadows men laughing, men dying but none lingered long enough to provide answers. Names faded before he could grasp them. Events rewound and skipped, jagged like a broken film reel. The harder he tried to hold onto a memory, the quicker it slipped away into nothingness.
Why was Zemin executed?" Toon whispered into the silence. Was it a crime? Betrayal? Revenge?
The questions etched themselves into his mind, leaving him with no answers.
The fragments were like shards of glass. Sharp. Scattered. Impossible to piece together into a coherent picture. He tried, time and again, but each attempt only cut deeper, leaving him with bloodied hands and no clarity.
Above him, the moon hung, pale and distant, like a blade poised over the city. Its silver light washed over the alleys of Kurayamiya, illuminating every cracked stone and warped shadow in a cold glow.
The city felt both alive and dead at the same time. Every alley was a throat whispering secrets. Every doorway, an unblinking eye. Shadows danced when there was no wind, curling like spirits with nowhere else to go.
Toon shivered, despite the lingering warmth of the fire that had burned him.
He was not welcome here.
His stomach growled, loud enough to echo in the stillness.
"Damn… already hungry, and I just got here."
He patted his pockets. Nothing. Not even a crumb.
A tired sigh escaped him. "Figures. I guess I'll have to follow Zeii's lead if I want to eat… even if it means getting my hands dirty."
The alleys were unforgiving. They twisted endlessly, cluttered with broken signs, discarded bottles, and scraps that weren't fit for a meal. He passed groups of men, their laughter sharp as glass, but none had anything he could take. For a city full of criminals, they didn't even have a loaf of bread.
It gnawed at him. How could thugs, killers, and so-called gangsters not have even a scrap to chew on?
Then, just when he thought all hope was lost, he heard it.
Crunching. The sound of someone chewing drifted softly through the night.
His head snapped in the direction of the noise. Someone was eating.
"…Heh. Guess my luck isn't completely shot today."
A foul curse slipped out before he could stop himself. Strange. Zemin's language was seeping into him. Was it his thoughts or just the habits of the body he inhabited? He shook the thought away. Hunger was louder than any philosophical musings.
He crept closer. The figure was half-hidden in the shadow of a crumbling building, smoke curling lazily from their lips. The faint glow of a cigarette ember pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. The food in their hand something warm and fragrant
Don't think. Just take.
Toon slipped in, quick and silent, snatching the food right out of the stranger's hand before darting into the alley. The person stood frozen, watching him escape without a hint of movement.
"Yes! Finally… food." He dropped to his knees, diving into it with reckless abandon. "Time to get diggin'."
He paused mid-bite, a frown creasing his brow. "…What's with this language?" It sounded rougher, more jagged than his usual way of speaking. Zemin again. His voice… his habits.
But before he could dwell on it, a sharp voice rang out behind him then
CRACK.
A boot slammed into his face, sending him crashing into the dirt. Pain shot through his jaw, blood trickling from his lip.
"You little shit." The voice was low, feminine, and as sharp as a knife. "That's not how we do things here."