Itsuki opened his eyes and surrounding him was utter darkness.
No sound. No light. Not even the faintest shape in sight. It was as if he had been cast into a void where time itself did not exist. He lifted his hands, touching his face, his chest, his arms—almost desperate to confirm that he was still himself.
"Maybe I'm finally dead?'
The thought echoed hollow in his mind.
He blinked once. Twice. On the third, he rubbed his eyes with both hands, and when he lowered them, the darkness seemed thinner—still oppressive, but not absolute. And then, in the far distance, something stirred.
Itsuki's feet carried him forward, hesitant at first, then quicker as the form became clearer. It finally came into view, a throne—massive, irregular yet well structured—stood waiting. Its frame was constructed of bones. Each piece dripped with a faint, oozing shadow, as if the throne itself bled darkness into the void.
As he stared at the throne still moving closer, a scraping sound cut through the silence.
Itsuki's body tensed, his head snapping toward the noise. Behind him, a great tree stood tall, its leaves the color of fresh blood. They swayed gently as though a breeze whispered through them, but not a single leaf wilted, and there wasn't a single fruit in sight. Beneath the crimson canopy, an old man sat before a weathered stone, his back turned to Itsuki.
The scraping came again.
Itsuki circled, angling for a better view, careful not to make a sound. The old man held a short blade, no longer than a dagger, its handle far too large for its size. He dragged the edge against a stone, the sound sharp, deliberate. Blood seeped from the stone's corners, trickling steadily down into the tree's roots. The tree drank greedily, the red deepening in its leaves.
As the man sharpened, the dagger grew. Itsuki's eyes widened as the blade stretched with each pull, until it reached the length of a full katana.
Then suddenly, the scraping stopped.
Itsuki froze.
Slowly, the man raised his head. Though his expression was distant, his voice carried the weight of inevitability.
"You carry the Eye of the Harbinger," he said. Cold, detached. Almost pitying. "An immense blessing… and yet, a heavy curse."
Itsuki blinked.
The man was suddenly before him. No footsteps. No warning. Just there. His face inches away, eyes hollow—two voids that reflected nothing.
Itsuki's body screamed to move, but no muscle obeyed. He was frozen in place, lungs straining.
"You are loved," the man whispered, "yet you are damned to be lost."
A shiver tore through Itsuki's spine.
And then—
He woke up.
His body shot upright, sweat clinging to his skin. His breath came sharp and uneven. The first thing he noticed was sunlight slipping through the window, scattering across the floor beside his bed. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly before collapsing back against the mattress.
"What the hell is happening to me…?"
" It was the same dream again. For the seventh night in a row. The same man, the same shitty words'.
He had tried searching the phrase Eye of the Harbinger. All he found were anime references, web novels, half-baked theories on obscure forums. Nothing real. Nothing that explained why he was having this dream over and over.
Before he could spiral further into thought, his alarm shrieked.
Itsuki slammed it off and sat up again, shoulders heavy. "I can't keep dwelling on this. It'll eventually stop so I just gotta keep ignoring it…"
Around 8:00 AM, Itsuki was dressed and ready. He slipped downstairs, moving through the silence in the house—his mother had already left for work. He preferred it this way.
A week ago, he had seen something, something that made it unbearable to look at her without remembering. Until he understood what was happening to him, avoiding her felt like the only option.
He grabbed his packed lunch from the counter, shoved it into his bag, and walked out the house, closing and then locking the door behind him with his keys.
As he headed for the train station, the city stretched out before him.
Tokyo—the capital of Japan—pulsed with restless life. Towering skyscrapers gleamed under the morning sun, their mirrored glass catching the light in blinding flashes. Narrow streets branched out from wide avenues, each packed with rushing commuters. Salarymen with briefcases, students in uniform, cyclists weaving through traffic—all moving in steady rhythm, a tide that never slowed.
Billboards and neon signs littered the skyline, even at this hour. The sound of car horns, the rumble of trains, and the chatter of thousands blended into a ceaseless hum. To Itsuki, it was suffocating and grounding all at once.
He pushed through the crowd, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. He kept them there, shuffling occasionally as if afraid someone might brush against him.
At the station, the train arrived with a hiss, doors sliding open. Itsuki boarded, slipping into an empty seat.
As he sat down, he slipped a pair of headphones over his ears and pulled out his phone. With a few taps, a familiar track by a Frenciah musician began to play. He didn't understand the language, nor did he know anyone from Francia, yet he found himself returning to this genre often. There was something about its calm, unhurried rhythm that always put him at ease.
At that moment, he lifted his head and tilted it to his right—he froze.
Across from him sat a man in all black: hooded jacket, jeans, cap pulled low, sunglasses hiding his eyes. A suitcase rested by his side.
The clothing wasn't what unnerved Itsuki.
It was the thing clinging to him.
A weird shape, disfigured beyond comprehension, latched onto the man's body. Its form was a bloated mass of slime that was in place, stretching long, skeletal arms around the man's head, thin legs coiled tightly around his shoulders. Its stretched open into an impossible grin, stretching nearly to the one eye it had that bulged at the crown of its head.
Itsuki's breath hitched.
No one else reacted. Not a glance, not a flinch. The man himself seemed oblivious, adjusting his suitcase as though nothing pressed against him.
Itsuki's eyes stayed locked on the creature, his body trembling. The man stood as the train slowed to a stop, stepping off with the thing still riding him like a parasite.
The doors shut. The train lurched forward again.
Itsuki sat frozen, mind racing. First, visions of his mother's death. Then, a week of a dream basically on a loop. Now this—monsters that no one else seemed able to see.
By the time the train reached his stop, his legs carried him quickly toward his school.
Behind him—
A sound. A faint, echoing noise.
He tilted his head around, but the street was empty. Just a few people walking far back from him heading to their own destinations.
Again, the sound crept closer. But every time he turned, there was nothing.
Itsuki grit his teeth, heart pounding, and pushed forward ignoring it, refusing to look back.
When he finally crossed his school gates, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"What the fuck is going on with me?"
He turned back again, trying to listen for the sound or to see if anything was behind him. After convincing himself that he had lost whatever it was, he headed for the school's building, putting his headphones back on. His hands still buried deep in his pockets.
He walked down the hallway, slipping past groups of students gathered at corners, careful not to brush against anyone. By the time he reached his classroom, he dropped into his seat and let his head sink on the desk.
"Did I die and get reincarnated into some other world or something…?'
He lifted his head slightly, scanning the room as if searching for an answer, then let it fall back down with a sigh.
"And why does it feel like I'm the only one dealing with this crap…'
Lost in thought, time went by until the sound of the classroom door sliding open pulled him back. The teacher stepped in, urging the students to quiet down and take their seats. As he tugged off his headphones and raised his head, the first thing he saw was the teacher—and standing beside him, a girl.