The first sensation was pain, not physical, but existential. A void where memory should have been, then fragments assembling themselves like shattered glass reforming. I opened my eyes to unfamiliar ceiling panels, industrial and cold, bearing markings in a script I recognized: Japanese.
But this was not the Japan I remembered studying.
I lay still, my mind already processing. The bed beneath me was rough, institutional. The air carried scents of industrial smog mixed with something acrid, tear gas residue, perhaps three days old. Through thin walls, I heard muffled voices speaking Japanese with peculiar inflections, and beneath that, the distant rumble of machinery far more advanced than should exist in this era.
I sat up slowly, my body responding with unexpected vigor. The last memory before the void: Tenma's tear stained face, the crack of a gunshot, then nothing. I should be dead. Yet here I was, in a body that felt simultaneously my own and renewed, wearing clothes that weren't mine, simple gray fabric with a number printed on the sleeve: 27-B.
A number. How fitting.
I stood and moved to the single window, its glass clouded but sufficient. What I saw made me pause, not in shock, for I rarely experienced shock, but in recalibulation. The cityscape beyond was Tokyo, yet transformed into something from a fever dream. Massive structures of steel and concrete divided sections like a maze. In the distance, enormous humanoid machines, Knightmare Frames my mind supplied from some unknown source, patrolled streets where people moved with heads bowed.
And everywhere, those numbers. Districts numbered and sectioned. People wearing them like brands.
My reflection in the glass showed me unchanged: the same face that had convinced so many, destroyed so many. But my eyes held something new, not purpose exactly, but its absence transformed. In my previous life, I had sought the perfect suicide, the erasure of my own existence from all memory. I had nearly succeeded.
This unexpected continuation demanded reconsideration.
A commotion outside drew my attention. Through the window, I observed a scene playing out in the alley below: three soldiers in green uniforms, Britannian military information whispered from nowhere, surrounding a Japanese man and his daughter. The soldiers' body language spoke of casual cruelty, the kind that came from systematic dehumanization. The father's posture showed protective desperation. The daughter, perhaps eight years old, clutched her father's leg.
I watched without expression as the confrontation escalated. One soldier raised his weapon. The father pushed his daughter behind him. A shot cracked through the air.
The father fell.
The daughter screamed.
The soldiers laughed.
Something crystallized in my mind, not emotion, for I possessed none in the conventional sense, but recognition. This world was different from my own, yet fundamentally identical in the ways that mattered. Corruption, greed, the strong dominating the weak, identity used as a weapon and a chain. But here it existed on a scale I had never witnessed, systematized and absolute. An entire nation reduced to numbers. An empire built on the premise that some humans were inherently superior to others.
In my world, I had sought to prove that in the end, nothing mattered. That Johan Liebert could be erased completely, taking with him all the meaning people had tried to attach to existence. I had wanted to show that without me, the monster they feared, they would realize they were the true monsters all along.
But this world presented a different canvas entirely.
Here, the systems themselves were the monster. Not individuals, but the very structures of control, ideology, and identity that humanity clung to. Britannia's numbered system for the Japanese, their doctrine of Social Darwinism, the way they had stripped an entire people of their name and replaced it with a designation: Elevens.
A thought formed, perfect and terrible in its simplicity.
Why erase only myself when I could erase everything?
Not through destruction, but through demonstration. Not by becoming a monster, but by revealing the monstrosity inherent in the systems that claimed to bring order. In my previous world, I had manipulated individuals, turned them into murderers and suicides, created chaos in the underworld. But what if I could manipulate entire systems, entire nations, turn their own ideologies against them until they collapsed under the weight of their own contradictions?
The perfect world suicide. The erasure of ideology itself, of identity as a concept, of control as a structure. To bring about a state where humanity could no longer hide behind flags and numbers and names, where they would have to confront the void directly.
And then, perhaps, true nothingness could finally arrive.
The door to my room opened. I turned slowly, already analyzing. A young woman, perhaps twenty-five, wearing the white coat of medical staff but with the bearing of someone pretending at authority they didn't truly possess. Her name tag read "Tanaka Yuki" with the designation "Eleven Medical Staff, Clearance Level 3."
"You're awake," she said in Japanese, her voice carefully neutral but her eyes carrying that particular exhaustion I recognized from those who had long since stopped fighting. "You've been unconscious for three days. We found you in the ruins of the Shinjuku district after the recent..." she paused, searching for a word that wouldn't get her in trouble, "incident."
I remained silent, letting her fill the void. People always filled the void.
"You had no identification on you. No number designation. The Britannian authorities would normally execute unknowns, but the hospital director has some pull. You're listed as a John Doe for now, but that won't last. Once you're processed, you'll need to..." she trailed off, finally meeting my eyes.
I saw her breath catch. Good. The effect was still there, that inexplicable quality that made people simultaneously drawn to and unsettled by my presence.
"What is your name?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost gentle.
I smiled, the expression I had perfected over countless encounters, warm and disarming. "I don't remember," I lied smoothly. "The last thing I recall is darkness, and then waking up here. Everything before that is... gone."
It was the perfect cover. An amnesiac was a blank slate, someone who could be anyone, build any identity. And in a world obsessed with identity and designation, a person without a past was simultaneously dangerous and invisible.
Tanaka san moved closer, her professional demeanor reasserting itself though I could see the conflict in her micro expressions. "That's not uncommon with head trauma. The doctors will want to run tests. In the meantime, you'll need to stay here. It's not safe out there for someone without proper documentation, especially now."
"What happened?" I asked, injecting just the right amount of confusion and concern into my voice. "In Shinjuku, you said?"
Her expression darkened. "A terrorist attack. At least, that's what the Britannians are calling it. The Japan Liberation Front took some Britannian students hostage. The military response was..." she stopped, her jaw tightening. "Many civilians died. They gassed an entire section."
Terrorists. Liberation. Students. Gas. The pieces were assembling in my mind, creating a picture of a world in conflict, of systems grinding against each other. This was perfect. Chaos bred opportunity, and opportunity was the soil in which manipulation grew.
"I should let you rest," Tanaka san said, though she seemed reluctant to leave. That was interesting. Already I had created an impression, a hook in her psychology. "Is there anything you need?"
"Information," I said simply. "I wake up in a world I don't remember. Could you help me understand where I am? What's happening?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I can bring you some materials. History texts, maybe some news archives. But be careful what you read. The official histories are..." another careful pause, "selective."
After she left, I sat on the bed and began the process of integration. My mind, that perfect instrument that had never failed me, had already started absorbing information from context clues, overheard conversations, the very structure of the language being used. Within hours, I would have a working framework of this world. Within days, a complete understanding. Within weeks, I would begin to move.
But I needed more than information. I needed to see the system from inside, to understand its pressure points and contradictions. Most importantly, I needed to identify the key players, the pieces on this board that could be moved, manipulated, turned against each other and themselves.
Three days later, I had my first clear picture.
This world's Japan had been conquered seven years ago by the Holy Britannian Empire, a superpower that controlled nearly a third of the globe. The Japanese had been stripped of their national identity and redesignated as "Elevens," after the number of their conquered area. They lived in ghettos, worked in labor camps, and existed under martial law. Resistance movements existed but were fragmented, violent, and ultimately ineffective against Britannia's overwhelming military superiority, particularly their Knightmare Frames.
Britannia itself operated on a philosophy of Social Darwinism taken to its logical extreme. Strength determined worth. The weak existed to serve the strong. The Emperor and his heirs ruled absolutely, and succession was determined by merit and ruthlessness. It was a system designed to create and reward monsters.
Perfect.
But what fascinated me most were the whispers of something else. Rumors of a masked figure who had appeared during the Shinjuku incident, someone who had unified the Japanese resistance fighters and nearly defeated the Britannian military despite impossible odds. The rumors were quickly suppressed, but suppression itself was information. Someone had made the empire nervous.
I needed to find this person.
Tanaka san proved useful in ways she didn't realize. Through careful conversation, I mapped her psychology perfectly. She was tired, angry, but too afraid to act on that anger. She had lost family in the invasion, worked herself to exhaustion trying to save Elevens from Britannian cruelty, and beneath it all harbored a secret wish that someone, anyone, would make the oppressors pay.
She was my first thread.
"There's someone I heard about," I said to her during one of her visits, my voice thoughtful, almost dreamy. "During the Shinjuku incident. A leader who gave hope. Do you know anything about them?"
Her reaction was immediate and telling. Fear, excitement, and something close to religious fervor. "You shouldn't ask about that," she whispered, glancing at the door. "The Britannians are hunting for anyone connected to..."
"Zero," I finished for her, the name having appeared in fragments of hushed conversations I'd overheard.
She went pale. "How do you..."
I smiled gently. "I remember some things. Fragments. That name feels important. Like something I should understand."
It was a gamble, but a calculated one. By claiming fragmentary memories, I created a mystery around myself that would make people want to tell me things, to help me remember, to fill in the blanks with their own information and biases.
Tanaka san sat down, her voice barely audible. "Zero appeared during the Shinjuku incident. No one knows who they are, but they commanded the resistance fighters like a real military force. They outsmarted Prince Clovis's entire army. And then..." she paused, something dark crossing her expression, "Prince Clovis was found dead in his command vehicle. Murdered."
A prince. Murdered. And someone capable of military strategy sophisticated enough to overcome technological superiority. This Zero was either exceptionally talented or exceptionally lucky. Either way, they were exactly the kind of piece I needed to observe.
"Do you think they'll appear again?" I asked.
"I hope so," she admitted, and in those words I heard everything I needed. Hope. Desperation. The desire for someone to fight back. "We need someone like that. Someone who can stand up to Britannia. Someone who can give us back our pride."
Pride. Identity. Purpose. The very things I intended to annihilate. But first, I would need to build them up, let them flourish, make them believe they could win. Only then, when hope was at its peak, would the fall be absolute.
I was released from the hospital after a week with temporary documentation identifying me as "Johan Liebert, Documented Eleven Resident, District 27." They had accepted my claimed name, and without any records to contradict it, I simply existed in their system as a new entry. Tanaka san had helped process my paperwork, unknowingly giving me access to the very system that oppressed her people.
The ghetto I was assigned to was a study in systematic dehumanization. Cramped housing, limited resources, constant surveillance. Britannian soldiers patrolled with casual violence, and the Elevens moved through their lives with the defeated posture of the conquered. But beneath that defeat, I could see the embers of rage, carefully hidden but present.
I took a small apartment in the lower levels, a single room with a window overlooking a marketplace. Within days, I had established a routine. I worked at a factory during the day, assembling components for Britannian electronics. At night, I listened and learned.
The Elevens spoke freely when they thought no Britannians were listening. They talked about Zero, about resistance movements, about hope and revenge. They talked about Britannia's cruelty, about family members killed or imprisoned, about the lives they had lost. And they talked about the divisions within their own people, the Honorary Britannians who had sold out for better treatment, the collaborators, the ones who had given up entirely.
A fractured people, desperate for unity but unable to achieve it. Perfect material.
I began my work slowly, carefully. A word here, a suggestion there. I identified the natural leaders in the community, the ones others looked to, and I began to shape their perspectives. Not through force or obvious manipulation, but through gentle guidance, through being the person who seemed to understand their pain, who validated their anger, who offered perspectives that aligned with their existing biases while pushing them slightly further.
To the angry young men who wanted immediate violence, I suggested patience, strategic thinking. To the older generation who preached acceptance, I reminded them of what they had lost, what their children would never know. To the moderates who sought peaceful resistance, I pointed out Britannia's pattern of responding to peace with violence.
Each conversation was a thread, and I was weaving a tapestry.
Three weeks after my awakening in this world, I heard something that changed the tempo of my plans.
The Ashford Academy, a Britannian school, was hosting a cultural festival. And through that festival, they were offering a temporary truce, allowing Elevens to attend certain public events as a gesture of "goodwill."
I obtained an invitation through methods that required manipulating a chain of five different people, each thinking they were helping me for their own reasons. None of them realized they were part of a larger design.
The academy was my first real glimpse into Britannian society from the inside. Beautiful grounds, wealthy students, an atmosphere of casual privilege built on the backs of conquered peoples. The students moved through their festival with laughter and carelessness, playing at normal life while their empire committed atrocities.
But I wasn't there for them.
I was there because my research had indicated that this academy housed several individuals of interest. The Student Council President, Milly Ashford, granddaughter of a ruined noble family that maintained the school. Rivalz Cardemonde, friendly and simple. Shirley Fenette, an athlete with a crush. Nina Einstein, a nervous genius with Eleven prejudice. Kallen Stadtfeld, listed as half Britannian but with suspicious absences that correlated with resistance activity.
And Lelouch Lamperouge.
I saw him from across the courtyard, and something in my mind clicked into recognition. He was working a pizza delivery stand, moving with practiced ease, his dark hair and purple eyes marking him as unusual even among Britannians. But it wasn't his appearance that caught my attention.
It was the way he moved. The careful control. The mask of normalcy that I recognized because I wore the same one. The sense that beneath the surface of this ordinary student lurked something far more complex.
I approached the stand casually, joining the line. As I waited, I observed. Lelouch was skilled at customer service, charming but not overly so, efficient but friendly. He joked with his fellow council members, maintained the rhythm of the festival, played his role perfectly.
Too perfectly.
When I reached the front of the line, our eyes met, and for just a fraction of a second, I saw something flicker in his expression. Recognition, perhaps, or at least acknowledgment. A predator recognizing another predator.
"Welcome," he said smoothly, his smile professional. "What can I get for you?"
"Just one slice," I replied, my own smile equally practiced. "I'm new to the area. A friend recommended your academy's festival."
"We're glad to have visitors," Lelouch said, preparing my order. But his eyes kept returning to me, studying, analyzing. "You're Eleven?"
The designation didn't carry the usual Britannian contempt in his voice. Interesting.
"The paperwork says so," I replied ambiguously.
He handed me the slice, and our fingers brushed briefly. "Enjoy the festival. And be careful. Not everyone here is as welcoming as they pretend to be."
It was a warning, subtle but present. This boy had layers.
As I walked away, eating the mediocre pizza, I felt that familiar sensation of a plan coming together. Lelouch Lamperouge was important, though I didn't yet know why. But importance made people useful, and useful people were tools.
I spent the rest of the festival mapping the academy, noting security patterns, identifying key figures, and most importantly, observing the Student Council members. By the end of the day, I had a clear picture.
Lelouch Lamperouge was a mask wearing a mask. His friends were genuine in their affection for him, but he held them at a careful distance. He was brilliant, that much was obvious from the way he manipulated the flow of the festival, solving problems before they became visible, managing personalities with ease. And he was hiding something significant.
I decided to test him.
Lelouch Lamperouge POV:
The Eleven at the pizza stand bothered me, and I couldn't articulate why.
It wasn't unusual for Elevens to attend the festival. Milly's grandfather insisted on the academy maintaining a veneer of tolerance, and the cultural festivals were part of that image. But something about this one was different.
His eyes, first of all. Empty in a way that reminded me of mirrors, reflecting but not revealing. He had smiled, spoken politely, moved through the festival like any other visitor. But there had been a quality to his presence that set off alarm bells I'd learned to trust.
I'd survived seven years in hiding by recognizing threats.
This person was a threat.
"You okay, Lulu?" Shirley asked, noticing my distraction. "You've been staring at nothing for like five minutes."
I forced myself back to the present. "Just thinking about the chess tournament next week. I need to make sure the club room is properly set up."
It was a believable lie. Everyone knew about my chess obsession. What they didn't know was that I saw every interaction, every relationship, every political move as pieces on a board. And I had just spotted a piece I couldn't identify.
After the festival ended and I'd finished my Student Council duties, I made a decision that was probably stupid but necessary. I used my network, the one I'd been carefully building through my Zero persona, to investigate.
Johan Liebert. Appeared three weeks ago in the hospital with no prior records. Claimed amnesia. Currently working in District 27's industrial sector. No political affiliations, no resistance connections, no criminal record. A perfect blank slate.
Too perfect.
People didn't just appear from nowhere. And people with eyes like that didn't work factory jobs and attend school festivals without reason.
I filed the information away. I had more pressing concerns. Britannia's grip on Japan was tightening, and the resistance movements were fractured and ineffective. As Zero, I had one successful operation under my belt, but that meant the military would be more cautious, more prepared.
I needed to expand my reach, unify the resistance cells, build something that could actually challenge Britannia's power. And I needed to do it while maintaining my cover as Lelouch Lamperouge, ordinary student.
Still, as I lay in bed that night, I couldn't shake the image of those empty eyes.
Something was coming. I could feel it.
I just didn't know what.