Chapter 1 – Awakening in a New World
The rain fell like a whisper upon the city. It wasn't the kind that roared or lashed—it fell quietly, with the faint melancholy of a song no one remembered the words to. Ren stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, collar raised against the cold drizzle, watching the fractured glow of neon lights shimmer in puddles at his feet.
He had always liked the rain. It made everything seem softer, as though the world's harsh edges were briefly washed away. Yet tonight, even the rain could not blur the unease that pulsed behind his ribs.
The street was nearly empty. Far above, a train rumbled across its track, its sound fading into the dark skyline. The city was alive, but it felt distant—as though Ren was already drifting away from it.
He looked down at his hand. Blood. It spread across his palm in thin, crimson streaks, mixed with rainwater. The cut wasn't deep, but the pain felt muted, almost abstract. His body was trembling—not from the cold, but from something deeper.
He couldn't remember why he was bleeding. He remembered only fragments: running through an alley, the sharp echo of voices behind him, the flash of a knife, and then… silence.
Was I trying to help someone? Or was I the one being chased?
The thought came, and with it, a strange emptiness. Memory—once so certain—had begun to dissolve, as though his mind were a chalkboard being slowly wiped clean.
Ren stumbled forward, leaning against a brick wall slick with rain. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. The light above him flickered again, and in that stuttering glow, the world seemed to shift.
The air grew heavier. The sound of the rain dulled, replaced by a faint hum—low and steady, like the vibration of something vast and unseen.
He pressed his hand to his temple, a wave of vertigo sweeping through him.
"What… what's happening to me?" His voice cracked against the quiet.
The hum deepened. For a moment, the street seemed to bend around him. Neon lights twisted into ribbons of color. The puddles at his feet rippled outward in perfect circles.
Ren blinked. His vision blurred, then sharpened into clarity—only it wasn't the same world.
The city was gone.
In its place stretched an expanse of white. Not snow, not mist—something between the two. The air was weightless, timeless. Ren could see no horizon, only a faint shimmer that hinted at distance.
He looked down. His body was still there—or something like it—but faintly translucent, as if his outline were drawn in light and memory.
"Am I dead?" The words escaped him in a whisper. They didn't echo. They didn't fade. They simply existed, suspended in that strange, boundless quiet.
A voice answered.
"In a manner of speaking."
Ren turned sharply. From the void ahead, a figure emerged—a silhouette of shifting light, neither man nor woman, its form in constant motion, like a reflection rippling across water.
"Who are you?" Ren asked.
"A keeper," the figure said simply. "And you are a traveler."
"I don't understand. Where am I?"
"Between," the voice replied. "You stand at the threshold—neither alive nor gone, but passing. You have walked this path before, many times."
Ren frowned. "Before? You mean I've… died before?"
The figure tilted its head. "Reincarnated. Lived. Forgotten. Remembered. It is all the same motion, repeated endlessly. You are but one among countless echoes of yourself."
A chill ran down his spine—not from fear, but from recognition. Something deep inside him stirred, like a door creaking open. For an instant, he saw flashes—faces, places, moments that did not belong to this life. A desert sun. A child's laughter beneath cherry blossoms. A sword gleaming beneath twin moons. Then darkness again.
"I've lived other lives," Ren murmured. "But I don't remember any of them."
"Memory is a mercy," the figure said. "To carry every life at once would shatter the soul. Yet the essence remains. The choices you make, the will you bear—they shape the next world you awaken in."
Ren's breath trembled. "Then what happens now?"
The figure raised an arm. Between its fingers, light gathered—swirling into the shape of a small, leather-bound book. The cover was embossed with symbols Ren couldn't read, ancient and alive.
"This is your anchor," the figure said. "The Logbook. Each time you awaken, it will find you. It will record what the soul remembers, even when the mind forgets."
Ren reached out instinctively. The book felt warm, pulsing faintly in his hands.
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Write," the figure said. "Observe. Endure. Remember. Each word you inscribe draws you closer to the truth that binds all lives."
The light around them began to shift—growing brighter, warmer. The figure's form began to blur.
"Wait!" Ren stepped forward. "What truth? Why me?"
But the words dissolved before they reached the figure. The whiteness surged around him, blinding and absolute.
Ren gasped.
The scent of wood and linen filled his lungs. He opened his eyes to find a ceiling above him—not the endless white of the void, but pale timber beams. Soft morning light spilled across the room through a half-open window, carrying with it the gentle hum of cicadas.
He blinked, disoriented. His hands clenched at the sheets beneath him. They were coarse, unfamiliar.
"I'm… alive?" His voice trembled, as if testing the edges of reality.
He sat up slowly. The room was simple—a small bed, a wooden chest, and a nightstand where a candle had long burned down to a stub. A faint breeze drifted in, stirring the thin curtains. Outside, he caught glimpses of green hills and the glimmer of a distant river.
Ren swung his legs off the bed. The wooden floor was cool against his bare feet. As he stood, a dizzy wave washed over him, and for a moment, the world tilted. He steadied himself against the wall, breathing deeply.
It was then he noticed the object on the nightstand—the same leather-bound logbook.
He froze.
It looked exactly as it had in the void. The embossed markings glimmered faintly in the morning light. A faint sense of déjà vu prickled at the back of his neck.
Ren reached for it, fingers tracing the rough grain of its cover. He hesitated, then opened it.
The first page was blank—except for one line written in elegant, deliberate script:
"To the one who remembers through forgetting: This is where you begin again."
He turned the page.
The next was filled with words—his handwriting, though he couldn't recall writing them.
My name is Ren. I don't know how many times I've lived, or how many worlds I've crossed. Each one begins with a death I cannot remember, and ends with a truth I cannot hold. This Logbook is my only constant. If I am reading this, it means I have been reborn again.
Ren's pulse quickened. The handwriting was precise, familiar, yet detached, as though written by another version of himself.
Remember this: Every world teaches something. Every loss has a pattern. When you start to see it, the cycle will begin to crack. Until then, write. Record everything. For memory is the thread that leads home.
Ren exhaled shakily, closing the Logbook.
A thousand questions crowded his mind, but one truth anchored him: this was not his first life.
He stepped toward the window, pushing the shutters open. The light poured in, washing the room in gold. Below, a small village spread across the hillside—stone houses, narrow paths, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. In the distance, mountains rose like sleeping titans, their peaks veiled in mist.
The air smelled of dew and earth. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. The simplicity of it all felt unreal—too peaceful, too vivid.
Ren touched his chest. His heart beat steadily. He could feel the pulse of blood beneath his skin. This world is real.
And yet, deep inside, something whispered: It won't be forever.
The door creaked open.
Ren turned sharply. A young woman stood in the doorway—a villager, perhaps, her hands dusted with flour and her eyes wide with surprise.
"Oh! You're awake!" she said, her tone warm but cautious. "We found you by the river three days ago. You were barely breathing."
Ren blinked. "The river?"
She nodded. "Old Thom spotted you floating downstream. Thought you were dead until you coughed up half the water in it." She smiled faintly. "We brought you here. The healer said you'd wake soon."
Ren swallowed. "Thank you. I… don't remember how I got there."
"That's all right," she said kindly. "The river's been strange lately. Maybe the gods decided to send someone our way."
Her gaze drifted to the Logbook in his hands. "That was with you. We didn't open it."
Ren glanced down at it, then back up. "I appreciate that."
She nodded and stepped back. "Come downstairs when you're ready. There's stew on the fire."
Ren watched her leave, the door closing softly behind her. He stood there for a long time, staring at the Logbook.
Then, slowly, he sat down by the window and opened it to a new page. The pen beside it—an old quill and inkwell—seemed to wait for him.
He dipped the quill into the ink, hesitating only briefly before writing his first new words.
Day 1, of a life I cannot name.I woke beside a river that was not my own. The sky here feels younger, as though it hasn't yet learned the weight of sorrow. I am Ren—at least, that's what the Logbook says I am. I don't know how many times I've written those words, but I will keep writing them until I find what they mean.
The ink shimmered faintly as it dried, sinking into the page as though the book itself was absorbing it.
Ren stared at the words, then looked out the window again. A flock of birds took flight, scattering into the blue.
"Another beginning," he whispered.
He didn't know what awaited him—whether this world held peace or peril—but something in his chest stirred: a quiet determination, fragile yet unyielding.
He reached for the Logbook again, turning it over in his hands.
"I may not know how I came to be here," he murmured, echoing words from another lifetime, "but I will understand. One world at a time."
Outside, the morning light stretched over the hills, spilling into the valley like liquid gold. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and the faint murmur of distant laughter.
And as Ren closed the Logbook, a faint symbol appeared on its cover—a circle within a spiral, glowing for only an instant before fading away.
He didn't notice it. But somewhere, beyond the veil of that new world, the Keeper watched and smiled.