Chapter 1 – Unfamiliar Place
The rain hadn't stopped for hours.
It fell in thin needles, soaking through Haruto Akechi's hoodie as he wandered the narrow backstreets of Shinjuku, aimless and numb. Neon signs flickered like dying fireflies above puddles of cigarette ash and oil. The distant rumble of traffic echoed behind him, but he wasn't listening.
He barely felt the cold anymore.
Only the weight of his father's voice ringing in his head.
"You're twenty-six, Haruto. You've done nothing. You're wasting your life."
And his mother, her voice shaking from behind the door.
"Please… just come back inside."
But he hadn't.
He ran. Slammed the door, didn't look back. He didn't know where he was going—only that he couldn't stay.
Now he stood at a street corner, soaked and silent, his heart heavy with something worse than regret.
"I should've disappeared years ago…"
He stepped into the road without thinking.
The light was red.
Headlights flared.
A horn screamed.
Then came the truck.
No pain. No sound. No motion.
Only darkness.
Thick. Soundless. Endless.
He floated inside it like breath held too long. A weightless, colorless void.
Is this death?
He thought it would be louder. He thought it would feel like something.
Instead, there was only silence and a slow ache of unfinished things—regret, shame, wasted time.
I had so many chances.
And I ruined all of them.
His thoughts stretched and unraveled like thread, vanishing into the dark.
Then, suddenly—voices.
Harsh. Muffled. Foreign.
He didn't understand at first. Then the language seemed to twist in his ears, forming meaning.
"Tch. Nobles are soft. Can't believe how easy that was."
"Little shit didn't even fight. Must've wet himself before we caught him."
"Bet his piss smells like wine. Spoiled bastard."
A creak. A low hum beneath his back. Motion.
Haruto blinked.
He was tied upright to a steel pillar in a dim, swaying chamber of wood and iron. Lanterns swayed above, their flames flickering inside rusted cages. Crates and barrels surrounded him. The clatter of wheels and the slow pull of steam told him what he didn't want to believe—
He was on a moving train.
And he wasn't alone.
Two armed men leaned casually against nearby crates. Their clothes were ragged military uniforms—rough wool, stained leather, belts full of bullets and knives. One chewed something with his mouth open. The other cleaned his sword with a strip of cloth.
"We send a finger first," one muttered. "That'll get the noble house moving."
Noble…?
Haruto's mind spun.
They think I'm someone important.
But I'm not. I'm just… Haruto.
He turned his head, straining to see through the small, cracked window beside him.
Outside, a black, glassy lake stretched endlessly beneath jagged mountain peaks. No lights. No boats. Just fog and cold silence.
The train track ran directly over the water, held up by massive steel pylons.
There were no cities. No roads. No people.
Where the hell am I?
Suddenly, the train jolted. A sharp metal vibration ran through the floor.
The guards looked up.
"That wasn't wind," one said.
The other grabbed his rifle and climbed the ladder on the side wall. A hatch clanged open, and he disappeared onto the roof.
Silence.
Then—
THUD.
A scream.
Gunfire.
Haruto twisted in panic as a body slammed against the window—a mercenary, headless, his hand twitching against the glass before sliding away into the lake below.
What the hell?!
Gunshots cracked above. Another scream—then nothing.
Blood began to drip down the walls outside.
Haruto stared in horror.
Figures moved on the roof—two of them. Black suits. Wide-brimmed hats. Standing still while men around them were torn apart.
Arms flew. A torso fell, bouncing once before vanishing into the black below.
The men in suits never flinched.
They didn't speak.
They didn't dodge.
They just killed.
Inside the train, the last two mercs shouted, backing toward the far door.
One turned to Haruto, sword raised.
"Say something, noble! Crest? Sigil?! WHO ARE YOU?!"
Haruto could barely breathe.
Another body burst through the wall—half a torso, limp and wet.
That was enough.
He jerked, twisting his wrists. The ropes were loose—frayed. In the chaos, no one noticed him break free.
He lunged toward the side hatch and threw himself out of the cargo car, rolling onto the narrow platform between cars.
The wind hit him like a wall of knives.
He turned the latch and stumbled into the next car.
Rows of velvet seats. Empty. Dusty. Lanterns flickering low.
Then—another door opened.
Not one of the black-suited killers.
A different man.
Old.
His gray hair was tied back, coat long and black, lined with silver thread. A katana hung loosely in his grip.
His expression was calm. Almost bored.
One of the last mercenaries aimed a revolver at him and fired.
The shot missed.
Or maybe… it never had a chance.
The old man took a step.
And the mercenary fell in two halves, his body splitting cleanly down the middle.
The last merc grabbed Haruto, screaming.
"STAY BACK! I'LL KILL HIM!"
The old man took another step.
And the man's head simply wasn't there anymore.
Blood sprayed across the seats.
Haruto slipped, hit the floor, and cracked his head against cold steel.
And then—
Darkness.
When he awoke…
There was warmth. A pillow. Clean sheets.
The scent of lavender and baked bread.
He blinked against the golden light of a candlelit room. Wood-paneled walls. Fine furniture. A tray of food on the side table.
A maid stood nearby, dressed in black and white, silver eyes watching him.
And sitting in a chair beside the bed—
The old man with the sword.
He gave a slight bow of the head and said, calm as ever:
"So, Master…
You wake up."
Haruto stared.
His voice cracked.
"Master… what?"