Darkness.
That was the first thing Kyosuke Ohtani noticed.
Not the peaceful darkness of a room at midnight, nor the comforting darkness that descended upon him after a long day of work.
No.
This was different.
It was an absolute darkness, devoid of sensation, sound, or even the faintest awareness of his own body.
Am I dead?
The question appeared in his mind, followed by a long silence.
Then, slowly, memories began to return.
The garage.
The car.
The ringing phone.
The sudden, sickening crash.
Oh.
Oh, that's bad.
He tried to move his arms, only to discover that he could not feel them. He attempted to open his eyes, but there was nothing to open them to.
So this is it?
He had expected death to be a little more dramatic.
Perhaps a flash of light. Perhaps a mysterious being waiting to judge his life's accomplishments. Perhaps even a glimpse of his ancestors welcoming him to the afterlife.
Instead, there was nothing.
Figures.
His last thought before dying had probably been something embarrassingly mundane. He couldn't even remember whether he'd managed to grab his phone.
His mother would be devastated.
Ryosuke would probably be devastated, too.
Although, knowing his elder brother, he would first ask why Kyosuke had been working beneath an improperly secured vehicle.
Damn it, Ryosuke. You can lecture me after I'm dead.
A strange sensation interrupted his thoughts.
Something was pressing against him.
No, not something.
Someone.
He could hear a heartbeat.
A deep, steady rhythm surrounded him, accompanied by muffled voices he couldn't understand.
Then came a sensation unlike anything he had experienced before.
Movement.
He was being pushed.
Squeezed.
Dragged through an impossibly narrow passage.
Wait.
WAIT.
WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?
Light exploded around him.
Cold air struck his skin.
And before Kyosuke could formulate another coherent thought, he heard a woman crying out in exhaustion.
A second later, a sharp, unfamiliar sound escaped his own throat.
WAAAAAH!
...What?
WAAAAAH!
WHY AM I CRYING?
He tried to stop, but the noise continued without his permission.
Someone lifted him.
Someone wrapped him in a warm cloth.
And then a man's voice, thick with emotion, reached his ears.
"Marcellus."
The man sounded as though he had been crying.
"My little Marcellus Victor McArdour."
Who?
The man held him close.
"Welcome to the world, son."
Kyosuke stared at the blurry shape above him.
He couldn't properly see the man's face. Everything was a confusing mixture of light and shadow, and his eyes refused to focus.
But he could feel the man's arms around him.
Warm.
Steady.
Protective.
For reasons he couldn't understand, that warmth made him want to cry even harder.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am a grown man. I am not going to cry because some stranger is holding me.
WAAAAAH!
Traitors. My own tear ducts have betrayed me.
The man laughed softly.
"There, there. It's all right. You're safe now."
Safe.
The word lingered somewhere in Kyosuke's mind.
He wanted to ask where he was. Who these people were. Why he couldn't move properly. Why his entire body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Most importantly, he wanted to know why he sounded like a malfunctioning kettle.
Unfortunately, all he managed was another loud wail.
The man smiled.
"Strong lungs. That's my boy."
I am going to have a very serious conversation with the management of this afterlife.
Unfortunately, management appeared to be unavailable.
And then the exhaustion caught up with him.
His thoughts became sluggish. His surroundings faded.
The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him was the man's voice.
"Rest now, Marcellus. Your father is here."
When Kyosuke awoke again, he was hungry.
Not ordinarily hungry.
Not the sort of hunger that could be satisfied by a bowl of instant noodles or the remains of last night's dinner.
This was a primal, all-consuming hunger that had somehow become the single most important problem in the universe.
He tried to move.
Nothing useful happened.
He tried to sit up.
His body refused to cooperate.
He tried to speak.
A pathetic noise emerged.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
I've been reincarnated into the body of a potato.
He was beginning to suspect that his situation was considerably worse than death.
Then a woman's face appeared above him.
She had long, pale-blonde hair, tired eyes, and a beauty that even his infant vision could appreciate in a vague, unfocused sort of way.
"There you are, my little prince."
She smiled at him.
"Are you hungry?"
YES.
YES, I AM HUNGRY.
I HAVE BEEN HUNGRY FOR THE LAST THREE HOURS, AND I WOULD LIKE TO FILE A FORMAL COMPLAINT.
The woman chuckled.
"Oh, listen to you."
She lifted him into her arms.
The moment he felt her warmth, something inside him settled.
It was strange.
He knew, with the absolute certainty of memory, that he had never met this woman before.
He remembered another life.
Another home.
Another mother.
And yet, when this woman held him close, he felt a comfort he couldn't quite explain.
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
"Hello, Marcellus. I'm your mother."
Kyosuke went still.
Mother?
The word struck him harder than he expected.
His memories of Himari came flooding back: her scolding him for staying up late, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, the familiar smell of breakfast drifting through the house.
He remembered her voice.
He remembered the garage.
He remembered dying.
For the first time since waking, the reality of his situation began to settle upon him.
He wasn't dreaming.
He wasn't in a hospital.
He wasn't waiting for someone to revive him.
He was a baby.
A newborn baby, apparently named Marcellus Victor McArdour, in the arms of a woman who claimed to be his mother.
And his previous life had ended.
...I died.
The thought was simple.
The consequences were not.
He had died before building his flying car.
He had died before proving himself to Ryosuke.
He had died before doing anything that would have made his life feel complete.
And now?
Now he couldn't even hold his own head up.
A strange ache spread through him.
He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.
He wanted to demand an explanation.
He wanted his old life back.
Instead, his stomach growled.
His new mother laughed.
"Someone certainly has an appetite."
I swear, this body is conspiring against me.
And so, for the second time in his existence, Kyosuke found himself accepting a situation he had absolutely no control over.
At least this time, someone was feeding him.
The days that followed were an education in humiliation.
Kyosuke had once considered himself a reasonably intelligent young man.
He could understand mechanical systems, reason through problems, and envision machines that did not yet exist.
He had dreamed of revolutionizing transportation.
He had imagined himself standing beside a prototype flying car while reporters asked him questions about his groundbreaking invention.
He had pictured Ryosuke watching the news, realizing that his little brother had finally surpassed him.
Instead, Kyosuke's greatest achievements now consisted of sleeping, eating, and occasionally managing to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes.
His body had no respect for his intellect.
His hands curled into fists without his permission.
His legs kicked at random.
And his inability to communicate was nothing short of a personal tragedy.
On the fourth day, he attempted to convey his displeasure at being awakened from a perfectly good nap.
The result was an unfortunate incident involving a blanket, a startled servant, and a considerable amount of shouting.
On the sixth day, he attempted to focus on a conversation between his parents.
He discovered that he could understand the language perfectly well, but his infant brain struggled to maintain attention.
By the eighth day, he had learned something important.
Being intelligent did not mean being capable.
And being capable meant very little when one lacked the physical means to act.
It was a humbling experience.
He did not particularly enjoy it.
His new home was enormous.
That was the first conclusion he reached after his vision improved enough to appreciate his surroundings.
His nursery alone was larger than the garage in which he had died.
The walls were decorated with elaborate patterns. Tall windows overlooked sprawling gardens, while furniture of polished dark wood stood beside a magnificent fireplace.
There were portraits, too.
Kyosuke had initially assumed they were ordinary paintings.
Then one of the painted men yawned.
He froze.
The man in the portrait stretched his arms, looked directly at the infant, and waved.
Kyosuke stared.
The man stared back.
Slowly, very slowly, Kyosuke turned his head towards the nearest servant.
The servant was busy arranging a stack of freshly laundered clothes and appeared not to have noticed anything unusual.
Kyosuke looked back at the portrait.
The man winked.
...Right.
He closed his eyes.
I am either suffering from some very peculiar hallucinations, or I have been reincarnated into a world where paintings can move.
He considered the possibilities.
Then he remembered the strange woman who had sold him the car.
The prophecy.
The three days.
The way his death had occurred so close to the promised deadline.
A cold sensation ran through him.
No.
No, no, no.
Don't tell me that woman was actually a fortune-teller.
He had spent years dismissing prophecies as nonsense.
Now he was apparently living inside one.
It was, he decided, an excellent reason to stop making assumptions about the universe.
He would have to reconsider his position on supernatural phenomena.
Eventually.
For now, he had more immediate concerns.
Such as the portrait on the opposite wall, which had just started arguing with another portrait about the quality of the breakfast served downstairs.
This place is insane.
His father visited him frequently.
Clement McArdour was a tall man with dark hair and an expression that could shift from stern to affectionate in the space of a moment.
Kyosuke had noticed that his father often appeared tired.
Sometimes, he would sit beside the cradle and simply watch him sleep.
On other occasions, he would speak about matters Kyosuke couldn't entirely understand.
"The northern estate has finally sent word," Clement said one afternoon, standing beside the window. "They've agreed to take in several more families."
A woman standing nearby nodded.
"And the Ministry?"
"They continue to promise an investigation."
Clement's expression hardened.
"Promises. Investigations. Committees. All the usual nonsense."
The woman hesitated.
"Sir, you should rest. You haven't slept properly since—"
She stopped.
Kyosuke noticed the change immediately.
Clement looked towards the cradle.
For a moment, his face seemed to grow older.
"Since my father died," he finished quietly.
The room fell silent.
Kyosuke watched him.
He remembered the name Victor.
He remembered his father's trembling voice when he had first held him.
And slowly, fragments of information began to fit together.
Something terrible had happened around the time of his birth.
His grandfather was dead.
His father was grieving.
And the world outside this enormous house appeared to be considerably more dangerous than he had initially imagined.
Clement approached the cradle and lifted him gently.
"At least I still have you, little one."
"Do you know why i named u marcellus??"
Kyosuke looked up at him.
"Obviously u don't, you are a baby."
There was grief in Clement's eyes, but also something else.
Hope.
"My son u were in the middle of a battle, in the chaos of war You are like the son of Mars god of War himself. that is why you are Marcellus Victor McArdor. "
It was an unfamiliar feeling to be the object of someone else's hope.
In his previous life, he had always been chasing something.
A better invention.
A greater achievement.
A chance to prove himself.
He had rarely stopped to consider what it meant to be important to someone simply because he existed.
Clement pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"You'll grow up strong, Marcellus. Strong enough to make your own choices. Strong enough to not die at the hand of heathens stong enough to give hell to your enemies."
strength, huh?
Kyosuke considered that.
It was a pleasant thought.
He had spent his previous life wanting to build something extraordinary.
Perhaps he would get another chance.
Perhaps he would discover something even greater than flying cars.
After all, if the moving portraits were any indication, the laws of physics were about to become considerably more complicated.
He felt a faint smile tug at his lips.
All right.
Let's see what this world has to offer.
And then, because he was a newborn and the universe apparently enjoyed humiliating him, he promptly fell asleep in his father's arms.
That night, long after the servants had retired and the manor had settled into silence, Clement stood beside his wife's bed.
Luxia was still recovering from the difficult birth, but the colour had begun to return to her face.
She watched her husband approach.
"How is Marcellus?"
"Asleep," Clement replied. "As usual."
Luxia smiled faintly.
"He is a baby, Clement."
"I know."
"You say that as though you expected him to begin discussing estate management with you."
Clement chuckled.
"Perhaps I did. It would be great to talk to him. I could tell him stories of his namesake."
For a moment, they allowed themselves to enjoy the quiet.
Then Luxia's expression became more serious.
"Have you decided what you're going to do?"
Clement looked towards the window.
Beyond it, the grounds of the McArdour estate stretched beneath the moonlight. Repairs had begun, but the scars of the attack remained visible.
"I've sent word to our allies. Castor is coordinating the arrangements for the families who need shelter. And Albus has promised to keep us informed of any developments."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Clement turned towards her.
Luxia held his gaze.
"Our children, Clement. Their future."
He was silent for a long time.
Then he reached for her hand.
"I don't know what the future holds, Lux. But I know what my father would have wanted."
"And what would that be?"
"That we remain who we are."
He looked down at their sleeping son, cradled in his arms.
"Whatever happens, I won't teach Marcellus to hate people because of their birth. I won't teach him that power makes a man superior to his neighbours. And I won't let the fear of what might happen turn us into the very people we oppose."
Luxia squeezed his hand.
"Then let us hope he grows up to understand why."
Clement smiled.
"He will."
Neither of them noticed that their newborn son had briefly opened his eyes.
Nor could they have known that, behind those unfocused eyes, another life had begun to stir.
A life that had ended in a garage thousands of miles away.
A life that remembered a world without magic.
A life that had once dreamed of conquering the skies.
Marcellus Victor McArdour was only a few days old.
He had no idea what awaited him.
But for the first time in his existence, Kyosuke Ohtani had been given something he had never truly appreciated before.
Time.
And this time, he intended to make the most of it.