Lumier was standing in front of Lugira's room. As soon as Emil stepped out of the room Lumier bounced.
"Boom!!" Lumier screamed.
Emil was caught off-guard, again. This time the horrors really painted in Emil's face. Enemy bullets rushing towards his way, flashed before Emil's eyes. It is as though he was dreaming. His eyes went blank. His whole world spun around him. Screaming of his fallen comrades, sharp sounds of bullets, the smell of gunpowder in the air. It all went back on his head.
His knees locked. His arms are rigid. Not even a blink. He didn't flinch—because he had already braced for death.
Lumier was laughing seeing how shocked and frozen his brother was. Emil just stood there. And then, Lumier noticed. "H-hey, Lugi?" She faltered. "Are you alright?" She reached her arm out for Lugira's shoulders.
Emil snapped. "Huh? What was that?" He said, looking at Lumier like nothing happened. He blinked. Once. Then another. Lumier just stared at him. Feeling Emil's eerie atmosphere made Lumier more concerned and suspicious of her brother. Lugira never acted like this. He was timid, but never shaken like this.
"What's going on with you?" Lumier said, her voice became softer, concerned. "You've been different since you woke up." She paused. She started looking around, making sure no one was looking. "Tell me, it's the dream, isn't it?"
She looked at Emil, with her weary eyes. "Yeah, I think. I guess it's about that." Emil answered, he doesn't know if it's the truth, but his truth blended in. Emil ran his hands across his face. His fingers brushed his temple as the last bits of the horrific memory faded away. His heart still beats as fast as the bullets came rushing through him. He shook his head. The hallway fell quiet. Peaceful.
But the sense of war kept bugging him. This has never happened to him back on Earth. The illusion of safety seemed bleak.
Lumier, standing in front of him, her brows still furrowed from worry, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Emil muttered under his low voice, offering a soft smile. His eyes fell different.
The silence between them lingered.
"Alright then, come with me already. We don't want the library to be packed when we get there!" Lumier gave his brother a soft nod.
Emil smiled at her. I should relax for now. Explore this world of new mysteries.
He turned his back to the door as he pulled it close. The smoke from the gas lamp still lingered across the room and the book beneath the drawer held wonders, giving him questions rather than answers.
The echo of the battle fields still hits Emil's mind. The weight of the gun in his hands, the orders barked over the radio, all of it still rings. Whether this was a curse or a gift, he can't do anything now. He had been given another life. Another war, perhaps —but not filled with guns and bullets.
He glanced at Lumier, now tiptoeing across the hallway as if nothing had happened. Emil watched her for a second. Her innocence simply doesn't belong to the terrifying past he once lived.
This family—this place—it wasn't his. But the body was, now. The name was his to carry. And if he wanted to find the reason behind all this… he needed to move. Adapt. Observe.
He followed after her, footsteps light on the creaking floorboards, the sharp scent of morning air leaking through the house's aging walls. Outside, the village was waking.
As Emil and Lumier stepped outside, the warm breeze of the morning greeted them. The bright golden shimmer of the sun touched Emil's skin. It feels better than Sol. The scent of the morning dew from the grass, a distant wood smoke, and metallic scent from afar pierced Emil's nostrils.
His military senses kicked in slowly as he enjoyed the smell of the wind. Observe and explore. The village was built simple. There is no chaos, and no empty and wasted space. Most of the homes are built in rustic styles, constructed from heavy timbers, and brick concrete with thatched or shingled roofs that bore the weight of time and weather. Yet there are some large houses built with angular arches, ornamental pillars that reminded him of the Victorian Era in mid 19-century England. Sloped windows, thick chimneys —repurposed in a culture that clearly evolved in isolation.
The roads were worn by time, but well-kept. The dirt hardened by countless footsteps, and wagon trails.
He caught a glimpse of the horizon, and it made him pause.
Beyond the scattered houses and clustered shops, far past the dirt lanes and the chiming of early morning bells, the fields opened wide like a sea of gold. Crops swayed lazily in the morning breeze. Tall trees lined the far edge of the plains—massive, gnarled, and impossibly thick. Their silhouettes stretched across the sky like living walls.
Even more peculiar, Emil noted the towering wooden fence that bordered the plains and housing clusters—a palisade of thick, dark wood reinforced by stone inlays and metal joints. Defensive. Worn. Repaired many times over. Not ornamental. No damage from the inside is visible. It looked like it was built to keep something out.
He burned every scenery he saw in his mind. Every house, every corner, water sources, every detail engrained on his mind. Looking from across the borders there were tall infrastructures one end and another. There were about 3 people on top of it.
A watchpost, clearly. There's something that must be kept outside. Emil thought to himself, while squinting his eyes to see much better from afar.
He walked beside Lumier as she hummed some innocent tune to herself, twirling a single braid with her finger.
She looked so at ease in this world.
Emil? He walked like a ghost in foreign skin. Every detail mattered. Every unknown could be dangerous.
They turned past a flower stall manned by a sleepy old woman. A boy rushed past with bread tucked in a bag, and two street dogs chased a squirrel into a bush.
It was beautiful. Suspiciously so.
Emil squinted up at the sun again.
"Lugi, come on!" Lumier called out from a few steps ahead, her voice light as wind chimes. "Don't start daydreaming already. The library's just past Old Square."
He gave her a small nod and resumed walking. But his eyes never stopped moving.
The two of them made their way steadily, they arrived at the Old Square. The square was alive, the golden hue from the sun as it rose fully. Footsteps, people chattering here and there, it was a delight seeing the people surround them.
Dozens of merchant stalls were scattered along with the clanking of coins and steels. Each merchant has their bizarre products or intriguing services to offer. One sold long glass vials filled with swirling pastel liquids, each labeled in sharp, spidery calligraphy. Another peddled curved daggers and blunt clubs, glinting faintly under cloth canopies like predator teeth waiting for flesh. Some have the strangest foods, a huge chunk of meat that looked like it was covered in candied sugar, glistening and colorful beans that were supposed to be sweet treats. But there are also foods that Emil is familiar with, bread, grilled meat, and tea.
Street performers dotted the edges. Fire-eaters. Jugglers. Illusionists. And among them, a troupe of clowns—faces painted with exaggerated grins and tears, juggling bones and colored feathers, handing out roses to giggling children.
As Emil and Lumier walked through, one of the clowns broke from the group.
He was taller than the others, and his makeup was not just white and red, but flecked with gold dust. He approached Emil without hesitation, his steps light, as if gravity itself was something he mocked.
"You," the clown said in a soft, sing-song whisper, bending at the waist with an eerie elegance. "You don't quite belong to this page, do you?"
Emil's heart slowed for a beat. The soldier in him read the man's movement, tone, posture—no overt aggression, but there was an undercurrent. A knowing. His hand almost twitched toward his side, where his holster would've been—where now, there was nothing.
"What did you say?" Emil asked carefully, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
The clown smiled wider, head tilting. "A soul like yours… doesn't fit this world's rhyme. Too loud. Too old. Too…" he snapped his fingers, "—sharp." Then he leaned in closer. "The trick is… don't try to understand the joke. Just play along."
Lumier tugged at Emil's sleeve, "Don't mind him, they always talk weird before the circus starts."
Emil looked back at the clown, who was now bowing to a group of children and producing a dove from inside a spinning ring of flame. He felt something twist inside his gut—like he had just seen someone peek through the cracks in the curtain. But he shook his head.
Clown rubbish. He told himself. Just part of the act.