The first thing he felt was a sharp, unsettling cold.
It wasn't the sterile chill of a hospital or the brisk air atop a skyscraper; it was something much deeper. This cold was almost alive, emanating from the very stones beneath him and the heavy silence that pressed in around him. It was a cold steeped in forgotten history, a reminder of things buried long ago, so far back in time that any sense of regret had faded away. It wrapped around him like an old friend—familiar, yet unwelcome—as if a long-time adversary had returned to collect a debt.
With a sense of resolve, Ren slowly opened his eyes.
Above him was a ceiling of cracked marble, stained and worn by the passage of time. Each crack seemed to whisper tales of countless seasons gone by. Soft beams of light fought their way through the shattered windows, creating jagged shadows that flickered across the debris-littered floor, turning the remnants of the room into a bizarre dance. He found himself lying on a slab that felt eerily like a tombstone, surrounded by a thick layer of dust and shrouded in an overwhelming silence, a forgotten grave marker in a once-holy cathedral, now deserted by both gods and prayers.
Struggling against the stiffness of a long sleep, he pushed himself up, feeling his muscles protest against the movement.
As he sat up, he looked down and noticed the unfamiliar clothes he wore—made from a dark material that hugged his body tightly, seemingly designed for a purpose that felt just out of reach. The sturdy seams hinted at battles fought and victories won, while the lightweight armor molded perfectly to his chest and forearms. A short cape trailed behind him, flowing across the floor like spilled ink, leaving a dark mark in its path. Nearby, a sword rested, its scabbard as black as obsidian, reflecting faint images from the dim light that illuminated the desolation.
Without thinking, he reached for the hilt, his fingers wrapping around it not out of mere curiosity but driven by a deep sense of purpose that stirred inside him.
Ren looked around, taking in the gothic nightmare of the room. The architecture was a chaotic mix of half-collapsed pillars and twisted spires that seemed to reach out to the sky. Statues lined the walls, their heads missing—were they forgotten saints watching over the damned, or cold executioners caught in an endless cycle of judgement? He couldn't say for sure, but he could feel an unsettling horror woven into the fabric of the place. A stark sense of violence and mercilessness hung in the air like a heavy fog.
The atmosphere felt oppressive, thick with the sour scent of ancient blood and the sharp hint of faded magic, clinging to him in a way that felt almost claustrophobic. The smell wrapped around his throat, a bitter reminder filled with despair and the weight of irredeemable sins.
Summoning his strength, Ren stood up, adjusting to the new weight of his body, much like a snake shedding its old skin. He felt taller, more powerful, and flexed his fingers, intrigued by the energy simmering just beneath the surface—a promise of violence waiting to be unleashed if needed.
This wasn't just a return from another life.
This was a transformation.
As he stepped deeper into the crumbling cathedral, his footsteps echoed like a ticking clock counting down for the dead. There were no signs of life in this neglected space—no footprints to disturb the sorrowful dust, only a heavy silence and decay that wrapped around everything like a malignant lover.
But as he entered the main hall, he sensed a change in the air, a ripple that triggered his instincts and set them on high alert.
A whisper.
Then another.
These soft murmurs didn't come from the stone walls or the crumbling floor beneath him.
They were rising from below.
Kneeling beside a battered stone slab, he placed his hand on it and felt an unexpected warmth pulse beneath the chill of the hard surface.
Warm.
A heartbeat. Defying the odds.
Magic.
Something still lingered beneath the ruins, trying to survive in the shadows—a flicker of life stubbornly clinging to its fragile flame in this graveyard.
Suddenly, footsteps broke the silence behind him, the sound weaving through the stillness like a ghost on a haunted night.
Ren didn't turn around.
"Careful," he called over his shoulder, his tone casual but laced with a hint of menace. "You're not the first thing I've dealt with today. And to be honest, I'm still a bit hungry."
An awkward silence followed. Then a voice responded—young and female, as dry as the dust that coated every surface in the room.
"You talk like a king but look like a corpse."
A sly smile spread slowly across Ren's face, sharp and almost predatory, like a knife aiming for its target. He turned to look at her. In the archway stood a girl, her cloak oversized and enveloping her slender frame, the hood casting shadows that concealed her face and intentions just as effectively. She wasn't armed, yet her posture was alert and ready, like a streetwise cat unsure whether to bolt or attack.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and defiance, tension hanging in the air like a tight wire about to snap.
Ren grinned widely, relishing the thrill of their encounter and the hint of fear he sensed in her fragile heart.
A name almost slipped out, but it wasn't the one left behind.
"Ren Kisaragi" was gone.
"Sora Takanashi," he said instead, enjoying how it felt as he leaned back slightly, folding his arms in a way that suggested he was revealing a profound secret. "But let's be real; everyone starts somewhere, don't they?"
He took a relaxed step closer, letting his words dribble like poison from his lips, sweet but deadly. "So, how about we make this interesting? Are you going to be a friend, or just another casualty in this twisted game? Considering my last companion, I'm open to a range of outcomes."
Her eyes hardened, and he caught a glimpse of something deeper—maybe a mix of fear and curiosity, or perhaps a determination to stand her ground in this desolate place where hope had long since faded.
Sora felt a crackling energy in the air, almost palpable, as he sensed a potential for violence—an exhilarating jolt that made his heart quicken. It put a wicked smile on his face.
"The ball's in your court, little shadow. Life gets so much more exciting when it teeters on a knife's edge, don't you think?"
As a thick silence fell between them, he could almost feel a deeper rhythm pulsing beneath the crumbling stone—a heartbeat filled with untold potential, as if the very air around them was whispering promises of chaos and bloodshed just waiting to unfold.
"Who knows," he continued, lowering his voice to a tone that was both playful and dark, like a cat toying with its prey, "I might even let you live long enough to share your story—provided it keeps me entertained."
The game had officially begun, and Sora was now the one in control, hungry for that next thrill, that next surge of chaos that could light up the world.