Chapter Two: A Breath Between Worlds
Chiadika's eyes fluttered open, shrouded in a haze of dizziness and blurred vision. The first sensation that greeted him was the whisper of wind threading softly through trees, the forest around him strangely serene—almost unnaturally so.
His gaze wandered.
A gentle sway beneath him made his body shift slightly midair.
Midair?
His breath hitched.
"Am I… floating?" he muttered aloud.
But as he glanced upward, dread instantly gripped him. A thick rope coiled tightly around his neck, and above him, it was tethered to the gnarled limb of an ancient tree.
He wasn't floating. He was hanging.
His eyes widened in horror. Instinct kicked in. He clawed at the noose in panic, gasping desperately for air.
Yet—there was no pain. No suffocation. Nothing.
His movements slowed, confusion overpowering his fear. He paused, releasing his hands from the rope. The pressure around his neck remained unchanged, but still—he felt nothing.
No burning.
No strangling.
Just… weightless emptiness.
Driven by a need to confirm the absurdity, he concentrated, shifting his body mass forward. His frame grew heavier in response—a force he didn't entirely understand—but it was enough.
The branch creaked.
Then with a sudden crack, the rope snapped.
His body plummeted, hitting the earth with a dull thud. Still no pain. Not even a sting.
Rising to his feet, Chiadika stared at the canopy above, breath steady, thoughts racing. "What… kind of body is this?"
He turned toward the dense brush beyond the hanging tree. A gentle breeze swept through, revealing a faint path cutting through the forest. Drawn to it by something unspoken, he began to walk, guided by instinct alone.
Eventually, the trees parted—and what he saw took his breath away.
A sprawling city, steeped in a strange blend of ancient design and industrial revolution architecture, unfolded before him. If this were still Earth, he would've guessed the early 1900s—when machinery and magic could almost coexist in imagination.
As he stepped toward the city gate, two armored guards raised their hands in halting gesture.
"Halt! Present your citizen's permit for reentry."
Reentry?
Confused, Chiadika patted down his garments. Something thin and rectangular nestled in his inner pocket. He pulled it out—a sleek, metallic card, glowing faintly with blue script.
Almond Trustnot — the name etched into it struck a strange chord in his chest. Below the name: Civil Citizen.
He handed the card to the guards without a word. They scanned it, nodded in approval, and stepped aside.
"Welcome back, citizen."
He passed them silently, his thoughts swirling. That name—Almond Trustnot. It felt… right. Familiar. As if it belonged to him all along, though he couldn't recall ever choosing it.
Guided by sheer intuition, he navigated the city's labyrinthine streets as though he had walked them his entire life. Somehow, without question, he found his way to a tall, dignified building—elegantly designed, polished stone and towering pillars. The moment he stepped through the door, heads turned.
Whispers followed him.
Furtive glances.
Suspicion... or awe?
He couldn't tell.
But he didn't care.
He ascended the stairs, reached the grand suite on the top floor, and entered. The moment the door shut behind him, silence returned. Peace.
He took in the lavish apartment—the gold trim, the velvet drapes, the crest hanging above the fireplace.
"This is the residence of a high noble… maybe even a chancellor," he murmured.
How did he know that?
He didn't. Yet his body did.
Everything—from the furnishings to the scent of incense drifting through the air—felt inherently familiar. His hands moved without thought, touching the walls, the desk, the coat rack—tracing the past of a man whose memories were lost but whose instincts remained.
Then, as if on cue, a thought surfaced.
A meeting. Tonight. 10 PM.
He didn't know how or why—but the message was clear in his mind. Something—someone—had planted it there.
He dressed accordingly, selecting a dignified bachelor's robe embroidered in dark blues and silver. He locked the door behind him and strode into the evening, slipping through the alleyways, past dim-lit markets, heading toward the central hall.
He didn't understand this world.
He didn't remember how he got here.
But everything about it resonated—deep in his bones—as though he'd walked this path before.
And so, without questions, he followed the rhythm.