Hiroto Tanaka looked at his reflection in the grimy mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, completely red from three nights spent without sleep. The floor of his tiny apartment was cluttered with empty beer cans, and a half-finished wine bottle rested on the table beside him. His black hair was a messy tangle, and dark purple circles hung heavily under his gray eyes. Swallowing sent a sharp pain through his throat.
He grabbed an old sweater off the chair and took another long swig from the wine bottle. At this point, the alcohol didn't even hit him anymore. As he stepped out of his apartment, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, revealing dozens of messages—threats from loan sharks. Curses, warnings, and promises of what they'd do to him if he didn't pay up.
Ten million yen. That was the amount he needed.
Two months ago, he lost his job. They called him lazy and unreliable. Maybe they were right. Now, he had nothing—no job, no money, and a debt he could never repay. The loan sharks wouldn't just target him. They'd go after his family too. His mother and little sister would suffer because of his mistakes.
There was only one way out. Only one way to end all this.
Hiroto climbed the stairs to the roof of the tallest building he could find. Each step felt heavier than the last. He'd always had a fear of heights since he was a kid. But as he stood at the edge, looking down at the people who seemed as small as ants on the pavement below, he felt nothing. No fear. No panic.
Just emptiness.
Death felt like a way to freedom. An escape from debt, shame, and everything that weighed him down.
He pulled out his phone one last time, hands trembling as he typed a message to his mother: "Leave the country. Don't stay here. I'm sorry for everything." He knew that once he was gone, the loan sharks would come for his family. Maybe if they left, they'd have a chance.
His finger hovered over the screen as he looked at his photos—friends laughing at a barbecue last summer, his ex-girlfriend giggling at something funny he said, his mother hugging him on his birthday, and his little sister in her school uniform flashing a peace sign at the camera.
Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."
And then he jumped.
For a moment, it felt like he was flying, weightless in the air. The wind rushed past his ears. Then came the crash—a horrible sound as his head hit the concrete. A sharp, blinding pain shot through his body, worse than anything he'd ever experienced. But it only lasted a second.
Then his eyes closed.
And everything went dark.
Is there life after death? A thought floated through the darkness. Does the afterlife really exist? Do heaven and hell actually exist?
If they did, Hiroto knew where he was headed. He'd never been religious and had made far too many mistakes, hurt too many people. Hell was surely waiting for him.
But then something strange happened.
He felt something soft beneath him. Voices floated somewhere far away, muffled and unclear. Was this hell? It didn't feel like fire and torture. It felt... warm?
Slowly, Hiroto tried to open his eyes. They felt impossibly heavy, like they were made of lead. Through tiny slits, he barely made out a figure moving above him—a person in white. A nurse? He felt like he was moving too, rolling on something. A stretcher?
Did I... survive?
The thought made his stomach drop. He'd failed even at dying?
Everything went dark again.
The next time Hiroto opened his eyes, things were clearer. He blinked a few times, letting his vision adjust to the dim light. He was lying in a bed, but something felt very wrong.
This wasn't a modern hospital.
He turned his head slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was nothing like any hospital room he'd ever seen. The walls were dark wood, intricately carved. A large window with thick, wavy glass let in pale sunlight. The bed frame was heavy iron, painted black, adorned with decorative scrollwork at the head and foot.
An oil lamp sat on a small wooden table next to his bed, its flame flickering gently. No fluorescent lights or LEDs in sight. The high ceiling was lined with exposed wooden beams. Everything looked old—really old. Like a scene from a history book.
Where the hell am I?
Hiroto tried to sit up, but his body felt strange. Not painful, just different. He looked down at his hands resting on the white sheets. They didn't look right. The skin was paler than he remembered, and his fingers seemed longer, more elegant.
What...?
He turned his head to look around more carefully. The room was large—much bigger than a regular hospital room. There were two other beds, both empty, their white sheets tucked in perfectly. A tall wooden wardrobe was positioned against one wall, while a washbasin with a ceramic pitcher sat on a stand near the door.
Everything about this place screamed Victorian era—like he'd somehow stepped into the 1800s. The furniture, the decor, even the smell was different. There was no sterile, chemical scent like modern hospitals had. Instead, it smelled like old wood, lavender, and something herbal he couldn't quite identify.
A large mirror hung on the wall across from his bed, framed with carved flowers and vines. Heavy, dark green curtains trimmed with gold hung beside the window. The polished wood floor was partially covered by an old rug with geometric patterns.
This has to be a dream, Hiroto thought. Or maybe I really did die, and this is some strange version of the afterlife?
He was just about to get out of bed when the door creaked open.
A young woman walked in, wearing a nurse's uniform—but not like any nurse's outfit from modern Japan. Her long dark blue dress had a white apron tied over it. Her hair was tucked under a white cap, and she carried a small tray with medicine bottles and bandages.
She looked up and smiled when she saw he was awake.
"Oh! You're finally awake, Mr. Kirei," she said warmly, setting the tray down on the table beside his bed. "We were so worried about you. You've been unconscious for two days."
Hiroto stared at her, trying to comprehend what she'd just said.
"Mr... Kirei?" His voice sounded rough and foreign, even to him—deeper, smoother.
"Yes, Yusharo Kirei. That's you." The nurse looked at him with concern. "Are you feeling alright? Does your head hurt? You took quite a beating from that demon."
A demon?
Hiroto's eyes widened. Did she just say "demon"? Like, an actual demon? He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but something held him back. If he acted too confused, they might think something was seriously wrong with him.
"I... I'm not sure," he said cautiously. "Everything's a bit fuzzy."
The nurse nodded knowingly. "That's to be expected. The doctor said you might have temporary amnesia from the trauma. Don't worry—your memories should come back soon." She picked up a glass of water and handed it to him. "Here, drink this slowly."
Hiroto—or whoever he was now—took the glass with trembling hands. As he brought it to his lips, he noticed once more how different his hands looked. Definitely not his hands.
"Can you... can you tell me what happened?" he asked after sipping some water. "I don't remember anything."
The nurse pulled up a wooden chair and sat beside his bed, folding her hands in her lap.
"You were attacked three nights ago," she started. "A demon broke into your workshop. From what the guards could piece together, it was after your immortality medal—the one you'd just finished creating."
Immortality medal? Workshop? What is she talking about?
"You're an alchemist, Mr. Kirei," the nurse continued. "One of the most talented in the city, actually. You're only twenty-two years old, but you've already made some incredible discoveries. Your latest project was creating a medal of immortality—something that would let the wearer live forever."
Hiroto's mind was spinning. Alchemist? Immortality? Demons? This was insane. But the nurse spoke like it was all completely normal.
"The demon must have heard about your work," she said, her expression growing serious. "It broke into your workshop and attacked you. The guards said... they said you were nearly dead when they found you. Your injuries were terrible—no one thought you'd survive."
"But I did," Hiroto said slowly. "How?"
The nurse smiled slightly. "The medal. Before the demon could take it, you managed to use it on yourself. That's what saved your life."
Hiroto's heart started racing. "So... I'm immortal now? I can't die?"
The nurse shook her head. "Not exactly. You see, the medal wasn't completely finished. You were still in the testing phase. What it did was regenerate your wounds and bring you back from the brink of death, but it didn't grant true immortality. You can still be hurt, and you can still die. The medal just... gave you a second chance, I suppose."
A second chance.
Those words echoed in Hiroto's mind. He had wanted to die, thrown himself off a building, and somehow ended up here—in another person's body, in what seemed like a whole new world. A world with demons and alchemy and immortality medals.
"I see," he said quietly. "Thanks for telling me."
The nurse stood up, smoothing her apron. "You should rest more. Your body may have healed, but you've been through a terrible ordeal. I'll bring you some food soon. If you need anything, just ring that bell." She pointed to a small brass bell on the table.
After she left, Hiroto sat in silence for a long moment. His thoughts were racing, but one idea kept coming to the forefront: he needed to see what he looked like now.
Gingerly, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing a simple white nightshirt that went down to his knees. Standing felt strange—his body seemed taller than before, and his balance felt different.
He carefully walked across the wooden floor to the door he had noticed earlier. When he opened it, he found a small bathroom—or at least what passed for one in this Victorian-style setting. There was a toilet, a sink with a pump handle, and a large mirror above it.
Hiroto stepped in front of the mirror and froze.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
The man in the mirror was tall—much taller than Hiroto had been. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a lean, athletic build. But what caught Hiroto's attention the most was his hair. It was pure white, long enough to fall past his shoulders, perfectly straight and silky.
His face was handsome in a sharp, elegant sort of way—strong jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose. But it was his eyes that really struck Hiroto. They were a pale, icy blue—so light they almost seemed to glow in the dim light.
This was Yusharo Kirei.
And somehow, this was him now.
Hiroto—no, Yusharo—reached up to touch his face with trembling hands. The reflection mirrored his movements. This was real. This was really happening.
He wasn't Hiroto Tanaka anymore, trapped in debt and failure. He was Yusharo Kirei, a twenty-two-year-old alchemist who'd been attacked by a demon and survived thanks to his own invention.
He'd wanted to die, to escape his old life.
And somehow, impossibly, he'd gotten exactly what he wished for—a second chance at life.