I sat on the bathroom floor, knees pressed close to my chest. The tiles were cold even through my clothes. Dragging myself here had been a feat in itself. My strength had felt completely siphoned from my body; every move was a struggle.
Breathing helped, enough to keep me from spiraling all at once.
This wasn't real. That thought stayed with me. People didn't just wake up somewhere else. They didn't lose years, faces, names—their entire lives—between one moment and the next. There were rules to things like that. Physics. Common sense. A basic agreement with reality that said you didn't sit on a stranger's bathroom floor wondering why your hands felt wrong.
I pressed my shaking palms together. Then apart.
I tried to remember the moment before this. The last normal second. There was a gap missing. Yet, it's all blank, erased too cleanly, that bothered me more than anything else.
What happened before I came here?
I leaned my head back against the door and stared at the small window on top of the toilet, feeling the weight of the moment settling in.
Alright, then.
If this was happening, even if I didn't like it, I must accept it. The perfect response for all of these.
I sat there for—Minutes? Hours? I couldn't tell anymore. I lost track of it, lost in my own thoughts.
Then I noticed the sink.
I pushed myself up and stood in front of it, planting my hands on the edge to steady myself.
"Ah... Ah... Aaaaaaaah." I pressed my right hand against my throat, feeling the sensation of my voice. To me, my new voice sounded the same, just slightly higher than before.
I stared at the sink before me and exhaled slowly. "Hoooo...."
I opened the faucet. While watching the running water, I slowly fell deeper and deeper into my mind. Once again, the never-ending questions began pouring into my head. Even though my body has settled now, my mind refused to.
Then I forced myself to look up at the mirror.
The reflection that was staring back wasn't mine. Long, jet-black hair like a crow's damp feather, a bit greasy but soft. Skin pale as chalk, like the sun hasn't seen this person for years. Then the face... Sunken eyes and cheeks, like he hadn't slept nor has eaten anything for years. Yet, quite decent-looking, compared to my previous self.
It was clear as day: this guy had forgotten how to take care of himself.
I took a glance at my hands. They were too thin, too smooth, as if they belonged to a woman. Despite being born into a knightly clan, his hands were smooth, not a single calloused in sight, nor any signs of bearing marks of labor and training.
Then lastly, I took a peek inside my pants, raising an eyebrow. Okay
The fact remained, everything about this body felt fragile.
Still... compared to what I used to have, this wasn't nearly half as bad. There was some life left in this one, some strength under the frailness, whereas my old body doesn't have that. Before, I was practically just bones wrapped in skin, barely holding together.
I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the counter. I stared at the stranger in the mirror, whom I should call by now, "myself".
Do I just accept it.
The stranger in the mirror didn't answer. It refused to. It simply stared back, like it's fully aware of the truth and simply waiting for me to acknowledge it.
I swallowed hard. "Must be some sick joke."
I looked down at my hands again. These weren't the hands of a hero or someone meant for a second chance. They were just the hands of someone else.
"Can I go back..." I closed my eyes, gripping the counter tighter.
I opened my eyes. Upon seeing my face, I questioned myself. "Do... I...?"
There wasn't much going on with my life previously. Nothing interesting. But still...
I gazed at the flowing water for a long time.
"This might be for the better..." I lowered my eyes and muttered, "... better?"
I turned the knob, and the door creaked open. Mess... Mess... Mess... There's nothing but mess everywhere. The chaotic aftermath hit me as soon as I stepped in. The glasses crunched under my feet. Torn papers and books scattered everywhere. If someone were to see this, they would immediately thought the place had been ransacked. I stood there, doing nothing, just taking it all in.
My gaze landed on the kitchen counter. It was no better. Just as bad, maybe worse. Stacks of unwashed dishes sat piled on top of each other. Crumbs was scattered everywhere. Dark stains on the surface, looked like they had been there for weeks—perhaps, months.
I gathered the books carefully and placed them on top of the desk. As I was about to place the last one, my hands froze. "Huh?"
The magic circle was gone, erased from the surface. My fingers traced the rough, darkened texture. "Like a fever dream," I muttered.
Rather than pondering that, I simply took my attention to the books before me.
I picked up the first book I saw, Introduction to Etheric Theory. Flipping through its pages, there were some heavily underlined topics here, such as mana null zones, vessel stability, and resonance threshold.
Then I took another book, A Study on Hollow Invocation. "A case study?"
Each pages were disturbing in their own right. "I don't even know half the words in this."
Case Study No. V: Resonance Threshold Failure
Subject: one individual, age 23. Classification: Attempted to invoke a Lesser Wind Spirit.
Incident Summary(Inferred): Subject failed to maintain stability. The resonance threshold was surpassed.
_Outcome: Vessel disintegration. No physical body recovered.
Conclusion: Entities of even minor classification generate frequencies far beyond mortal tolerance without trained resonance control.
I studied the notes in silence. "Discovered at dawn. Internal tissues exhibited total carbonization, charring, while the epidermal layer remained entirely unaffected... Violent muscular convulsions... Bilateral ocular hemorrhage."
"My god... Ewww…" I muttered, wrinkling my nose. "Who the fuck read this shit?"
Did he try to attempt a summoning? There are hundreds. No, thousands of cases, all documented here. I frowned, which begged the question. What drove him this far? Why? To make such an improbable attempt.
I tapped my temple a few times with my thumb. "Even this... I can't remember."
I kept reading, page after page, through each horrific account detail, until I hit the final page of the book, and at the bottom, there's something written in blue ink.
To summon—is to call upon what lies outside them, a place where laws do not hold. What answers has no name. Not meant to exist here.
Beneath it, a single name was written. "I. Locistant."
I stared at the name for a bit.
"Locistant…" I whispered under my breath. "What a strange name."
Then a thought struck me.
What happened with the original Claude?
I glanced down at my left hand. The blood stain remained, even after washing it. I traced my thumb across my palm, expecting pain, or anything really. This was the only hand stained. There should be a wound or a scarring. But there wasn't.
Was it instant death?
If I applied some logic and reasoning here, if souls can inhabit new vessels, then it means this body should be vacant before I came here. Was that the case?
Which leads to the real question. Where did his soul go? Was he really dead?
Or… is he… living in me?
That thought sent shivers down my spin.
I have so many unanswered questions.
I groaned. "Aa—aaaah! Someone, at least, answer me!"
I massaged the spot between my eyebrows. All these questions were giving me a headache. With a sigh, I pulled a chair close and dropped onto it, crossing my arms on the table and resting my head on top, and my fingers tapping aimlessly against the surface.
Let me get this straight.
In a way, this world's order was simple.
The manaless made up the majority, or ordinary people with no mana or power.
Then came the mana-users, individuals born with flowing mana in their veins, capable of feats beyond human limits: strength, speed, endurance, etc.
And lastly, the spirit users, who are the rare of the rare. They're the ones who could commune with spirits and forge a lifelong bond with one. Do they also talk to the dead? Basically, through that connection, they can channel their spirit's power into the physical word.
Conjuring flame.
Summoning lightning.
Probably whatever the nature of their spirit allowed.
It's quite similar to that game.
The orange warm light slipped through the gaps. I drew the curtains open, letting the light fill the room. I closed my eyes and blocked it with my hand. I leaned back in my chair. Then I noticed. There's a piece of scorched fabric half-buried under the mess. I crouched down, and pulled it out of curiosity. A black uniform with singed edges and a faded crest embroidered over the chest. My fingers brushed over the fabric, and a small, flat, thin rectangle object slipped from the inner pocket.
I picked it up and saw the name, face, and department—Research Division.
There's a faint sigil stamped on the back, barely even visible.
And below it, in bold letters, a name that caught my eye.
Atlas Academy.
"Atlas Academy... Atlas... Atlas..." I murmured, letting it roll over my tongue. "Where have I heard that?"
If memory served me right, the academy had two divisions: the Knight Department and the Research Department.
"This feels familiar for some reason..."
Then, a voice rang out from somewhere outside.
"Shin Morino!"
The name struck me like a bolt of lightning. It took me a moment before the name registered in my head, maybe longer than it should have. A name of someone that shouldn't exist.
I glanced out the window as soon as I heard the commotion. My eyes swept over the crowd, and then—somehow—I found him.
And I froze.
The sharpness in his eyes. The way his black hair fell across his forehead. The twin swords resting at his waist. Every little detail matched exactly what my brother had shown me. Down to the tiniest thing.