Inside a tent with sides of different colours, a young man scribbled something into a book in his hands.
The dark circles under his eyes made his exhaustion obvious as he wrote with a simple feather pen and a small ink cup—his most expensive and treasured possessions.
~Dear Diary,
Might as well write something before I die… again.
I was thrown away the moment I arrived here—literally. I reincarnated into another body, or I was born again. Which is not scientifically possible, but in this world, a lot is possible.
I guess I was born into one of the noble households, thrown away as a baby. I survived in an orphanage and later ran away to work because of the fierce competition.~
He paused, dipping the quill again.
~The orphanage wasn't any kinder either. A place where fights and struggles were louder than our stomachs growling. You survived by snatching faster than the next child, fighting for scraps, fighting for blankets—fighting because that was the only language anyone respected.
It was owned by a noble house, and I bet they didn't give a damn what happened to all those kids.
But not everything in this world is bad. I have legs! Running has become a daily occurrence for me. These people easily get tired of running or walking for long, but I just enjoy it because I can. The only other thing I enjoy here is playing the circus piano when the instrumentalists are done performing.~
He sighed.
~I was reborn into a backward Earth plagued by foreign creatures from another world.
It was insane, really. If not for the Oracle—some being said to live in the clouds, though I have no idea how true that is—humans managed to awaken strange powers and fight the invaders back.
They're called wardens. Mysterious. Powerful.
In my seventeen years in this world, I never thought I'd get the chance to become one…~
"So, Harley! You're on in five!" the orchestra leader's gruff voice cut through the tent canvas.
Julius—Harley in this life—closed the diary and tucked it beneath his cot. He wiped his hands on his patched trousers and stood.
Looking in the mirror, he saw his fairly pleasing appearance. His striking purple eyes were the only beautiful thing about him. Despite his lack of nutrition, evident in his skinny body, his face looked puffy. Blemishes and pimples dotted his skin, along with ugly scars on his neck, chest, and arms.
People wouldn't have to look at his face, though.
The carnival was already roaring. Steam-powered lights hissed and flickered as trumpets signaled the start of the event. Children's laughter, vendors screaming for patronage, and the scent of roasted nuts mixed with engine oil hung in the air.
Harley stepped into his clown suit—patched and partially faded, but familiar. He painted on the red smudge of a smile, covering his real face, which remained blank.
Giving himself a thumbs-up, he took his toys and went outside to perform.
Tonight's tricks went well. He juggled knives. Balanced on a wobbling gear-wheel. Pretended to stumble for laughs, though the crowd had no idea how natural falling once was for him.
Coins rained into his hat.
'People love a clown who knows how to suffer beautifully,' he thought, pouring the coins into a bag strapped to his waist.
During the break, chaos erupted backstage.
"The dude playing the piano didn't show up!" someone yelled. "We need music!"
Seeing the commotion, Harley hesitated. He could play the instrument, but he wasn't paid to.
'Might as well enjoy it,' he thought.
Harley walked to the polished, steam-tuned piano. He sat, cracked his knuckles, and played.
He didn't mind that the piano was set up in the middle of an ever-growing crowd. He just played, the painted smile slowly becoming real.
The song he played wasn't from this world.
A melody from home—gentle, haunting, unfamiliar to everyone here but etched into his bones.
The crowd quieted, enjoying the tune carried by black and white keys.
…
The events at the circus were entertaining to most. Not Harley.
He lucked out today; a prince had been among the crowd who listened to his music and rewarded him with a pouch containing 10,000 silver coins.
Enough to buy a real house and live for a year.
The circus leader took most of it, leaving Harley with just 1,000. He gave most of that away. A dead man had no use for money.
In the end, he kept just enough for a cigarette and a cheap bottle of alcohol.
Harley lit the cigarette beneath a dim streetlamp, exhaled slowly, and muttered, "…What a lonely world it is."
He gazed at the black sky. His purple eyes flickered, reflecting the light above him.
Crash!
Harley tensed, looking around.
"Argh, bloody hell!" A young man in a hat and brown coat stumbled out of a dark alleyway.
His face was flushed as he muttered nonsense while approaching.
"Hahaha, you're here. People were looking for you at the carnival."
He finally noticed Harley, grinning widely.
"Harlequin! Boy! So, how did it go?" He slung an arm over Harley's shoulder, reaching for the bottle.
Harley pushed his hand away, staring ahead calmly.
He told Fred about the piano. About the prince. About the 10,000 silver.
"No way! I miss one day and a prince shows up?" Fred fake-sobbed. "Curse this world!"
Harley took a drag of his cigarette.
"…That last part," Fred said, suddenly serious. "Is it true?"
Harley nodded and turned his palm, revealing the single vertical slit etched into the back of his hand—black and unnatural.
Fred nearly stumbled backward.
"Yeah—keep the alcohol."
It was a fair reaction. That mark meant almost certain death.
When the great cataclysm occurred, people marked by the Oracle were sent to other worlds to undergo trials and awaken powers tied to legends.
The mark appeared on people randomly.
And fewer than a third survived.
"The survival rate's below thirty percent," Fred said quietly, removing his hat.
Twenty-seven percent, Harley thought.
Noble families trained their children from birth in case they were chosen.
Harley grew up on the streets. Everything he knew about wardens and the Oracle came from scraps of paper and rumor.
At least he could fight. But what could his hands do against things he didn't understand?
Fred sat beside him in silence, staying there through the night until morning.
Harley looked at him, noticing that Fred remained with him silently even though he had a nice house.
For that, he was grateful.
…
The Warden's Sanctuary served as a transit point—where wardens traveled to other worlds, and where the marked surrendered themselves.
As Harley entered the compound, black-uniformed figures moved through the grounds.
Near the main building, a man wielding a baton stepped in front of him.
"You got business here, boy?"
Harley exhaled slowly. "I've got a mark. So where do I go to die—"
He froze.
The mark had spread up his forearm.
The man's expression changed instantly. He grabbed Harley, hoisting him over his shoulder, and sprinted inside.
…
Harley woke in a large metal room.
Cold steel pressed against his back. The air smelled sterile—oil, iron, something faintly burnt. No windows. No visible doors.
A woman stood nearby.
She wore a black uniform adorned with a black feather insignia. Her face was hidden behind a smooth white mask—featureless and blank.
"…Am I dead already?" Harley muttered, glancing at his hand.
"No," she replied softly. "If you were dead, you wouldn't be here."
"Shame."
She tilted her head.
"You don't have much time," she said. "So I'll be brief."
"You've been marked for a Trial. The mark spreading means the summoning is imminent."
Harley raised his arm, watching the black slit crawl like a living wound. "I know. I get dragged somewhere horrible and either come back special—or don't come back."
"Correct."
"…You people really know how to comfort someone."
"You don't have the luxury of comfort—"
"Yeah, whatever. Are you a warden?" Harley asked, making the woman pause.
"I'm going to die soon; at least let me see your face." Harley gave her a creepy smile, and she let out an audible sigh.
"I can't show you my face," she replied, her posture turning defensive.
"I admire your calm, knowing your fate. But—"
"We're out of time."
She stepped closer.
At that moment, Harley noticed the air behind him vibrating as if a heat wave washed the room.
"You'll be pulled into a Trial World. Pain will be real. Death will be permanent. The people inside may seem real—but they aren't. Use them however you wish."
"Straight to the point."
"The Oracle will give you an objective. Complete it, and you live. Fail, and you won't return."
"And the door?" Harley asked.
"A door will appear. It will pull you in."
"Of course it will."
"There's one more thing. You'll figure it out when you're in."
The space behind him cracked.
A thin white line split the air, unfolding into a tall white door.
Painted across it was a red smile.
The woman stepped back.
The door creaked open.
Something tugged at Harley's chest—gentle, then violent.
"What happens if I survive?" he asked.
"You become a Warden. There's glory. There's enjoyment. And there's more suffering."
"Will I see your face then?" Harley asked, putting on a real smile.
The woman put a hand on her waist, facepalming.
"Sure. If you make it back, we can continue this conversation over real food," she replied, walking back.
Soon, the pull became overwhelming for Harley, and he was pulled into the door.
White swallowed his vision.
The door slammed shut.
Darkness followed.
Then a voice echoed inside his mind—vast and cold, like iron scraping the sky.
[Steel your mind, challenger.]
[Your trial is about to begin.]