PROLOUGE

  A dimly lit café, filled with the scent of roasted coffee beans and old paper. Filled with people enjoying their time, among them a teenager browsing through a well-stocked manga shelf, his fingers idly flipping through the spines as he searched for something to re-read.

  "Hey, kid."

  Surprised by the voice, he turned.

  An older man, dressed in a plain yet strangely refined black coat stood beside him, examining the shelves with mild curiosity.

  His presence was oddly commanding, though there was nothing particularly striking about him at first glance.

  "Yeah?" the teenager responded.

  "Looks like you know about the books here. Any suggestions?"

  The teenager tilted his head, briefly sizing up the man. "Hmm, sir. Most of these are called manga—Japanese comics. They're mostly fiction and kind of niche, so if you're looking for something more serious or practical, like philosophy or self-help, those are on the other shelf." He gestured toward it, assuming the man might not be interested in the kind of stories he enjoyed.

  The man shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. "Nah, I’m talking about these—manga, you said? They’re... fascinating."

  The teenager shrugged, then brightened a bit as he began explaining. "Well, there are a lot. One Piece is this massive adventure about pirates—sounds childish at first, but it's actually layered with themes of freedom, loyalty, and sacrifice. It’s kind of a journey about chasing dreams, with lots of quirky characters and powers. Hajime no Ippo, on the other hand, is a boxing manga. It’s really grounded—more about personal growth, discipline, and the struggles of a young athlete trying to make it big.

  "Now, Monster—that one's darker. It's about a brilliant surgeon who saves a child who turns out to be a serial killer, and he ends up questioning morality, identity, and justice while chasing him down. Pretty intense stuff. And Code Geass… it's like political chess with superpowers. A high school guy gets this ability to command anyone once, and he uses it to try and change a corrupt world order. It’s flashy but surprisingly thought-provoking.

  "They all kind of explore human nature, but from totally different angles."

  "Thanks, kiddo. What about you? Got a favorite?"

  The teenager hesitated for a moment before replying, "They’re all good, but my favorite is Parasyte. Let’s just say… it's an acquired taste."

  The man chuckled, his gaze unreadable. He gave the teen a slight nod before turning away.

  The teenager muttered, "Weird guy," as he pulled out his phone and walked toward the exit.

  The evening air was cool as he stepped onto the crosswalk, absentmindedly scrolling through his notifications. The streetlights flickered ,reality began to fray—light bleeding through the seams of existence, as if the world itself could no longer hold its shape. Sounds twisted and warped, a high-pitched frequency ringing out like the scream of the universe tearing at its core. Then, everything turned white.

  A thunderous explosion ripped through the street, and he felt himself launched into the air. The world blurred—flames, shattered glass, car alarms wailing, people screaming. He barely registered the pain as his body hit the pavement, his vision darkening while warm liquid pooled beneath him.

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  He gasped, the act shallow and desperate, as air refused to fill his lungs properly—each breath scraped against the weight of smoke, screams, and the sharp tang of blood in the air. Around him, destruction sang its dirge—glass crackled beneath shifting debris, flames hissed where metal met fuel, and through it all came the slow, deliberate echo of footsteps. The smoke twisted unnaturally, parting before the approaching figure like wary animals before a predator.

  Through the smoke—slow, deliberate, each step radiating an unseen pressure that seemed to warp the air itself. The debris parted slightly, as if repelled by an invisible field. The strange man emerged. He knelt beside the teenager, his expression unreadable, muttering in a tongue that twisted through the smoke like a living thing. In his hand was a severed head, still dripping fresh blood, its eyes frozen in terror.

  His gaze rested on the dying boy, thoughtful, almost curious, before one eyebrow arched ever so slightly—less in mourning than in recognition, as though something within the chaos had piqued his interest rather than reminded him of loss.

  A hand brushed his forehead, and then—

  He found himself suspended in an endless void.

  He floated, suspended in a kaleidoscope of memories. Faces, voices, sensations—all swirling in an ever-shifting cascade of his life.

  Laughter with friends.

  Late-night study sessions.

  The warmth of his mother’s embrace.

  The suffocating weight of regret.

  Then—heavier. Denser. The fabric of existence seemed to compress and expand at the same time, as though his very being was under judgment. Something vast and incomprehensible loomed beyond the darkness. He could feel it—something measuring the worth of his soul, weighing every choice he had ever made.

  Just as the judgment neared its verdict, everything paused.

  Footsteps echoed in the nothingness.

  The stranger approached once more, but this time, his presence was overwhelming. He was no mere man—his very existence distorted reality, the weight of his being stretching time and space. Karmic threads, barely perceptible, linked them together, trembling with each step he took.

  "Strange," the man mused, tilting his head. "A trivial meeting in a café, and yet, it is enough to form karmic ties. Such is the nature of fate."

  The teenager could not speak, but he felt the words reverberate in his being.

  "You stand at the precipice of oblivion, your soul severed from its cycle. I will wisk you out from this Samsara—carry you beyond this world and into another. A fresh start, if you will."

  The void quivered, not in fear, but in protest—as if the world itself rejected the change being wrought, pulsing in agitation. From within the stranger's coat, his hand reached through a tear in space, fingers slipping into a rippling void. When he withdrew it, a shard—luminescent and humming with ancient energy—rested in his palm. The moment it emerged, the discontent of the world eased, the vibrations stilling to a low, contented hum. Reality, though frayed, hesitated, appeased by the offering. The stranger smirked, and started.

  "In return, I will grant you something. A gift . That will help you in the other world."

  The weight of judgment lifted. His will struggled against the void, yet some part of him knew—this was not a decision he could refuse.

  He surrendered to the inevitable.

  Air. Light. Warmth.

  A sudden wail—his own.

  His body felt small, fragile, new. The raw instincts of an infant overwhelmed his mind, but deep beneath that, his past consciousness remained intact.

  Strong arms lifted him gently. A woman’s voice—soft, exhausted, yet filled with warmth. "Shh, my little one. It’s alright… it’s alright…"

  He opened his eyes, blinking away the blur. A woman cradled him, her face glowing with sweat and relief. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, and tears shimmered in her tired yet joyful eyes. "He’s beautiful…"

  A man stood beside her, his rough hands trembling slightly as he brushed the baby’s tiny fingers. "He’s strong," the man murmured, pride evident in his voice. "Our son."

  Soft giggles came from the side. A small girl, no older than six, peeked over the bedside, eyes shining with excitement. "Mama, can I hold him?"

  Another figure, slightly older—a boy, perhaps ten—stood beside her, a more reserved expression on his face. Yet his gaze held the unmistakable weight of responsibility as he looked down at the newborn. "Welcome home, little brother."

  The baby—his new body—clutched at the air, feeling the warmth of his new family surround him. The echoes of his past life faded, replaced by the reality of his new beginning.

  But deep within him, something stirred.

  A presence—foreign, yet familiar. Dormant, but waiting.

  A gift had been granted.