There is only darkness after death… it's something I tell myself.
Reincarnation?
Judgment by the judges of the nether realm?
Gods?
Demons?
Heaven?
Hell?
There is nothing but darkness—or something else entirely… nothingness.
I look into the eyes staring back at me. My vision cannot fathom the entirety of that face, because even before those eyes, my own frame feels like that of an ant compared to a vast sea.
Their form is astral, and the pupils themselves are like stars, glimmering with a golden light. They seem filled with resentment—hatred directed entirely at me.
My lungs are out of breath—no, that state has already passed.
Only one mystery remains: how am I still so calm, so thoughtful, even while submerged in the depths of this lake?
Or is this merely a dream?
In that moment, only one name surfaces in my consciousness.
"Goddess of Fate!"
There is a bone-chilling silence as those eyes continue to stare at me. They are beautiful—divine—like a cosmic unraveling of living stars—yet they glare at me with grave animosity.
As I try to make sense of this madness, a colossal hand descends—The hand grasps me.
And when I finally open my eyes—
I feel the ground beneath my feet.
It is hot—unmistakably slate.
Something is very wrong.
My sight vanishes again, as if I am thrown back into darkness—but the sensation remains.
Heat.
As if I am standing near a fireplace.
Muffled sounds of grunting reach my ears.
Then—slowly—I can see.
I can sense.
I can feel.
The scene before me is unbelievable.
The air smells foul—filthy.
Two wooden pillars.
A wall made of dried clay.
A door covered by a ragged cloth.
That is all I can see.
But when I try to look back, something feels wrong.
I cannot move my body.
It feels like paralysis—but paralysis is supposed to strip away sensation.
Yet I can feel everything.
Heat.
The roughness of the hot ground.
The hot air scraping my lungs.
Only control is missing.
Wait.
Where am I?
What is going on?
My hands rise in front of my face—not by my will.
My pupils fixate on a piece of burning wood.
Heat washes over me.
And then I understand.
The hut I am inside is on fire.
But instead of running, instead of panic—
I feel a smile stretch across my face.
Wide.
Unnatural.
Uncontrollable.
My body begins to sway, moving in a dancing rhythm of its own holding the burning wood.
From outside, I hear screams.
The small, filthy room I am in glows orange and yellow as the flames engulfs the walls.
Every movement is out of my control.
Even my breathing does not feel like mine—as if my body is possessed by an external force.
As I step back, my ankle strikes a wooden utensil.
It tips over, spilling slosh and vegetables across the ground.
And then—
I saw something horrifying.
This is not my body.
The reflection before me is distorted by firelight, glowing red and orange, bathed in a warm, hellish hue.
The boy staring back appears to be in his early teens.
His body is severely malnourished.
His head is completely shaved, bald.
His eyes lacking intelligence.
A wide smile stretches across his face as he dances, then slips and crashes onto the ground.
"AGHH!"
Pain explodes through my nose as my head jerks violently for a moment—but instead of curses, laughter bursts from my mouth.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood spills from my nose.
"WHAT AHH…"
A man with a hawk-like nose gasps as he stares at the flames.
He is tall and bulky,with thick hair covering his chest. A beard reaches his collarbones, his hair disheveled and wild. He isn't wearing any clothes—standing frozen, as if his mind seems as if stopped working.
I realize something horrifying.
The culprit of this fire is no one else but me.
Is this a dream?
No—the sensations are far too real to ignore. Even the pain from my broken nose doesn't feel unreal.
When I try to recall, to decipher my predicament, only one conclusion makes sense.
I died.
And this is some sort of transmigration.
The last thing I remember is drowning in Crescent Lake—
Voi.
My old junior tried to save me.
But in the end, it seems she failed.
A bitter feeling rises within me. Dying at such an age… and now this—what kind of existence is this?
What am I?
If there is death, then why am I still feeling all of this?
Why do I still exist?
The terrifying eyes of the Goddess surface in my mind—
eyes that made me feel as insignificant as an insect.
Is this a second chance at life?
Then why did the Goddess looked at me as if she wanted to chew me alive?
A chill runs down my spine.
And why haven't I completely possessed this body?
Is this also part of the Goddess's will?
There are countless questions tormenting my mind—but no one is there to answer them.
"YOU MAD SON OF A BITCH!" the burly man screams.
His eyes are bloodshot as he glares at me with deep hatred. I can feel the killing intent pouring out of him—raw, unfiltered—but I can't even take a step back.
I simply don't have control over this body.
A fat, unsightly woman—half-naked and hastily covering herself—moves to the man's side. Her eyes look as though they're only centimeters away from popping out of their sockets.
"HUSBAND! … WHAT IS GOING ON?!"
Her words stumble over one another, heavy with shock and horror.
It becomes clear that the owner of this body is the one who burned their house.
But why?
Why would he do this?
The question gnaws at me. What kind of grudge could a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old possibly hold to commit something like this? No matter how I try to reason it out, it doesn't make sense.
BAM
The old door swings open as people force their way into the house.
"FIRE!"
"THERE'S A FIRE!"
Shouts erupt from every direction.
The couple stands frozen in the chaos, their expressions twisted with shock, shame, and despair. The man keeps throwing murderous glances at me as he shields his wife, dragging her toward the inner room—already being swallowed by flames.
"In this state, you mad bastard!"
People hesitate when they notice the couple's naked appearance. Some turn their heads away, others step back awkwardly, before buckets of water are thrown onto the burning house.
"I can't live with this humiliation…"
Tears of despair stream down the man's face as the woman collapses to her knees.
I feel a faint pang of guilt at the sight.
He no longer looks like he wants to kill me.
What fills his eyes now is despair.
His wife sobs uncontrollably on the ground.
Anyone would break in this situation—their home, their possessions, everything they built, all gone. Even their dignity is stripped away as a few people snicker at their appearance.
The man cries openly. Then, from a shelf near the fireplace, he grabs a butchering knife, shielding his wife behind him.
"What is there left to live for, dear?" he says through sobs.
But the smile on the owner of this body never fades.
It grows wider.
The body dances—playful, carefree.
The man looks at me.
A shiver runs down my spine as he lunges forward, the butcher's knife raised.
Shit. Am I going to die again?
I feel remorse for their suffering—but the thought of dying one more time overwhelms everything.
Just as he charges, someone from the crowd throws herself in front of me.
"AGH!"
Her cry is sharp with pain. Warm droplets—tears—fall onto my face.
All I see are her lips… and a glimpse of silver hair beneath a hood.
"STOP!" she shouts, clutching her shoulder where the knife has slashed her. Blood begins to ooze through her fingers.
"Y-YOU! KNOW HIS CONDITION..R-RIGHT?!"
The man stiffens, glaring at her with raw hatred.
"AND WHAT THE HELL!.. DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ME?!" he roars.
The hooded girl scans the burning hut, silent, understanding something unspoken.
"I'LL KILL HIM!"
Wincing in pain, she grabs me and drags me outside.
A chilling fear creeps into me, deeply uncomfortable—because everything feels different.
…The situation.
And the way this body feels.
It's suffocating.
This situation is anything but tragic or sad. If I were in their place, I would beat someone to death—but killing? That's something I wouldn't do.
Yet something is wrong.
This doesn't feel normal at all.
My mind feels—
Tranquil.
Calm.
Too calm.
As if this situation is ordinary… and that realization itself is terrifying.
How can I feel this calm?
"Didn't I just die moments ago?"
And this body—these sensations—
The rush of excitement churning in the stomach.
The mouth hanging open as she drags this body while running.
As if this is a game.
It's deeply disturbing.
Yet the fear doesn't feel real.
The only things that do feel real are my thoughts—and my sense of self.
It feels as if all my emotions are gone.
"Lucain! You idiot!" she scolds, her voice still etched with pain.
The light grey robe she's wearing is soaked in blood at the shoulder as she holds me in her arms while running.
The wound there is bleeding even more because she's carrying this body—she's clearly in immense agony.
"Lucain?"
The strangeness of that name feels oddly familiar. My real name is Lucien—different—yet the way the owner's heart thumps when she calls it, the tone of her voice… it makes the name feel disturbingly close.
"DEMI-HUMAN! BITCH!"
"SHE'S RUNNING WITH THAT MAD BASTARD!"
People scream as they trail behind us.
"Shit!" she curses under her breath.
She's a little tall, but her frame is delicate and slender. The only thing that feels wrong is this body—too malnourished, too frail, painfully petite.
"HORRIBLE! HE KILLED HIMSELF—WITH HIS WIFE!"
Someone screams, and the crowd's curses grow more vulgar, more violent. The intent to kill is palpable.
I know if we're caught, it won't be a beating or a reprimand.
Who knows?
They might chop my head off.
Stuff me into a sack with snakes and dogs and throw me into some river!
It's horrifying—because I can feel everything this body feels.
Pain.
Breath.
Joy.
The only thing I lack is control.
Which means my death won't be easy.
All I can do is hope she outruns them.
"Lucian," she mutters.
Drip.
Drip.
Tears stream down her face, and I catch a glimpse of her golden eyes.
"What have you done…?" Her voice breaks. "They're dead!"
Despair seeps into every word.
Her speed increases—unnaturally so. Almost inhuman.
And the blood only soaks more and more into her robe.
"They are dead…?
So why—why don't I feel anything?"
My eyes—or rather, the owner's eyes—are fixed on her crying face. Even the smile on the owner's lips fades, and the strange joy stagnates, sinking back to some empty baseline.
The pressure of the wind intensifies from her unnatural speed, pulling her hood back. Shoulder-length silver hair streams behind her, swaying violently.
Her face is delicate. She looks like a young lady in her late teens—beautiful in a unique, elegant way.
Her lashes are thick and pale, white like fresh snow. Her golden eyes are filled with pain and fear.
Tears stream down her flawless skin, untouched by any blemish.
Her cheeks are high, faintly rosy, and in that moment she looks like a grieving deity.
But what truly seizes my attention—
A pair of feline ears twitch atop her head.
Where human ears should be, there is nothing.
She doesn't look like something born from evolution.
She looks like a being pulled straight from some ancient folklore.
But in a strange way, even as I feel her heartbeat thumping against my chest and the warmth of her bleeding body, I remain detached.
The sensations are real—unmistakably real—but if this were my previous life, I would have—
Screamed.
Begged.
Kowtowed.
I would have collapsed before others after someone died by my hands.
I would have felt flustered—ashamed—to even be touched by someone so otherworldly, so beautiful.
Yet my heart remains unmoved.
Only a single question troubles me.
"Why don't I feel any emotions?
And—
What is the nature of the things we call emotions?
Are they merely chemical reactions—dopamine, serotonin—bound to the flesh?
Are they inseparable from the body itself?
If that is true, then what am I right now?
Why does it feel as if a part of me has been stripped away?
I am no longer human—but something that has transcended, or perhaps lost, the bodily needs and desires that define humanity.
…So are emotions only connected to the body?
And if I were to fully possess this body—
Would I regain my humanity?"
I think more and more about the different possibilities.
Maybe I am detached from this reality—but that is a fact.
"I am.
Yet at the same time, my interaction with the outside world remains dull, unexciting—
and still, I can feel everything the owner of this body feels.
Every sensation.
Every physical response.
That is when I finally understand.
I am not free.
I am not reborn.
I am not living.
I am merely a prisoner of this body."