The world was a blur of gray static for as long as I could remember. My name was Genchi Uta, and in my first life, I was a hollow shell. Since the moment I was born, nothing ever surprised me. Nothing ever interested or fascinated me. I moved through school, through books, and through reading like a ghost drifting through a thick fog. To my mother, I was a constant source of worry—a child who looked at the vibrant world with dull, lifeless eyes.
Then came the festival.
I remember my mother's unhappy, tired expression as she dragged me through the crowd. I was just walking along, looking as dull as ever. And then, I saw it. It was a mask. To this day, I don't know why it felt so good, but the moment I saw it, my life—my eyes—finally filled with brightness. I pointed a trembling hand toward it. The emotion, the feeling... everything felt right just by looking at it.
When we got home, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I tried to carve my own, but it didn't spark that same feeling. From that day on, I was obsessed. In middle school, I never made friends; I just kept practicing my mask-making. I decided then that I would become a professional mask-maker and create the most beauteous masks in the world. I was smart, but I didn't care for anything else—only the function and form of the mask.
I skipped the traditional college path and went straight into an apprenticeship. I was so excited when they explained the techniques of the trade. Five years later, I was a grown man of thirty-five with my own shop. People loved my work, but the obsession never left me. Any new mask I saw, I instantly snapped a photo with my phone.
On my thirty-sixth birthday, I was walking home, scrolling through different masks on my phone. I looked up and saw a little girl in the distance wearing a mask, dancing and holding her mother's hand. Seeing her like that made me genuinely happy. I looked back down at my phone, then back up—and my heart stopped. The girl was in the road. I wasn't paying attention to the traffic, but a truck was barreling toward her. I ran, pushing her away just as the metal slammed into me.
As I was dying, my life didn't flash before my eyes; my work did. I'm not ready to die yet, I thought. I still have so many masks to see, so many masks to create. But as the light faded, I felt a strange grace knowing the girl with the mask was safe.
I thought I would be drifting into nothingness. Instead, I opened my eyes to a warm hand. A woman was holding me.
Whoa, lady, I tried to say. I'm a grown man! Why are you holding me like this? But all that came out was baby talk—meaningless gibberish. I was a baby again.
Two years passed. My name was now Yugi. It didn't take me long to understand the language of this world. My mother was a commoner who hauled livestock; we were poor, and she worked daily carrying heavy loads. Whenever she came home, she would look at me and say, "Yugi, once you reach the age of thirteen, everything will be okay." She held so much hope for that day.
By age four, I could read, write, and do math. I still hungered for my past passion, but my weak body couldn't do anything, and materials cost money we didn't have. I started school at five, but the "Academy" was a joke compared to my old world—they were teaching things I already knew.
At six, I learned the truth of this place: the World of Ego. There were five races—Humans, Elves, Demi-humans, Vampires, and Ogres—separated across five nations on different continents, all in conflict. Humans were the weakest. In this world, God granted "Classes" at age thirteen during a Baptism. If you got a useful class—Knight, Mage, Blacksmith—you were sent to the Kingdom. If your class was useless, you were considered "livestock," a laughingstock for the other races.
I wondered if there was a "Mask Maker" class. Probably not, I thought.
Four years passed. I was ten, helping my mom and secretly trying to create masks. They always came out rough because I lacked the tools of my previous life. My mother would ask what I was doing, and I'd just say I was trying to create something.
Then came the day of the Baptism. Ten of us gathered at 10:00 AM. The first boy touched the crystal ball, and [Blacksmith] appeared on the rock. Others got [Swordman] or [Magecraft]. Then, it was my turn. I placed my hand on the stone. A light flared, and the words appeared:
[Class: Mask Maker]
The entire village stared. "What the hell is a Mask Maker?" they whispered. The Priest, who had checked thousands of classes, said he had never heard of it in his entire life. He announced that the others would receive scholarships and their parents would be compensated, but he said nothing to me.
I was in shock. I could actually make masks! But as I walked home, the villagers gossiped about my "useless" class. My mother's face fell when I told her. She was deeply disappointed and went to sleep in silence. I spent the next year trying to activate a skill, trying to make the class work, but nothing happened. I felt like I had been granted a useless gift.
At fifteen, the Knights arrived to take the nine "useful" children to the testing grounds. I wasn't invited. I looked at my mother and asked, "Are you disappointed in me?"
"No," she said softly. "Do you remember why I called you Yugi? You always wanted to create something, even when it came out wrong. Is that the class you were given?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I won't lie," she sighed. "When I first saw the class, I was done. But I realized... you've been trying to make these since you were a toddler." She handed me a bag filled with materials and food. "Take this load. Go see the world. Go and be the best."
I stood at the edge of the village, looking out at the vast horizon of Ego. I wasn't a Knight or a Mage, but the fire of Genchi Uta was roaring in my chest.
"I am going to start my journey," I whispered to the wind. "I am going to create the world's finest masks.