WARNING:
This novel may depict sensitive topics such as mental illness, suicide, and graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.
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The world was silent, save for the faint hum of the ceiling fan turning slowly above Kiyoshi’s head. He lay on his bed, staring at the spinning blades, his eyes empty, void of the emotion that once flickered behind them. The white walls of his room closed in like a cage, trapping him in the very life that had spiraled beyond his control. The ridiculing laughter of his classmates still echoed in his ears, each sneer, each whisper, ripping at him like jagged glass.
Freak. Psycho. Monster.
The words clung to him like a second skin. His fingers twitched, tightening against the bedsheet as if holding onto the last piece of stability he had left. But even that was slipping. He was slipping. For too long, he had lived with the weight of his mind breaking, the storm of thoughts swirling, relentless and merciless. No one understood. They never did.
His only friend, Daisuke, had tried once—tried to reach him, to pull him from the abyss. But Kiyoshi had lashed out, hurt him in ways he could never take back. That day haunted him. The sight of Daisuke’s blood on his hands, his friend's broken look, the mother’s sorrowful cries—they followed him into every waking moment, tainting everything he touched. He was toxic. Poison.
Tonight, the weight was too much.
Kiyoshi sat up slowly, his limbs heavy, his mind a haze. His eyes drifted across the room to the small desk in the corner. A note sat neatly on top, the words scrawled in shaky handwriting: I’m sorry.
That was all he could leave behind. Apologies that would never be enough, words that couldn’t mend the damage he had done. But he didn’t have the strength to keep pretending. Not anymore. His feet shuffled to the door of his room. He didn’t look back, didn’t need to.
With quiet steps, Kiyoshi moved through the empty house, everything shrouded in the dim glow of the moon. It was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and never left. In the kitchen, a chair scraped against the tile as he pulled it out. His hands moved methodically, almost detached, as he tied the rope and secured it above. There was no hesitation in his movements, no second thoughts.
As he placed the rope around his neck, the only thing that crossed his mind was the image of Daisuke, broken and bleeding. He closed his eyes.
I’m sorry.
Then, everything went black.
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Kiyoshi’s breath caught in his throat as he gasped, choking on air that filled his lungs too quickly. His eyes shot open, the dim kitchen and the suffocating rope gone, replaced by warmth and the smell of lavender. His body felt different, smaller, younger. Panic rose in his chest as he sat up too fast, his head spinning from the sudden motion.
Where was he?
The room around him was luxurious—elegant furniture, satin curtains, and a large bed with golden trimmings. Everything felt surreal, too clean, too rich. His heart pounded as he looked down at his hands. They weren’t his hands—these were too soft, too unscarred. His body wasn’t his own.
Before Kiyoshi could gather his thoughts, the door to the room creaked open. A woman in a long, flowing dress entered, her gaze warm but cautious as she approached him.
“Are you feeling better, young master?” she asked softly, her voice gentle but unfamiliar.
Young master?
Kiyoshi stared at her, his mind reeling. He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, and his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. “Where… where am I?”
The woman blinked, surprise flashing across her face. “You’re home, my lord. The fever must have made you delirious. I shall fetch the physician at once.”
She hurried out before he could ask more. Kiyoshi’s heart raced, confusion and fear battling in his chest. Home? This wasn’t his home. This wasn’t his life.
He stumbled out of bed, his legs weak but functional. Walking to the nearest mirror, he froze as he looked at the reflection before him. A boy, no older than fifteen, stared back at him. The face wasn’t his, but the eyes—those haunted, hollow eyes—were unmistakable. He reached up, touching his pale skin, the unfamiliar hair falling over his forehead.
What… what is this?
The memories rushed back like a flood—the rope, the darkness, the emptiness of his life before this moment. And yet, here he was, alive, in a world that wasn’t his own.
Panic seized him, the air growing thick as his mind raced. It didn’t make sense. Was this hell? A twisted afterlife? Why was he here? Why wasn’t he dead?
Before he could think further, a sharp knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. The woman from earlier returned with a man in long robes, who immediately began inspecting Kiyoshi with a critical eye.
“He’s awake,” the physician murmured. “Good. But something still seems… off.”
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Kiyoshi’s chest tightened. He couldn’t find the words. His mouth felt strange, like it didn’t belong to him. When he tried to speak, the words came out slurred, confused. “Who… where am I? Why am I…?”
The physician exchanged a glance with the woman. “It seems the fever has addled his mind. Give him rest. He will regain his senses in time.”
They left, but Kiyoshi’s panic only grew. This wasn’t just a fever. This was something far worse.
As the hours passed, Kiyoshi sat in silence, staring at his unfamiliar hands. He wasn’t dreaming. He was here, in this world, trapped in the body of a boy with a life he didn’t know. The echoes of his past life clawed at him, reminding him of everything he had tried to leave behind.
The familiar sense of being out of place, of being unwanted, returned swiftly as days passed. His new family didn’t understand him, his strange speech and distant behavior unnerving them. Worse, he couldn’t grasp the magic that everyone around him seemed to wield effortlessly. Every failure was another nail in the coffin of his new life, the whispered words of useless, worthless, magicless filling his mind once again.
It was the same here. No matter where he went, the world found a way to push him out.
Eventually, they did.
His new family had grown tired of the burden he posed—his inability to cast magic, his strange mannerisms, and the dull, haunted look that never left his eyes. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks of disgust and confusion. A noble family couldn’t afford to have such a disgrace tied to them, a child who couldn’t speak properly, who struggled to follow even basic social norms.
And so, without ceremony, they cast him out.
It wasn’t a dramatic affair. No arguments, no tears. They simply told him to leave, no longer acknowledging him as one of their own. Kiyoshi didn’t resist. What would be the point? His mind was too fractured, his will too broken. As he walked away from the mansion, from the so-called home that had never truly accepted him, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Rejection, abandonment—it was all too familiar. It was as if life, no matter what form it took, always found a way to push him into the shadows.
He wandered through the vast, unfamiliar world for days, hunger gnawing at his insides and exhaustion threatening to claim him. With no money, no shelter, and no purpose, he became just another nameless, faceless figure in the crowds that passed him by. His once rich, noble clothing became tattered and filthy, his skin pale and malnourished, and his eyes—once hollow—became devoid of any life.
The world had turned cold again, but this time, he didn’t feel it. The chill, the hunger, the thirst—none of it mattered. Not anymore.
It was on the fourth day of his aimless wandering that his body finally gave in. He collapsed in an alley, his legs giving out beneath him, sending him crashing onto the rough stone ground. He didn’t try to get up. His vision blurred as he stared at the cracks in the cobblestones, the world dimming around him.
But just as the darkness threatened to claim him, rough hands grabbed him by the arms. Kiyoshi felt himself being dragged, though he had no strength left to resist. The voices were distant, as if underwater, but he could still hear them.
“This one’s barely alive, but he’ll fetch a price.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll do fine for labor. If he survives, that is.”
Kiyoshi’s mind registered the words, but they meant nothing to him. He was too far gone to care about where they were taking him. Too broken to fight back.
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When Kiyoshi came to again, he was no longer in the alley. His surroundings were dimly lit by flickering lanterns, the air thick with the stench of sweat and grime. He was lying on a cold, hard floor, his wrists and ankles bound in chains. The faint clinking sound echoed through what seemed to be a narrow, filthy cell.
He tried to sit up, but his body ached from days of malnourishment and exhaustion. When he finally managed to pull himself upright, he realized where he was—a slave market. The dim voices and shuffling feet outside the bars of his cage confirmed it.
It didn’t surprise him. Somehow, it felt right. This is what he was, wasn’t it? A discarded, unwanted thing. Something to be sold, used, and thrown away again. He rested his head against the cold metal bars, closing his eyes as he sank into the void within himself.
The days passed in a blur. Kiyoshi was brought out to the market with the others, displayed like cattle for potential buyers. He barely registered the faces that passed by, the ones that sneered or ignored him entirely. Until one day, a man—a sadistic noble with a cruel smile and a twisted glint in his eye—made his purchase.
That’s when the real torment began.
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Kiyoshi’s new life as a slave was a living nightmare. His master was cruel, taking sick pleasure in inflicting pain on his servants. Kiyoshi became his favorite target. The beatings came daily, each one more brutal than the last, the noble breaking him down piece by piece. Each blow felt like a confirmation of what Kiyoshi already knew—he was nothing. Worthless. Empty.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Time blurred as Kiyoshi’s body weakened under the constant strain. His master found new ways to torment him, always eager to push him closer to death, but never quite allowing him the release of it. The other slaves pitied him at first, but over time, even they began to avoid him, as if his misery was contagious.
Soon, Kiyoshi felt nothing. The pain, the humiliation, the cruelty—it all became background noise. His body moved automatically, performing tasks as his master ordered, but his mind was gone, retreating deep into the recesses of his broken psyche. He no longer thought, no longer felt. His heart had long since become numb to the world.
The man he had been was dead.
But even his master grew bored eventually. When Kiyoshi stopped reacting to the beatings, stopped showing any signs of pain or fear, the noble’s amusement faded. There was no joy in torturing a lifeless doll. So, one day, without a word, the master threw him out, like garbage.
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Kiyoshi now roamed the streets, a shadow of a person. His skin had turned pale and sickly, his body thin and frail, every bone visible beneath the skin. His once hollow eyes were now entirely dead—devoid of any spark, any recognition of life. He walked aimlessly, without purpose, without thought.
Until the day he saw her.
He had been lying in the filth of an alley, too weak to move, when something caught his eye. A girl, walking gracefully along the street, surrounded by a procession of guards. She was beautiful, her long, flowing gown glittering in the sunlight, her golden hair shining like a halo. The crowd parted for her, heads bowed in reverence.
Kiyoshi’s heart, long cold and dead, gave the faintest flicker of life. It was like a spark in the darkness—a brief moment of something unfamiliar. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t comprehend why the sight of this girl, this beautiful, innocent princess, stirred something within him.
But it did.
He watched her, his hollow eyes following her every step, as if she were a light in the endless night he had been trapped in.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Kiyoshi wanted something.
He didn’t know why. He didn’t understand it. But something inside him—the last piece of his fractured soul—began to move.
I have to get closer…