Heat. That was the first thing Gin Chan felt—dry, oppressive heat that clung to his skin like a suffocating blanket. Grit lined his lips. Sand burned under his back. When he opened his eyes, a brilliant sun loomed high above, casting golden light across an endless desert.
He coughed, spitting out dust, and struggled to sit up. The world around him shimmered in waves of heat. Dunes stretched to the horizon, broken only by the distant silhouette of a crumbling temple. The air buzzed with silence.
His heart raced. Another life. Another body.
Gin Chan took in the clothes on his back—faded beige robes, loosely wrapped around his body, and a sash tied tight at his waist. A small blade hung at his side. He checked his hands—coarser, darker, with fingers adorned in faded ink and scars. A name surfaced in his mind like a wave breaking on the shore:
Nasir Joon.
A desert guide and rogue scholar from a forgotten oasis town in the kingdom of Naradan.
This life... it was different.
Knowledge flooded him: Nasir had grown up learning the old scriptures, raised by monks who believed the desert held sacred truths. But after a devastating sandstorm destroyed their temple, Nasir turned to smuggling relics and guiding wealthy tomb raiders through forbidden ruins. His last job had ended in betrayal—a royal expedition abandoned him to die after using his expertise.
And now... here I am, Gin Chan thought. Moments before death.
His throat was parched. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. He stumbled to his feet, squinting toward the crumbling temple. He had no map, no supplies—just fading memories and the desert sun.
Gin Chan shaded his eyes and began to walk.
Each step was agony. His inherited body—Nasir's—was already half-dead. Blisters covered his feet. His lips cracked. The temple ahead didn't seem to get any closer.
What am I supposed to learn from this one?
He thought about Death's words.
"You are Gin Chan. Don't forget that."
His identity was his anchor. But Nasir's thoughts were loud—regretful, bitter.
"I wanted truth," Gin Chan whispered, unsure if the words were his or Nasir's. "But truth doesn't feed an empty stomach."
A memory surfaced—Nasir's memory: kneeling before a shrine, asking the gods why knowledge had cost him everything.
The heat intensified. Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time bent in strange ways under the desert sun.
Then—shouts.
From behind a dune, a group of desert raiders appeared. They rode sandbeasts—massive lizards with armored scales and hissed war cries. Gin Chan tried to run, but his legs gave out. The riders closed in.
He reached for his blade, but it was ceremonial, not meant for battle.
One of the raiders dismounted, a cruel grin beneath his scarf. "Nasir Joon, the traitor scholar. Your sins finally catch up, eh?"
A blade flashed.
Pain lanced across Gin Chan's chest.
He collapsed, blood soaking into the sand.
---
The world faded.
And time stopped.
---
The realm of Death. Again.
Gin Chan lay on a slab of floating black stone. The stars swirled in stillness. A windless calm surrounded him.
Death approached, humming a tune. Her silver gun gleamed at her hip.
"You're starting to make me think you like visiting," she said, crouching beside him.
"I'm getting tired," Gin Chan muttered.
"Three down. Nine left."
He sat up. "I inherited everything. His guilt. His knowledge. His thirst for answers."
Death tilted her head. "Did you notice it yet? Each life brings you closer to something."
"What? Understanding?"
She smirked. "Something like that. But remember, pain isn't the goal. Awareness is."
"And what if I stop caring?"
She stood. "Then you'll lose your chance. And trust me, True Death is boring."
Her silver gun clicked.
He didn't flinch this time.
Bang.
The desert faded away.
A new life waited.