The world returned not with a bang, but with the whisper of black silk against pale skin.
Kenjiro Tanaka's consciousness swam up from an abyss of golden light, the phantom sensation of a reality-tearing portal still tingling at the edges of his soul. He expected… something. An afterlife, a void, a final, merciful blackness. He did not expect the familiar, cloying scent of potpourri and old wood. He did not expect the weight of a heavy, brocaded duvet. He did not expect to be small.
His eyes fluttered open. The room was a perfect, heartbreaking replica of the one he had first woken up in. The high, dark wooden beams of the ceiling, the stained-glass windows casting dancing patterns of deep purple and crimson on the stone walls, the lavish four-poster bed… it was all exactly as he remembered. A jolt, more powerful than any lightning bolt Taguro had ever conjured, shot through his very core. This wasn't a new reincarnation. This was a reset.
He was back. Back at the beginning.
