Millet sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees, eyes cast downward.
The air in the room was warmer now, slowly rising with the light that seeped through the window. He hadn't moved for a while — not since the moment he realized something wasn't right. Or rather, that he wasn't right.
He didn't know what it was exactly.
But it sat inside him, quiet and coiled, like a thought just out of reach. A wrongness that clung to his bones and whispered through his blood. No matter how far he reached, no matter how deeply he focused, he couldn't pull the memory of before into clarity. Just the certainty.
I'm not from here… am I?
His fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers, then relaxed.
Maybe it didn't matter right now. Whoever he was before — whatever name he had worn — it had been swallowed by this world. What remained was Millet. An orphan. A student. A survivor. That identity, at least, came with structure. With purpose.
And it was already morning.
The sun had breached the horizon, casting its golden breath across the sky. Outside, the city stirred. Voices rose in the street — vendors calling out to early customers, wheels creaking, hooves clacking against stone roads. Life was continuing, as it always did.
And Millet… well, he had a class to attend.
He stood up slowly, rubbing the last traces of sleep — and confusion — from his eyes. The drawer beside the bed opened with a soft click. He pulled out a folded towel, the cloth smelling faintly of soap and time. Slinging it over his shoulder, he stepped toward the door.
The apartment number was etched into the old wood in brass plating: 304.
Outside, the hallway was narrow, lined with faded wallpaper and iron pipes overhead. He climbed the stairs one floor up, the creaking wood beneath his steps a rhythm that somehow grounded him. Fourth floor. Communal bathroom.
The door swung open with a groan.
Steam clung faintly to the tiles, the window high above barely letting the morning air inside. The tap hissed to life, and cold water gave way to warmth. Millet stripped, stepping into the stream and letting it wash over his skin.
His thoughts were quieter here.
This body — his body now — was lean but not frail. Tall. If he had to guess, around six-foot-one. There were no obvious scars or strange marks. Just smooth, pale skin and a frame that hadn't done hard labor but had walked long roads. His hair was black, a little messy now, but not long enough to be a problem.
When he emerged, towel wrapped around his waist, the steam followed him back down the stairs. His bare feet thudded softly against the wooden floor until he reached his door again.
Back inside, he moved with silent purpose.
From the same drawer, he pulled out a crisp white shirt. It had a narrow collar, stiff but neat, the kind used for formal occasions or public institutions. The fabric was smooth against his fingers as he buttoned it up.
Next came the long linen trousers — dark, clean, and well-maintained. He slid them on, then reached for the overall jacket hanging nearby. It was official-looking, cut in a way that added presence to even a commoner's frame. As he shrugged it on, something inside the pocket shifted.
He paused and reached in.
A watch.
Silver-lined, its face protected by glass etched with thin filigree. The small click as he opened the cover echoed faintly in the stillness. The second hand swept across the dial with quiet precision.
Millet smiled faintly.
He remembered buying it.
Or rather, Millet had — on the first week of his university life. It was expensive. Not ostentatious, but enough to feel like a victory. A small rebellion against the life he had been born into. The weight of it in his palm brought back a strange comfort, even if it wasn't his memory in the truest sense.
He placed it on his wrist and reached under the bed for a pair of polished black shoes.
Then, with practiced ease, he reached above his head and pulled down the hat hanging on the wall. Wide-brimmed and dark, it matched the jacket — completing the look of a young man trying to stand tall in a world that never expected anything of him.
He looked in the mirror. A simple thing, with a wooden frame and a comb hooked behind it.
The reflection that stared back wasn't foreign anymore. Familiar, maybe not. But accepted.
Millet.
That was who he had to be.
He picked up the comb, ran it once through his damp hair, then reached for the leather satchel resting on the chair. A few heavy books went in first, followed by a notebook, a pen, and a worn slip of paper — likely a schedule or assignment sheet.
He took one last glance at the room — the bed, the books, the lamp in the corner still humming faintly — and stepped out, locking the door behind him.
The stairwell was dim, but by the time he reached the ground floor, sunlight was streaming through the cracked windows of the lobby. He pushed open the front door and stepped into the street.
The city was alive.
Aerith.
The capital of the United Sovereign Empire.
Out here in the outskirts, it was quieter — less marble, more brick. The roads were paved but cracked in places. Pipes ran overhead in some areas, guiding steam and gas to the inner districts. Vendors were already shouting out prices for bread and fruit. The air carried the scent of roasted barley and coal.
Millet adjusted the strap of his satchel and began walking.
He didn't have enough money for a cart.
Not the horse-drawn ones, not the steam-powered ones either. Even though they rattled down the road in every direction — iron, wood, and smoke weaving together like the veins of a living machine — he chose to walk. From the memories he had, the university was only forty-five minutes away on foot.
He could save the coin.
So he walked.
He passed rows of tightly packed apartments, their roofs slanted with rusting gutters. Children played in alleys, watched over by tired mothers. A mechanic hammered away at a broken wheel. Somewhere nearby, an old radio crackled with the morning news.
It was a city trying to wake up.
As he moved closer to the heart of Aerith, the scenery shifted.
The buildings grew taller. Cleaner. Ornate columns rose between glass windows. Steam vents hissed into the morning air. Men in overcoats hurried past, talking into handheld receivers. Women in long skirts walked with briefcases tucked neatly under their arms.
And finally… it came into view.
Aerith University.
It stood in the center of the capital like a fortress of learning — massive, ancient, yet modernized. The outer walls were five meters high, made of dark grey stone reinforced with iron plates. Gated arches loomed overhead, each gate manned by uniformed guards and buzzing terminals.
Beyond them, towers rose into the sky — each one dedicated to different faculties. Commerce. Engineering. History. Law. The banners of the Empire flew high on metal poles, catching the wind with slow dignity.
Millet walked toward the central gate, merging with the crowd.
Dozens of students were funneling in — some dressed in tailored coats like him, others in more casual wear. The wealth gap was clear, even in uniforms. But no one looked out of place. That was the change Velyun III had made.
As Millet reached the gate, his steps slowed.
His eyes drifted to the other students — to their faces, their voices. Would anyone notice? Could they tell?
What if someone sees through me?
He swallowed hard.
No. I have to act like Millet today.
He tightened his grip on the strap.
The guards barely looked at him. One scanned the ID tag clipped to his jacket, gave a brief nod, and motioned him through. The moment passed like a breath.
He was inside.
The stone path ahead split into several walkways, each leading to a different hall. Students chatted. Some walked briskly, some strolled. Pigeons pecked at crumbs near the fountain. The bell tower began to chime, its sound deep and sonorous.
Millet kept walking, lost in the crowd.
A stranger in a familiar world.
And no one had noticed.
Not yet.