Weeks passed in a haze of quiet normalcy. Shinjiru's life, at least on the surface, had returned to what one might call ordinary. School routines, homework, the dull hum of classmates gossiping between classes—it all felt natural, familiar, and painfully unremarkable. Yet a subtle restlessness clung to him, one he could not name or explain. It was not dissatisfaction, exactly, but a sensation of incompleteness, like reading the last page of a book and knowing the story wasn't truly finished.
Shinjiru had come to accept the normalcy. He laughed with friends during lunch, exchanged greetings with neighbors, and even tried to join the local soccer team for a brief period of fleeting, human camaraderie. But every so often, his hand would twitch unconsciously, mimicking a motion that made no sense—a flick of a chain, a sweep of imaginary energy. The violet shard rested safely in a small box under his bed, pulsing faintly when he was near it, though he had no idea why.
Then, one afternoon, the ordinary cracked.
A letter arrived, unremarkable in size but exuding an aura of unmistakable authority. It was cream-colored, its edges crisp, sealed with an indigo wax emblem that shimmered faintly in the light. Shinjiru stared at it, turning the envelope over in his hands. There was no return address, no indication of who might have sent it. Only his name was written across the front, elegantly scrawled in ink that seemed to glow faintly when he tilted the paper.
Shinjiru Arakami.
The weight of the name on the envelope felt strange—familiar, almost intimate, yet utterly foreign. Curiosity, the kind that had defined every small choice he had made in life, won over hesitation. He broke the seal with trembling fingers, unfolding the letter carefully, almost reverently.
Inside, the words were few but heavy:
You are invited to participate in the Succession Games of the Serium Realm. Acceptance is voluntary. Arrival required by next full moon.
The rest of the page was blank, save for a faint indigo insignia at the bottom—an emblem that felt like it belonged to a world he couldn't remember. Shinjiru's brow furrowed. His stomach twisted in a mixture of excitement and confusion. He had never heard of the Succession Games, nor had he ever imagined such a thing existed. And yet, the writing seemed to hum against his skin, tugging at something deep inside him, something instinctual.
He held the letter close, feeling the faint pulse of the violet shard in his pocket respond to it. The shard vibrated in resonance, as if sensing the importance of the message. Shinjiru's hand tightened around the paper. His mind raced with questions—who had sent it? Why him? And, most urgently, what lay waiting in the Serium Realm?
He tried to dismiss it as a prank, a fanciful story for someone seeking adventure. But something in the letter, in the way the ink shimmered, felt undeniably real. His pulse quickened, a strange thrill crawling along his spine. There was a magnetism here, a calling, though he did not yet understand its meaning.
Days crawled slowly, each moment stretching longer than the last. The full moon drew nearer, and with it, the unavoidable decision. Shinjiru stared at the violet shard lying innocently on his desk, its faint pulse echoing the beat of his own heart. Somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness, a spark whispered to him, urging him forward, urging him to step beyond the confines of ordinary life and into a world he did not remember but somehow recognized.
When the evening of the full moon arrived, Shinjiru stood before the glowing ring of light that marked the location of the Travel Band—a simple metallic hoop, embedded in the ground with symbols that hummed faintly with unseen energy. He paused, hands hovering over the archway. A deep breath filled his lungs. His instincts—the muscle memory of battle and training he could not consciously recall—flickered to life, guiding him.
The world beyond waited, silent, luminous, and impossible. Architecture of crystalline towers stretched impossibly into the sky, gardens of glowing flora spiraled across terraces, and the air itself shimmered with a subtle energy that made the hair on his arms stand on end. The Serium Realm had always existed somewhere beyond the veil of human perception, a hidden lattice between life and essence, and now, it unfolded before him in breathtaking clarity.
A figure approached, calm yet commanding. White robes swirled around their feet, a golden rim tracing the edges of their aura. It was Kaoru Myojin, the White-Gold Monk. Even without memory, Shinjiru felt a strange sense of recognition, a pull in his chest as though the world itself knew him.
"Welcome, participants," Kaoru said, his voice both stern and welcoming, resonating through the plaza. "The Succession Games will test skill, strategy, endurance, and moral judgment. Only one may ascend to the 9th Elite Himen. Every choice you make here will echo through the realms."
Shinjiru's pulse quickened. Despite the blank slate of his memory, his body knew how to react. Reflexes sharpened, instincts stirred. The violet-silver aura that had once ignited in battle flickered faintly around him, a whisper of power waiting for permission to rise. Chains seemed to coil instinctively in his mind's eye, ready to lash, block, and strike.
The first trial began—a sprawling arena of shifting platforms suspended over the Essence Chasm. The platforms floated high above crystalline rivers of essence, their patterns changing unpredictably, testing balance, reflexes, and strategy. Participants stumbled, some falling into harmless but humiliating pits below. Shinjiru, guided by instinct alone, leapt and twisted, chains snapping forward to stabilize and strike as if he had been trained for this all his life.
Even without memory, his body remembered. His movements were fluid, precise, and deadly. With each jump, each swing of the chains, he felt a fragment of himself awaken—a fragment of the boy who had once fought against Krawlers, who had once saved both human and Himen lives.
When the trial ended, Shinjiru stood panting on a platform that had shifted to the farthest edge of the arena, watching the other participants struggle. He had passed without error, unscathed, his instinctive mastery of chains and aura setting him apart.
Kaoru's gaze found him, and for a brief moment, Shinjiru felt that unspoken recognition again—a subtle acknowledgment that the boy before him was something extraordinary, even without knowing who he truly was.
The violet shard in his pocket pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. Somewhere deep inside, the dormant power of the first hybrid—the only one in history—waited, preparing for the moment it would be called forth once more.
And for the first time since his rebirth, Shinjiru felt the stirrings of destiny brush against him, light as a whisper, heavy as inevitability.