Darkness.
That was the first thing he felt. Not just around him, but inside his skull, as if his mind were a hollow cave.
"Ugh…" The groan tore from his throat as pain spiked so sharp he wanted to slam his head into the nearest wall.
Blue lanterns flickered faintly along cold stone walls, shadows twisting like drunk snakes with no music to follow.
He sniffed, wincing. The air stank of damp earth, stale incense, and something sharper—copper. Blood.
Nausea slammed into him, forcing him to clutch his forehead. His fingertips brushed a tender bump.
"Did I fall? Was I mugged?" His voice sounded alien, even to himself.
The room around him was bare—stone walls, no windows, a single rusty iron door. Panic tightened its grip around his chest.
And then the thought hit him.
Wait. What's my name? Who… the fuck… am I?
The questions echoed through his skull like gunshots. He clawed at his mind, desperate for anything—a name, a face, even some embarrassing childhood memory. Nothing. Just emptiness.
"Ah… fuck this." He pushed himself upright. Something slipped from his clothes and clinked against the floor.
A leather pouch. Half open. Coins spilled out, catching the lantern light.
He froze, then reached for one with trembling fingers. The instant his skin brushed the metal, a jolt ripped through him. His mind went white, and then—
A woman's gentle laugh. The taste of herbal tea. Rain pounding a stone roof.
And then pain—piercing, raw, a blade sliding straight into his chest.
"Aaagh!" He dropped the coin, clutching his head. Breath sawed from his lungs.
That felt real. Too real. A memory…?
Hands shaking, he gathered the pouch. Dozens of coins gleamed inside, each etched with strange runes, shimmering faintly like captured fragments of light.
He braced himself and picked up another.
Warmth spread through his chest. Images burst in—
A moonlit blade dripping blood. Sand grinding beneath heavy boots. Rage so hot it could melt bone.
He gasped, dropping it. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape his ribs.
Okay. Breathe. Focus.
Whoever I was… these were mine. Right?
He searched his pockets with frantic hands. His fingers found something folded—paper.
He opened it.
Trust no one. Not even yourself.
Each memory has a price.
Buy back only what you need.
His pulse spiked.
Trust no one? Not even myself? What the hell does that mean?
"Buy back?" His eyes dropped to the coins again. Their glow seemed almost alive. So these… are memories? Memories you can… buy?
"Ugh, what the fuck is this bullshit…" He raked his fingers through tangled black hair.
His stomach growled, sharp and hollow. Whatever else he was, he was still human. Still alive. Even if his soul felt like it had been scooped clean.
He stuffed the note back in his pocket, tied the pouch to his belt, and staggered to his feet.
A mirror hung crooked on the wall. He caught his reflection—sharp black eyes, shadowed and sunken. Jaw-length hair, tangled and matted. A faint scar cutting through his right brow. Burn marks curled around his neck like chains. His face was blank, as if nothing of him remained.
"Who… am I?" he whispered.
The silence answered with nothing. Anger sparked in his gut, raw and bitter.
Whoever did this to me… they'll pay.
But first, he needed answers.
He shoved open the door. Warm golden light stabbed into his eyes, forcing him to shield them. Voices drifted in—chants of merchants, crying children, muffled sobs.
When his vision cleared, he saw it: rows of tents sprawled under a cavern ceiling swallowed in shadow. Lanterns dangled above like false stars. Robed merchants hovered over trays of gleaming coins. Hollow-eyed people shuffled past, their faces empty as tombstones. The air reeked of desperation.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
A memory market.
His hand tightened on the pouch until his knuckles whitened.
He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was.
But staring at that twisted bazaar, one truth cut through the fog:
This world ran on memories.
And if he wanted to survive—
He'd have to buy back his life, one coin at a time.
...
He stumbled into the chaos of the market, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Ugh… what the fuck is this place…" he muttered.
People swarmed like frantic ants. Haggard old men in patchwork cloaks jostled with merchants whose cracked voices still shouted promises of bargains.
The smell hit him like a slap. Rotting fruit. Sweat-soaked bodies. Burnt incense. And under it all—blood.
Great. Just great. This place smells like shit.
He adjusted the pouch at his hip, tucking it deeper under his robe.
Voices rang out from the stalls around him.
[Basic Sword Forms]
[Cooking: Forest Herbs]
[Pain Resistance Training]
Cooking skills? Pain resistance? What the actual fuck…
His eyebrow twitched as he realized what he was looking at. Skills and memories, laid out on tables like vegetables in a street market.
"This world's so fucked up," he muttered.
A passing woman glanced at him as if he were already a corpse.
He clenched his jaw. First thing—figure out who he was. Everything else could wait.
"You there—blank-faced boy. First time in the Memory Market?"
The voice rasped like gravel dragged across stone. An old broker shuffled closer, wrapped in a brown robe. His hood shadowed most of his face, leaving only a crooked nose and cracked lips exposed.
The boy scowled. "What gave it away? My utter lack of will to live, or the confused goldfish expression?"
The broker chuckled, voice teasing. "Sharp tongue for a goldfish. Looking to buy?"
He hesitated. His gaze flicked over the trays—until it caught on a bronze coin etched with a serpent coiled around a blade. Something in him stirred.
"Combat skills," he said before he could stop himself. "Basic sword forms."
The broker's lips twitched. He plucked up the coin with careful fingers. "Freshly harvested. Young guard—clean footwork. Won't fry your brain."
"Hah. That's reassuring." His tone was dry. "How much?"
The broker extended his hand. "Payment: fear of heights coin."
"Fear of heights…?" He blinked. He didn't even know if he had that fear.
Seriously, who needs fear right now?
"Fine." He dug through the pouch until he found an iron coin etched with a rune of a falling man. His hand trembled as he passed it over. The broker slipped him the bronze coin in exchange.
"Press it to your temple," the broker instructed.
He drew a sharp breath. Fuck it.
The moment the bronze coin touched his skin, memories crashed through him.
A training yard under blazing sun. A rough wooden sword gripped tight, its weight heavy but solid in his hands. Sweat dripping down his spine. A voice barking—Step forward. Slash down. Pivot. Parry. Again. Again. Praise once, then twenty more cuts.
The rhythm burned into him, movements settling into his bones as if they'd always been his own.
Then—darkness. Silence.
He gasped, knees buckling. The coin slipped from his fingers as he clutched the stall post to stay upright.
"Ah… fuck…" His chest heaved, lungs dragging in ragged air. His eyes stung with tears, vision swimming.
But the stance, the grip, the balance—he felt them. Instinctive. Natural.
"Mhm. Not bad for the first time," the broker said, sliding the now-empty coin into a drawer. "First time's always rough."
He straightened slowly, sweat dripping off his chin. "Thanks… I guess."
The broker chuckled. "Don't thank me, boy. Just don't die before buying something useful."
He narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to—"
"Ah. One more thing." The broker leaned closer, stale herbs clinging to his breath.
"Memory Hunters prowl these stalls. Blank slates like you? Worth more than gold."
A shiver crawled down his spine. He tightened his grip on the pouch and turned away, vanishing into the throng before the old man could say more.
Great. Just fucking great.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Whoever I am… let's see how long I can keep my head on my shoulders."