Chapter 1 – The Train That Should Not Have Been
Part 1 – The Ride
The train was old.
Not in the charming, preserved-for-tourists kind of way, but in the way of forgotten machinery that refused to break down even when the world around it had long since moved on. Brass fittings dulled to a muddy sheen clung stubbornly to the carriage doors. The wooden benches creaked at every shift of weight, worn smooth by generations of passengers who never remembered the ride itself.
Hitori Koji sat near the window of the second-to-last carriage, his reflection rippling in the glass. The lamps overhead flickered in tired rhythm, fighting against the encroaching dusk outside.
It was not unusual for him to ride trains. That was his excuse to himself, anyway. But tonight, the air carried something different—thicker, heavier. Every breath tasted metallic, as though the rails themselves exhaled into the carriage.
He looked down at the phone in his hand.
The screen glowed softly, familiar and comforting. A manga app, an old favourite, pages of Bleach scrolling past beneath his thumb. He knew these chapters intimately—so much so that reading them now was more ritual than discovery. Each panel sparked memory, each line of dialogue carried the weight of inevitability.
And yet, something was off.
The ink blurred around the edges. Rukia's sharp eyes lost definition, smudging into shadows. Ichigo's hair seemed wrong—slightly longer, or shorter, or perhaps a shade too dark. When Koji blinked, it snapped back into place, perfect again.
His lips twitched. "Must be tired."
He wasn't.
⸻
The carriage rocked gently. A newspaper rustled a few seats down, where an elderly man buried himself behind yellowed print. A couple whispered in the row ahead, their heads tilted close, words too low to catch. A child stared out the opposite window, unblinking, as if waiting for something only he could see.
Ordinary, Koji told himself.
But when he tried to picture their faces, he realized he couldn't.
The child's features dissolved when he wasn't looking, like a dream upon waking. The couple's murmurs blurred into static the moment he tried to focus on them. Even the old man's hands, clutching the paper, seemed oddly… generic.
It was like remembering characters from a book you'd read years ago—you knew they were there, but the details slipped away when pressed.
Koji frowned, rubbing his eyes.
This is too much like the stories, he thought. The wrong kind of foreshadowing.
⸻
The lights flickered overhead. Once. Twice. The rhythm of the train wheels faltered, skipping a beat before resuming their iron song.
No one else reacted.
Koji's chest tightened. He glanced at the passengers again. The old man turned a page. The couple leaned closer. The child pressed his forehead to the glass. Nothing out of place, nothing unusual.
But the silence was too complete.
He tried to speak—to ask, to joke, to break the hush. The words stuck in his throat, drying out before they could form. His reflection in the window mouthed them anyway, silent and pale, eyes hollow.
His phone vibrated once in his hand. He looked down.
The screen had gone black.
⸻
Koji pressed the button. No response. He held the power switch. Nothing. His phone wasn't dead—it was gone. Not broken, not malfunctioning, but gone. He blinked, and his hand was empty.
His pulse kicked. He patted his pockets. Empty. No phone. No memory of ever having owned one.
Except he did remember.
He had been reading. He knew he had. The last panel, the last line of dialogue—it was still fresh in his mind. But when he tried to summon the image of the phone itself, it slipped away, like water through clenched fingers.
He looked up.
The child was gone. The couple was gone. The old man was gone.
The carriage was empty.
⸻
The train groaned, metal bending against metal. The lamps above shattered, plunging the carriage into darkness. For a moment, only the sound of the wheels remained, grinding too fast, too heavy, as though the train were dragging the weight of the world behind it.
Then silence.
The train shuddered once. Stilled.
Koji's breath rasped in his ears. He reached blindly for something—anything—but the wooden bench beneath him was gone. The floor dissolved under his shoes. He staggered forward, expecting to crash into metal walls, but his hands found only empty air.
The darkness peeled back.
And he stood beneath an endless night sky.
⸻
That was when the narration intruded—quiet, inevitable, indifferent.
The train had always been a passage. Not between stations, but between worlds.
⸻
Koji's heart thudded in his chest. His shoes scraped against cobblestone. Lanterns lined the street, their pale flames flickering against wooden houses that stretched into shadow. The air smelled of dust and smoke, of centuries compressed into silence.
The train was gone.
The passengers were gone.
The world he knew was gone.
Only Koji remained.
And already, the silence whispered: You will not be remembered.
Part 2 – The First Hollow
Koji's lungs burned. The air here was heavier, thicker, as though every breath dragged centuries of dust with it. He stood rooted to the cobblestones, eyes darting between lanterns that flickered with a pale, almost sickly light. The street was wide, but empty—eerily so.
The silence pressed in
It was not the silence of peace, nor of loneliness. It was the silence of absence. The kind that followed after something had been stripped away.
He tried to steady himself.
This is Rukongai, he thought with disbelief. It can't be, but it is.
The wooden houses lining the avenue were unmistakable. He had seen them in drawings, in animation, in panels of black and white ink. But this was no manga. This was stone, wood, breath, the creak of old shutters swaying in the wind.
I was just reading… His thoughts tangled, snagging on themselves. The train, the phone, the…
A scream cut him off.
High-pitched, raw, tearing through the silence.
Koji spun toward it. At the end of the street, shadows writhed. They thickened, stretched, peeled away from the walls as though alive. A figure took shape—towering, grotesque. A mask, bone-white and jagged, emerged first, followed by a body of writhing black matter.
A Hollow.
Koji froze. His mind knew the word instantly, but his body refused to move. It was too fast, too sudden—this wasn't fiction anymore. The air around the Hollow vibrated with hunger. Its empty eyes fixed on him.
It roared.
Koji stumbled back. His legs nearly gave out beneath him. He had no weapon, no plan, no—
His hand brushed something at his hip.
Smooth. Solid. A hilt.
⸻
He had not carried a sword before. He knew this. But when his palm closed around the grip, recognition flared. Not surprise, not confusion—recognition.
The whisper followed.
[You are forgotten the moment they look away.]
The words slid into his mind, neither spoken nor heard, but known. They coiled through his thoughts, cold and certain, as if they had always been there, waiting for the moment he reached for the blade.
Koji's lips parted. The name surfaced, unbidden.
Shōmetsu.
⸻
The Hollow lunged.
Instinct moved him. Koji drew the blade in one fluid motion. Steel sang against the night, and shadows split like paper.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then the Hollow was gone.
Not defeated, not destroyed—gone. No corpse, no reishi dispersal, no trace it had ever stood before him.
Koji staggered forward, panting. His knuckles whitened on the hilt. The street was empty again. No screaming voice, no monster, no proof. Only his ragged breathing broke the stillness.
The sword pulsed faintly in his hand, then dissolved into mist, seeping between his fingers until nothing remained.
He stared at his palm. Empty. Cold.
"What…" His voice cracked. "What just happened?"
⸻
The lanterns flickered. The wooden houses loomed, silent and dark.
Koji turned slowly. Hadn't there been a light in one of the windows before? He could swear someone had screamed. But now every shutter was closed. Every door sealed. No signs of life.
Had anyone been here at all?
The thought clawed at him, gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
He clutched his chest. His heartbeat thundered, too loud. He felt as though he was vanishing, slipping away, piece by piece.
The whisper returned.
[They will not remember you.]
⸻
Koji squeezed his eyes shut.
"No," he hissed. "No, I'm—"
But the denial broke before it could form. Because deep down, he knew. He had felt it on the train, when faces blurred and names dissolved. He had felt it in the moment the Hollow vanished without trace.
The world itself refused to acknowledge him.
He exhaled shakily. "So that's my ability, then…"
His laugh was hollow. Bitter. "A blade that erases. And a wielder who can't be remembered."
He looked down at his empty hand. It trembled, though he didn't know whether from fear or from the weight of inevitability.
⸻
Far down the avenue, the wind shifted. Dust curled along the cobblestones. Koji straightened slowly, forcing his body into motion.
There were questions, countless questions, but one truth pressed above all:
If he stayed still, he would vanish.
He had no allies here. No train to return to. No phone, no manga, no proof that the world he had known had ever existed.
All he had was his name.
Hitori Koji.
A name no one would remember.
⸻
The narration intruded again, indifferent, inevitable.
The reader does not belong to the story. And yet, the story has swallowed him whole.
Part 2 – The First Hollow
Koji's lungs burned. The air here was heavier, thicker, as though every breath dragged centuries of dust with it. He stood rooted to the cobblestones, eyes darting between lanterns that flickered with a pale, almost sickly light. The street was wide, but empty—eerily so.
The silence pressed in.
It was not the silence of peace, nor of loneliness. It was the silence of absence. The kind that followed after something had been stripped away.
He tried to steady himself.
This is Rukongai, he thought with disbelief. It can't be, but it is.
The wooden houses lining the avenue were unmistakable. He had seen them in drawings, in animation, in panels of black and white ink. But this was no manga. This was stone, wood, breath, the creak of old shutters swaying in the wind.
I was just reading… His thoughts tangled, snagging on themselves. The train, the phone, the…
A scream cut him off.
High-pitched, raw, tearing through the silence.
Koji spun toward it. At the end of the street, shadows writhed. They thickened, stretched, peeled away from the walls as though alive. A figure took shape—towering, grotesque. A mask, bone-white and jagged, emerged first, followed by a body of writhing black matter.
A Hollow.
Koji froze. His mind knew the word instantly, but his body refused to move. It was too fast, too sudden—this wasn't fiction anymore. The air around the Hollow vibrated with hunger. Its empty eyes fixed on him.
It roared.
Koji stumbled back. His legs nearly gave out beneath him. He had no weapon, no plan, no—
His hand brushed something at his hip.
Smooth. Solid. A hilt.
⸻
He had not carried a sword before. He knew this. But when his palm closed around the grip, recognition flared. Not surprise, not confusion—recognition.
The whisper followed.
[You are forgotten the moment they look away.]
The words slid into his mind, neither spoken nor heard, but known. They coiled through his thoughts, cold and certain, as if they had always been there, waiting for the moment he reached for the blade.
Koji's lips parted. The name surfaced, unbidden.
Shōmetsu.
⸻
The Hollow lunged.
Instinct moved him. Koji drew the blade in one fluid motion. Steel sang against the night, and shadows split like paper.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then the Hollow was gone.
Not defeated, not destroyed—gone. No corpse, no reishi dispersal, no trace it had ever stood before him.
Koji staggered forward, panting. His knuckles whitened on the hilt. The street was empty again. No screaming voice, no monster, no proof. Only his ragged breathing broke the stillness.
The sword pulsed faintly in his hand, then dissolved into mist, seeping between his fingers until nothing remained.
He stared at his palm. Empty. Cold.
"What…" His voice cracked. "What just happened?"
⸻
The lanterns flickered. The wooden houses loomed, silent and dark.
Koji turned slowly. Hadn't there been a light in one of the windows before? He could swear someone had screamed. But now every shutter was closed. Every door sealed. No signs of life.
Had anyone been here at all?
The thought clawed at him, gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
He clutched his chest. His heartbeat thundered, too loud. He felt as though he was vanishing, slipping away, piece by piece.
The whisper returned.
[They will not remember you.]
⸻
Koji squeezed his eyes shut.
"No," he hissed. "No, I'm—"
But the denial broke before it could form. Because deep down, he knew. He had felt it on the train, when faces blurred and names dissolved. He had felt it in the moment the Hollow vanished without trace.
The world itself refused to acknowledge him.
He exhaled shakily. "So that's my ability, then…"
His laugh was hollow. Bitter. "A blade that erases. And a wielder who can't be remembered."
He looked down at his empty hand. It trembled, though he didn't know whether from fear or from the weight of inevitability.
⸻
Far down the avenue, the wind shifted. Dust curled along the cobblestones. Koji straightened slowly, forcing his body into motion.
There were questions, countless questions, but one truth pressed above all:
If he stayed still, he would vanish.
He had no allies here. No train to return to. No phone, no manga, no proof that the world he had known had ever existed.
All he had was his name.
Hitori Koji.
A name no one would remember.
⸻
The narration intruded again, indifferent, inevitable.
The reader does not belong to the story. And yet, the story has swallowed him whole.
Part 3 – A Name That Should Not Be
Koji walked.
There was nothing else to do. The avenue stretched endlessly, houses repeating like a copy-paste error in reality. Every few dozen steps, he expected to hear voices, to see light spilling from a window, to find some sign of life.
But the further he went, the emptier it felt.
His shoes scraped against cobblestones that seemed older than memory. His shadow stretched long in the lantern light, but the moment he looked away, it wavered, indistinct, almost dissolving.
He stopped once, turning sharply to catch his reflection in a windowpane.
Nothing.
The glass reflected the street, the lantern, the sky—but not him.
He swallowed. His pulse skittered in his throat.
Not reflected. Not remembered. How long until I'm gone completely?
He forced himself onward.
The silence grew heavier, until the weight of it pressed against his ears. He wanted to shout, to scream, to demand the world acknowledge him. But he knew what would happen.
Nothing.
He had already been erased once tonight. On the train. The passengers had faded from his mind the moment he looked away. Their names were lost, their faces blurred. And now, here, he walked the same path.
A flicker caught his eye.
At the corner of the street, a Hollow writhed into being. Not from the shadows this time, but from the air itself. Its mask cracked and twisted, hunger dripping from every jagged edge.
Koji's breath hitched. His hand rose.
The hilt met his palm. Always there, always waiting.
"Shōmetsu," he whispered.
The blade slid free with a hiss. He moved clumsily, but the Hollow faltered, staggering as if the sight of him itself wounded it. He slashed.
The world blinked.
The Hollow was gone.
Not killed. Not purified. Simply erased.
Koji stared at the empty space, chest heaving. He had struck once. He had no skill, no stance. But Shōmetsu's power had filled the void where his weakness gaped.
And with every swing, the silence grew deeper.
He staggered back, sinking to the cobblestones. The sword dissolved in mist, leaving his hand empty.
"How long can this go on?" he whispered. "How long before even I forget myself?"
His voice was too quiet. It barely carried past his own ears.
The street remained silent.
The narration did not answer.
Koji pressed his hands against his face. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to deny. But he remembered the truth of the words whispered to him.
[You are forgotten the moment they look away.]
This was not a curse laid on him by an enemy. It was not punishment, nor coincidence. It was his nature. The shape of his existence in this world.
And inevitability was cruel.
His shoulders shook. Not with fear, but with determination that burned hot against the cold erasure.
"So what if I'm forgotten?" His voice cracked. "So what if no one remembers me? I remember."
He clenched his fists. "I'll carve myself into this story, even if the world tears me out of every page. I'll walk, I'll fight, I'll keep moving—until the story can't go on without me."
The words sounded hollow, but they were all he had.
And sometimes, all a man needed was to declare war on inevitability.
The lanterns flickered once more. The night wind carried the faint echo of voices—distant, indistinct. For a moment, Koji thought he imagined them. But when he lifted his head, he saw shapes at the far end of the street.
People.
Faint, blurred, but real.
His heart lurched. He staggered to his feet, half-running toward them.
The closer he came, the clearer they became. Souls in simple robes, shuffling down the avenue. Ordinary spirits. Residents of Rukongai.
He slowed. Relief warred with dread. Would they even see him? Would they remember?
He stopped just short of them. A man passed within arm's reach. His eyes slid past Koji as though nothing stood there. The woman beside him did the same. Neither hesitated. Neither turned.
They walked on.
Koji stood frozen, invisible in plain sight.
His lips trembled. The sting in his chest was worse than the fear of Hollows.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here."
No one answered.
The narration cut in, cold and inevitable.
Some names are never written. Some stories are never told. Some readers are never remembered.
Koji closed his eyes. His breath steadied.
Then I'll write it myself.
His name surfaced again—not in memory, not in speech, but in defiance.
Hitori Koji.
It echoed across the empty street. The world would forget. The people would forget. But the story itself had taken notice.
For the first time, his existence was acknowledged—not by another character, not by a voice, but by the narrative itself.
The reader had entered the story.