He awoke to warmth. Not the stuffy heat of a cramped apartment where air barely moved, nor the feverish burning of sickness that had carried him into the grave in his last life. This warmth was soft, like being swaddled in the belly of a cloud.
His eyes opened slowly. Above him, the ceiling shimmered with stars. Not real ones—painted constellations in powdered silver, curling into spirals he didn't recognize. They gleamed faintly in the morning light, as though they'd been polished that very day. He blinked and frowned. In his last life, his ceiling had been yellowed plaster flaking like dry skin.
The bed beneath him was too wide for a single body, its sheets silk, its pillows plump enough to swallow his head whole. His hands sank into velvet blankets dyed a deep wine-red. He stared at them, the softness unnerving. His fingers, once blistered from office work and endless signatures on debt papers, looked small and smooth. Childlike.
A mirror stood across the room, its golden frame carved with dancing phoenixes. In it, he saw his reflection—black hair that shone like lacquer, a face still round with youth. His age startled him. He looked perhaps eight.
He remembered the end. The debt collectors' smirks, the shame of his sons calling another person "father," the coldness of his wife's eyes. His chest burned with that betrayal. He had promised himself, in the last breath of his first life, that if he were given another chance, he would never be the fool again. No more moral martyrdom. No more responsibility that only led to ruin. This time, he would live only for himself.
And yet… here he was. Reborn.
The door creaked. A young servant entered, carrying a tray of bread and fruit. She wore a crisp uniform trimmed in emerald, her hair braided neatly. She smiled at him, a perfect, practiced bow.
"You're awake, young master Akihito," she said. Her voice carried warmth, but beneath it, discipline. Every syllable chosen carefully.
"Akihito…?" he repeated softly. The name fit strangely in his mouth, but his new body recognized it. Yes. That was him now. Emeritus Akihito, son of the greatest noble family in the empire of Serathis.
The maid set down the tray. He caught the scent of warm bread—soft and rich, a luxury he had gone years without in his old life. Hunger surged, primal and greedy. He tore into it with small hands, butter dripping down his fingers.
The maid chuckled softly. "Careful, young master. The Duke has called for you. You'll be expected in the hall soon."
The Duke. His father, in this life.
The corridors of the estate were a world unto themselves. Marble floors reflected his small form, polished so clean it was like walking across frozen water. Tall windows let in sunlight that fractured through stained glass, painting him in blues and reds as he passed. He smelled incense, faintly floral, as though the house itself breathed perfume.
Servants bowed as he walked. He, a child of eight, was the center of gravity here. The contradiction bit at him: in his old life, no one had bowed. People had only turned away, leaving him in shadows.
In the grand hall, his father waited. The Duke Emeritus was a towering figure, shoulders broad, his presence filling the room like an iron statue come to life. He wore black with silver trim, a sign of mourning or perhaps just power. His ears were short, his eyes sharp as knives.
"You're late," the Duke said simply.
Akihito lowered his head. Instinct, not obedience. The authority radiating from this figure left no space for defiance.
"You are my son," the Duke continued. "But you will not be hugged. Remember this: an Emeritus lives for the empire. Our name is the empire's spine. Without us, Serathis bends and breaks."
Akihito's lips curled faintly. Live for the empire? He had lived for others before. It had ruined him. Inwardly, he rejected it. Outwardly, he simply nodded, letting the figure believe what he wanted.
His father dismissed him, but before he left, Akihito noticed something strange. On the Duke's desk lay a book bound in gray leather. No title on the cover. The Duke's hand hovered near it, protective, almost reverent. When he saw Akihito's eyes flick toward it, he shut the book immediately and glared.
"Do not touch things you don't understand," the Duke said.
A shiver ran through him. It was not advice. It was warning.
The day passed in layers of ceremony. He was shown the gardens, where koi swam in ponds beneath stone lanterns. He was introduced to tutors who measured him with their eyes, as though deciding how much knowledge his young skull could contain. He was given tea, too bitter for his tongue, but he forced it down.
Slice-of-life moments unfolded quietly: a sparrow landing on the balustrade, a servant stumbling and dropping linens, his sister Yume humming a song while braiding her hair. The kind of details no one would care about—except he cared. He had lived a life without softness before. These details mattered.
Yet unease threaded through it all.
Every corridor of the mansion seemed too long, stretching farther than the architecture should allow. The mist outside the windows clung too thickly for daytime. It curled against the glass as though alive, as though waiting to seep in. And when night fell, he awoke to whispers.
He rose from bed, drawn to the balcony. Mist coiled over the courtyard below, swallowing statues and fountains. It rose unnaturally fast, higher than rooftops, thicker than stormclouds. He could not see the gates of the estate. He could not see the streets.
And in that sea of white, a shape moved.
At first, he thought it was his own reflection against the glass. But no—this figure was taller, darker, faceless. It stood still, head tilted upward, as though gazing at him.
Akihito froze. His heart pounded like war drums.
The figure did not move closer. It only lifted a hand—slowly, silently—beckoning.
When Akihito stumbled backward, he found something on his bed. A book that had not been there before. A child's storybook, bound in pale gray.
Its title shimmered in faint silver:"The Figure of the Mist."
He opened it with trembling fingers. The first page contained an illustration—of a kid, black-haired, standing on a balcony of a noble estate, staring down into fog.
And in the mist below: the same faceless figure.
Episode 1 closes not with answers but with the gnawing awareness that his story had already been written. That rebirth was not freedom, but a role in someone else's script.