Eternity. Divinity.
To any human being, these were concepts as distant as a dream — as if someone could reach out and touch the sun's fire without being consumed by it.
Beneath a crimson moon, a circle of monks stood around a slab of stone, cracked and worn smooth by time, at the center of a cathedral swallowed in gloom.
Upon it lay a body — frail, lifeless, a wound gaping in its stomach. Blood welled from the gash and ran in dark rivulets down its sides, tracing the curve of its fingers before pooling on the frozen flagstones below. The metallic reek of it clung to the air, seeping into every corner of the cathedral until there was nowhere left untouched by it.
The monks began to chant, their voices low and formless, syllables that belonged to no tongue Kenji could place. Somewhere close, thunder cracked — not the ordinary kind, but something that seemed to tear the sky itself, and the shockwave rattled the cathedral down to its foundations. Stone dust and loosened fragments rained from the ceiling, pattering against the monks' bowed heads as though the building itself were shedding skin.
The blood rose. It lifted off the floor in slender crimson threads, drawn upward like something remembering how to breathe, and the corpse convulsed — a violent, boneless spasm that cracked and splintered with each fresh contortion. Its neck twisted at an angle no living neck should hold, kept from tearing free only by the last stubborn strands of flesh.
The horror of it lasted only a moment. Almost at once the body began to knit itself back together — tendons lacing, bones sliding into place — and the corpse-grey pallor retreated from the skin as the first heavy, deliberate heartbeat rolled through the chest like a war-drum struck once, in warning.
"Hmph."
Another spasm rocked the body as the heart hammered on, refusing to stop, and each beat threw a dull, resonant echo through the cathedral's dead air — a heartbeat too loud, too wrong, as if the building itself had ears. Every pulse dragged a fresh spike of agony through the chest, relentless, indifferent.
"Where... am I?" The voice came out as little more than a thread, throat thick and dry, breath ragged, as it tried to push itself upright against the stone.
It tried to rise in one motion — and failed. The muscles, exhausted past obedience, would not answer. The dark of the cathedral swallowed everything; there was only the cold stone against a bare back, and a thick, sickly-sweet stench — like meat gone to rot — crawling up through the nose and curdling in the stomach.
The monks stood in a ring, watching. Patient. Expectant — as if waiting for something to happen, something they already knew was coming.
At the sight of them, it staggered back a step, tripped, and struck its head against the stone.
"There is no need to fear, my lord. You are somewhere safe now. The Goddess has granted us the great honor of your presence among us."
Kenji — for that was the boy he had been, though something else now wore his skin — lay frozen. And in the space of a single breath he became aware of the blood at his stomach, his hands slick with cold sweat.
"Lord Alphard. That was merely a test."
Who is Alphard? Kenji thought, staring at the nearest monk in bewilderment.
He felt nothing at first. Then, gradually, the pain in his stomach arrived — dull, spreading, and with it, a slow trickle of fresh blood.
"Let me go! Let me go!"
Alphard — the name that was now, apparently, his — thrashed in terror while the monks exchanged quiet, knowing smiles behind their sleeves. There was almost nothing to see. Only darkness, and one red light that resolved, when he turned toward it, into the crimson face of the moon.
This is bad. Worse than bad — I don't know this place, and these people are looking at me like I'm something they've been waiting for. Have I... transmigrated?
How is that even possible? I just went to sleep.
For one fleeting instant something like excitement stirred in him — quickly smothered under a rising tide of dread.
The cold of the floor, the low murmur of voices he couldn't understand, all of it pointed to one of two possibilities: he had been murdered, or worse — he was wearing the body of someone who already had been.
"Lord Alphard, here." One of the monks approached, offering a cup. "This will help you feel better."
He didn't want it. But the smell — cloying, almost predatory — mixed with the swimming colors around him until his head spun and the darkness finally took him whole.
Some time later, he woke seated in a chair, staring at the moon. His thoughts were a tangled mess, though his heartbeat, at least, had settled into something steadier. A dull ache had begun to bloom behind his eyes.
What is happening to me? Isn't transmigration supposed to be a good thing?
He noticed, looking around, that he was alone. His sight was still poor, but instinct — along with the fact that the stench of decay had vanished entirely — told him as much.
That was when he noticed: the pain in his stomach was gone. In its place was a deep scar, unmistakably the mark of a bullet wound.
Am I dead? For a moment the thought paralyzed him with fear. And yet, beneath it, some strange thread of calm ran through the panic.
Maybe it's just an old scar. Maybe it's nothing serious, and whoever this person was got pulled out of their body one way or another.
Turning the thought over, he tried to stand — and only then realized he hadn't seen his own reflection anywhere. That his body might be unchanged wasn't such an absurd idea; he carried no blurred memories that weren't his own.
Still, when he tried to move his limbs, his body refused to obey the way he wanted it to.
The situation was precarious, and he had no idea, none at all, where he was. Everything about this was new to him.
Then, without warning, a murmur rose inside his mind — something restless, something he wanted, desperately, to silence.
After a few seconds it faded. He exhaled, long and slow, and gathered what strength he had to try standing again.
At last his arms and back obeyed, and he found himself draped in a dim red glow — the crimson moon, watching.
God, if it were just the color of cheese, I'd probably feel better about this.
Legs following at last, he rose — unsteady still — and walked slowly, one hand braced against the cold wood of the chairs lining the room.
A few steps on, his ears, aching faintly, began to catch the sound of footsteps and murmured voices somewhere ahead. He was close to a door, most likely.
I feel like garbage. I want to throw up. I could genuinely be dead right now.
The thought came out almost sarcastic, almost fond in its bitterness.
The closer he drew, the stronger the smell of rot became again — thick enough that within seconds he doubled over and retched.
Crash!
Thunder split the air, and the earth itself seemed to shudder beneath it.
The cathedral's lamps swung wildly on their chains. Kenji went down hard, his hands meeting something thick and viscous on the floor, and a blow to the skull dropped him the rest of the way into the dark.
Damn it. What is this?
Am I going to die?
I'm too young for this. No — no, I don't want to die.
The whispers grew louder, pressing in from every side, until Kenji found he could no longer move at all.
Cold. A lake of blood. This — this was the birthplace of misery.