Chapter 1: The Staff, the Mist, and My Another Life
The first thing he noticed was that the mist did not feel cold.
It looked like fog ..... endless, silver-white, stretching in all directions ..... but it did not cling to his skin or dampen his clothes. In fact, he was not even sure he was wearing clothes. When he looked down, he found himself dressed in the same cotton shirt and dark work pants he had worn by the dye vat that afternoon on Earth, the hem still faintly stained with indigo.
That was the second thing he noticed.
The indigo stain was fresh.
He lifted his hand slowly. The faint bluish tint on his fingertips remained. He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. The color did not smudge.
"That's strange," he murmured, more out of habit than alarm. "It should have oxidized by now."
His voice did not echo. It simply folded into the mist.
The third thing he noticed was that he could remember everything far too clearly.
The pond behind his dyeing workshop. Not the park ... never the park. It was the deep soaking pond he used for larger batches, dug at the back of the property decades ago when the old landlord still believed in craftsmanship. The water had always been deceptively calm, greenish from plant sediment, quiet except for the frogs.
He remembered a puppy chasing dragonflies near the edge.
He remembered shouting.
He remembered the splash.
He had not thought before jumping in. Indigo-stained hands and all.
The mud had been soft. Too soft. His boots had sunk immediately. The puppy had panicked, clawing at the water. He had managed to grab it, lifting it above the surface while trying to kick free.
Then the shouting began.
"Don't move! We're trained volunteers!"
"Call the emergency hotline first!"
"Wait, wait, get the camera....."
"Move aside! We're the district rescue team!"
By the time they dragged him and the puppy out, both coughing, chaos had replaced urgency.
"Who pulled him out first?"
"Our association arrived before yours!"
"Where's the form? We need to record this."
"Did anyone check his breathing?"
"He'll be fine, he's conscious!"
He had tried to speak. Tried to say the puppy needed air. Tried to say his chest hurt.
But two groups of well-meaning rescuers had begun arguing about jurisdiction, branding, and who would file the official report. Someone insisted on positioning him for a photo. Someone else objected to logo visibility.
He had been aware of the puppy squirming weakly in his arms.
Then someone tripped.
Then more shouting.
Then weight.
Too much weight.
He remembered the feeling of boots and knees pressing unintentionally against something small and fragile.
He remembered trying to move.
He remembered not being able to.
The mist around him felt very calm in comparison.
"You are dead."
The voice came from behind him, steady and unimpressed.
Khun Ming turned slowly.
An elderly woman stood a few paces away, leaning on a long wooden staff. Her gray robes were plain but neat. Her hair was white and gathered into a simple coil. She did not glow. She did not float. She simply stood there like someone waiting for tea to finish steeping.
Beside her sat the golden puppy.
Its tail thumped against nothing.
His breath caught.
"…You're here."
The puppy barked once and trotted toward him, cheerful and unburdened by metaphysics. Khun Ming knelt automatically, scooping it into his arms. It was warm. Solid.
Relief and sorrow tangled in his chest.
He looked up at the old woman.
"Are you… some kind of celestial clerk?" he asked cautiously. "Underworld receptionist? Afterlife processing officer?"
She stared at him.
He squinted at her more closely, tilting his head. "Are you the grandma from Wat Phra That Doi Kham? You look like that grandma from the foot of that mountain."
The staff moved faster than his thoughts.
Crack.
"Aiyo!" He clutched his head. "Grandma! Violence is not necessary!"
"It was necessary," she replied calmly. "You speak too much nonsense."
He rubbed the sore spot and examined her again, slightly more respectfully this time.
"I am your great-grandmother," she said.
He blinked. "Direct line?"
"Fifty generations above you."
He paused.
"…That's quite a gap."
"You are slow in calculation."
He considered that. "Fair."
He shifted the puppy in his arms and studied her face. "Any proof?"
The staff lifted again.
"Alright, alright!" He flinched preemptively. "No more proof required! We'll go with ancestral authority."
She lowered the staff with dignified patience.
"You understand your situation," she said.
"Yes." He sighed lightly. "The pond. The arguing. The chest pain. The lack of actual first aid."
Her gaze softened just slightly.
"And him?" His gaze fell again to the puppy.
"He also died," she said. "Poor soul. Not from the water. From the stampede of rescuers who could not decide who deserved applause."
Khun Ming closed his eyes briefly.
"…That's very on-brand for humanity. They are doing what they have to."
The puppy licked his chin.
He exhaled through his nose. There was no burning rage in him. Just a tired acceptance. He had done what he thought was right. The rest had been… human.
The old woman tapped her staff lightly.
"I cannot interfere in the mortal realm," she said. "My authority is limited to this transition. However, I may guide you onward."
"Guide me where?"
"To a world compatible with your disposition."
"That sounds… tailored."
"It is."
She watched him carefully. "State what you desire."
He shifted the puppy under one arm and scratched his cheek thoughtfully.
"Well… I would like a peaceful life."
She nodded once.
"I'd like to grow plants properly. Faster, if possible. Good soil response. Balanced nutrients."
"Mm."
"I'd like complete knowledge of natural dyeing. Not partial. Not approximated. Full understanding."
Her brows lifted faintly.
"And the skills to build my own house. Tools. Irrigation. I don't want to argue with contractors in the next life."
Silence.
"And enough power to defend myself," he added. "Just in case."
She studied him.
"No wealth?"
"If I can grow indigo and sapan well, I'll manage."
"No throne?"
"I don't look good in gold."
"No vengeance?"
He met her eyes calmly. "Why should I? When I can live peacefully."
For a moment, the mist seemed to still completely.
Then she nodded.
"Very well, Ming."
He stiffened slightly at hearing his name spoken with that ancient weight.
She tapped her staff once again on his head.
Knowledge did not flood him violently. It settled.
He understood indigo fermentation ratios in various climates. He saw how marigold petals altered tone depending on drying time. He felt the resonance between plant fiber and mineral mordant like subtle harmonics.
He staggered.
Construction principles aligned in his mind. Timber joint integrity. Water channel gradients. Load-bearing beams.
Then warmth rooted itself in his chest ..... steady, grounded, like a tree finding soil.
She gestured behind her.
A sword rested wrapped in plain cloth. She nudged it forward with her staff.
"This will accompany you."
Khun Ming stared at it. "Grandma… I asked for dyeing and farming."
"You asked for defense."
"That thing looks like it comes with paperwork."
"It will protect you."
He narrowed his eyes. "Does it come with instructions?"
"It comes with responsibility."
"That's worse."
She ignored him.
When he reached out and touched the hilt, something deep and ancient stirred ..... not aggressively, but watchfully. As if seven distinct gazes evaluated him at once.
He pulled his hand back.
"…It's judging me."
"It is evaluating."
"That's the same thing with better vocabulary."
For the first time, the corner of her mouth twitched.
"The world you enter values color differently," she said. "There, pigments come from spiritual stones. Controlled. Restricted. Artificial."
He frowned. "Artificial color extraction?"
"Yes."
He straightened slightly. "That's inefficient."
"I suspected you would say that."
She planted her staff firmly.
"My involvement ends here."
He shifted awkwardly, then bowed deeply, puppy still tucked in his arms.
"Thank you, Grandma." put his hand together and pay respect.
"Live properly this time," she said.
"I hope so."
The staff struck the mist.
The world shattered .... not violently, but cleanly.
Light poured in.
Birdsong followed.
He felt solid ground beneath him.
When Khun Ming opened his eyes again, he lay on a gentle hill under a clear blue sky. A small stream flowed nearby. A modest wooden cottage stood a short distance away, as though it had always belonged there.
Leaning casually against its wall was the wrapped sword.
He sat up slowly, inhaling the scent of real soil.
"…Alright then," he murmured.
He stood, brushed grass from his clothes, and looked at the open land around him.
The earth felt alive. Responsive.
He smiled faintly.
"Let's try growing something properly this time." 🌿