Noir was a silhouette of stillness against the gentle sway of the world. The pond before him shimmered, catching the hesitant sunlight that pierced through the soft, parted clouds. A cool breeze, like a whispered secret, rustled through the trees, making their branches dance in slow motion. He simply gazed upward, lost in the vastness of the sky, perhaps finding solace or simply emptying his mind.
Noir's gaze drifted down from the vast sky, settling on the shimmering surface of the pond. The light, now unhindered by the clouds, danced across the water, and he felt a profound sense of ease wash over him. The gentle, almost imperceptible flow of the water seemed to mirror a newfound calm within. It was a rare, peaceful moment, one that he let himself sink into completely.
But time, as it always does, asserted its presence. He glanced at his watch, the subtle movement breaking the spell. The hour marked, he pushed himself up from the bench, his long black coat swaying with the motion, and began the walk home.
The path was lined with vibrant life. He observed a child with his mother, their laughter carrying on the cool breeze. A strange, unnecessary joy bloomed in his chest – a pure, unbidden feeling that contrasted sharply with his usual reserved demeanor. As he continued, his black eyes, usually so watchful, softened, lingering on the flowers blooming along the footpath. A gentle smile touched his lips, a rare sight that hinted at a softer side beneath his austere black turtleneck and trousers, and his cascade of long, black hair that reached his waist. This brief encounter with simple beauty and innocent happiness was a quiet gift, transforming his journey from a mere walk into a moment of unexpected, fleeting contentment.
As Noir approached his home, his caring old neighbor offered a warm, familiar wave from their porch. He returned the gesture, a small, genuine smile on his lips, before stepping inside the quiet house. It was a space he inhabited alone; no beloved soul remained in this world to share it with him.
He walked upstairs, his footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. On his desk sat a framed picture of his family. His gaze fell upon it, and a gentle smile touched his lips, though it was accompanied by the slight shimmer of tears in his eyes. This simple image held the profound weight of his past – a past that was both sad and full of joy. Yet, in his own absurd perspective upon life, Noir had found a way to smile, to embrace joy amidst the sorrow.
From a young age, life had dealt him cruel blows. He'd lost his parents when he was just a child, and thereafter, he found a home with his uncle and aunt. But even then, Noir wasn't a typical child. He was remarkably realist, possessing an extraordinary perspective on life and control over himself from the very beginning. His helpful nature instinctively won hearts, drawing people to his quiet strength. However, tragedy struck again, too soon, when his uncle and aunt perished in an accident. Noir survived, left with nothing but minor scars on his body, but profound ones on his soul.
Yet, despite the immense grief and loss, Noir had chosen a path less traveled. He actively seeks joy in every little aspect of life, ignoring the sorrows that he might find. This small, tear-tinged smile for his lost family wasn't one of despair, but of profound love and a quiet testament to his enduring spirit, a symbol of his radical acceptance and relentless pursuit of light, even in the darkest corners of his memory.
He sat at his desk, holding the picture, the cool frame a tangible link to a world that no longer existed. Then, without warning, his senses all blacked out. The world vanished into an abyss of nothingness.
He gasped, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and suddenly regained his sight. He found himself in an unknown place, shrouded in a strange, shifting grey mist that swirled around him, obscuring any discernible features beyond a few feet. Strange whispers echoed in his ears, a chaotic symphony of indistinct sounds that he couldn't comprehend, words that twisted and dissolved before they could form meaning. Disorientation clawed at him.
Then, with an abstract, incomprehensible process of creation, the mist receded, revealing a bizarre reality. He was standing on one end of a long, rectangular table, not in a room, but within a mystical palace that defied logic, lacking conventional walls and a ceiling. Towering, ornate pillars rose at the sides, disappearing into the formless grey above. Behind the end of the table he faced, a colossal, crimson moon hung impossibly in the sky, casting an ethereal, blood-red glow.
Seated at the opposite end of the table, bathed in the moon's ominous light, was a mysterious figure. He wore a dark grey suit with a long coat that draped to the floor, and his own long, black hair cascaded around shoulders that seemed too broad, too still. The figure raised a hand, a gesture of invitation. "Take a seat, Mr. Kagenou," a voice emerged, deep and resonant, yet undeniably pleasant, filled with an ancient power.
A shiver ran down Noir's spine as he looked into the man's eyes – two abyssal, lifeless black voids that promised nothing but an eternal emptiness. Webs of questions, frantic and incoherent, ran wild in Noir's head. What was this place? Who was this being? Why was he here?
As if hearing his unspoken thoughts, the mysterious person spoke again, his voice echoing in the vast, pillar-lined space. "Welcome to my Castle of Fabrications, Noir Kagenou. Be honored, for I am passing this sefirot castle on to you."
Noir's eyes widened, disbelief warring with a creeping sense of terror. "What… what's going on?" he managed to stammer, his voice thin in the immense silence. "What is this place?"
The figure's lips, unnervingly still, seemed to form a smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Kagenou… Let's play a game…" His voice deepened, the pleasant tone now laced with an undeniable, chilling authority. "I am the Host and you... are the Fool and this… is your new beginning."
With those words, everything blacked out for Noir once again.
This time, a torrent of unfamiliar memories began flashing in his head, vivid yet fragmented, like shattered pieces of a different life. Alder Wilson. A 22-year-old historian. Just cleared his university entrance exam a few days ago. His father, a soldier, died in the military. His mother, lost to illness. An elder sister, Grace Wilson. An even elder brother, Thomas Wilson, who did all the earning. Pension money from their father. The memories were a chaotic jumble, only in fragments, nothing more could be made up properly.
When he gained consciousness, he found himself in a completely different place. He was sitting at a desk in a room, but it wasn't his own. He stood up, stepped back to the middle of the room and looked around. The late afternoon sun, a comforting, familiar presence, streamed through the tall, mullioned windows of this new bedroom, casting long, warm shadows across the polished wooden floor. He stood for a moment just past the threshold, a subtle weariness in his bones, and let his gaze drift across the space that was slowly, piece by painstaking piece, becoming truly his.
To his left, the grand desk, a solid anchor of dark, carved wood, beckoned with its promise of quiet study. He noted the growing stacks of books, each volume a potential key to some new insight, alongside the scattered papers that hinted at unfolding mysteries and the reassuring gleam of the desk lamp, ready for the long nights ahead. The accompanying chair, with its intricate back, seemed to invite him to settle in, to delve into the arcane.
His eyes then moved to the center of the room, to the bed—a magnificent creation of dark, carved wood, its headboard a testament to forgotten craftsmanship. The white linens, crisp and clean, offered a stark contrast to the rich, deep tones of the frame, and the sight of the heavy, familiar blanket folded at its foot brought a small, private sense of contentment. Beside it, the slightly smaller bookshelf, already groaning under the weight of his expanding collection, was a constant reminder of the knowledge he sought and the secrets he guarded. He appreciated the solid, reassuring presence of the large wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, a practical item that nonetheless held a certain unassuming dignity.
Finally, his gaze settled on the right side of the room. The tall, dark wardrobe stood sentinel, its broad doors promising ample space for his meager but growing collection of attire. Adjacent to it, the vanity, adorned with an assortment of mundane yet essential items, offered a brief glimpse of his own reflection in its ornate mirror, a stern, tired face looking back. It was a space designed for contemplation, for preparation, for the careful donning of a facade. He took a quiet breath, the scent of old paper and polished wood mingling faintly in the air. This room, with its careful balance of elegance and practicality, of light and shadow, felt like a sanctuary, a quiet harbor in a world that was becoming increasingly loud and perilous. It was, indeed, Alder Wilson's room, and for a fleeting moment, a profound sense of peace settled over him.
He was confused and a faint, unfamiliar curiosity pulled him towards the right side of the room. The tall, dark wardrobe stood sentinel, its broad doors promising ample space for his meager but growing collection of attire. Adjacent to it, the vanity beckoned, adorned with an assortment of mundane yet essential items. He approached it, the faint scent of old paper and polished wood clinging to the air, and let his gaze drift to the ornate mirror.
His breath caught.
The face staring back wasn't his.
A stranger's eyes, dark but lacking the familiar, weary depth of his own, stared back. The set of the jaw was different, sharper, less refined than he remembered. The curve of the nose, the subtle lines around the eyes – none of it was Noir Kagenou.
His hands, clad in the simple, light fabric of a linen shirt, instinctively rose to touch the mirrored surface, then his own face. It was real. Solid. Yet utterly, terrifyingly alien. He wore a pair of dark trousers that felt strange, too loose or too tight in places, clinging to limbs that were and were not his.
But then, his hands went higher, reaching for his head. Where his own long, black hair, which had cascaded to his waist, should have been, there was only a short, unfamiliar crop. It barely brushed his collar. This, more than the unfamiliar face or body, sent a jolt of genuine distress through him. His hair had been a part of him, a constant, a symbol of his identity. Now, it was gone.
"This… this isn't me," he whispered, the words ragged, barely audible in the quiet room. His voice, too, felt subtly different, a shade lighter, less resonant. "This isn't my face. My body. My… my hair!"
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his calm, threatening to shatter the meticulous self-control he'd cultivated over a lifetime. He spun away from the mirror, then back, desperately trying to reconcile the impossible image with his immutable sense of self. What in the heavens had happened? Why was he in a different body? Why was his most precious feature stolen from him? The chilling pronouncements of the 'Host' echoed in his memory, his deep voice like a tolling bell: "This is your new beginning."
"Have I… transmigrated?" The word, a concept from the fantastical tales he'd occasionally dismissed as whimsical, felt absurd on his tongue, yet terrifyingly real in this moment. He ran his hands over his arms, felt the steady thump of a healthy heart within this unfamiliar chest. "But then what about this Alder guy? Is he dead? There are no injuries on this body, no sign of poisoning either. There's nothing that says he simply... vanished."
He turned back to the mirror, examining the reflection with a new, frantic intensity. The stern, tired face of Alder Wilson stared back, healthy, alive, undeniably present, with his unfamiliar short hair. Yet, it was occupied by the bewildered mind, the very essence, of Noir Kagenou. The profound sense of peace that had settled over him moments before shattered, replaced by a dizzying storm of questions and a growing, unsettling realization that his very existence had been fundamentally altered. The game, it seemed, had already begun, and he was nothing more than a pawn in a body that wasn't his own.
His breath caught and he was frozen in place as he heard footsteps approaching, growing steadily louder until they stopped right outside his door.
Knock! knock! knock!