The rain outside was relentless, a ceaseless drumming against the windowpane. To most, it might have been a nuisance—a dreary backdrop to an already bleak day—but to me, the rhythmic patter was almost soothing. A fleeting comfort in what had become a hollow existence.
The electricity still hummed through the walls, a cruel irony when the fridge stood barren, its shelves as empty as my stomach. Seven days. Seven days since my last meal. My body had long since passed hunger, settling instead into a numb, gnawing void.
Money had evaporated like morning dew. Rejection had become my shadow—jobs, opportunities, even the desperate gambits of writing novels or sketching manga had crumbled to dust. The world had turned its back, and now, so had my strength.
I lay sprawled across the living room floor, limbs heavy as lead, my gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling above. Every breath was an effort. Every thought, a weight. Consciousness flickered like a dying candle, and in its dimming light, memories surged forward—unbidden, unstoppable.
Ken Fujishima. My name echoed in the fading corridors of my mind. A happy childhood, laughter buried under years of disappointment. School years tinged with isolation. University, a gray expanse of exhaustion and disillusionment. A girlfriend who had vanished like smoke. Parents whose voices had long since hardened into anger. And now… this. A life whittled down to nothing.
"Is this the end?" The words formed in my mind, silent on my tongue. My lips refused to move. My body had already surrendered.
Darkness crept in, swallowing the edges of my vision. Then—nothing.
---
Consciousness returned abruptly, violently.
My feet pressed against cold, polished marble. I blinked, disoriented, as my surroundings sharpened into focus. An endless expanse of sky stretched in every direction, clouds drifting lazily beneath an unseen sun. The ground beneath me was not ground at all—but a vast, floating platform suspended amidst the heavens.
And before me sat a figure.
A man, clad in an immaculate suit that shimmered like liquid silver, lounged upon an ornate English-style sofa. His posture was effortless, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled in quiet amusement. But his face—
Light. Blinding, radiant light spilled from where his features should have been, forcing me to avert my gaze.
"Hello, human soul." His voice was neither loud nor soft, yet it resonated in my bones. "I am the One that is Beyond Comprehension. You may call me… The One Beyond."
Questions surged—Where am I? Why am I here? What is happening?—but my voice had abandoned me. No sound escaped my throat.
The being tilted his head, as if listening to my silent panic. "You will be granted a second chance," he declared, rising smoothly from his seat. His movements were fluid, unhurried, as though time itself bent to his will.
He closed the distance between us in three measured strides. Then, with a single extended finger, he pressed against my chest.
"This is my gift to you."
White fire erupted from his touch, searing through me—not with pain, but with something indescribable. Energy, knowledge, power—floods of information surged into my mind, words and symbols flashing like lightning behind my eyelids.
And then, unbidden, my lips parted.
"All Power."
The words spilled out, foreign yet familiar.
The One Beyond chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "Ah. You finally understand."
He stepped back, returning to his throne of clouds. "Go now, human soul. Entertain me."
A snap of his fingers—
Darkness.
---
My eyes flew open.
The first sensation was weight—the heaviness of limbs, the press of fabric against skin. A physical body. Real. Solid.
I bolted upright, hands flying to my chest, my face. My fingers traced unfamiliar contours—sharp jawline, softer hair, the crisp fabric of a half-buttoned shirt.
This isn't my body.
The realization struck like a hammer. I scrambled from the bed, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste, and stumbled toward the mirror.
A stranger stared back.
A young man, perhaps in his twenties, with tousled brown hair and piercing green eyes. Handsome, aristocratic, dressed in fine clothing that whispered of wealth. My—his—room was lavish, a sprawling chamber adorned with Victorian elegance: gilded furniture, a mahogany desk bearing an old-fashioned typewriter, plush armchairs draped in velvet.
"...I transmigrated."
The word felt absurd even as I thought it. Yet the evidence was undeniable. The novels, the webtoons I'd devoured in my past life—they'd spoken of this. Reincarnation. A second chance.
But before I could process further, a tidal wave of memories crashed into me.
Pain lanced through my skull as images—his images—flashed behind my eyes. Faces. Names. Scenes of a life not mine, yet now inseparable from my own.
When the storm subsided, I knew.
I was Edward Cain. Second son of Count Jonathan Cain. Brother to Jameson, the heir apparent. A writer by trade, a noble by birth.
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Really, One Beyond? A writer again? This is your idea of entertainment?"
Still, fortune had not entirely abandoned me. The previous Edward had lived comfortably, funded by a generous monthly allowance. My gaze drifted to the desk, where a manuscript lay half-finished.
"Uncovering the Mystery of Chaos Magic."
A grim title for a grim pursuit. The previous Edward had dabbled in dangerous research, seeking out the elusive Alabastar Mages—the so-called "ethical" practitioners of Chaos magic. He'd never cast a spell, never crossed the final threshold, but the mages had gifted him a token nonetheless.
I rifled through the desk drawer, fingers closing around cold metal. A bronze ring, its face engraved with a black crescent moon. Meant for the pinky finger.
"Cosmic Sense."
One of the All Powers granted by the One Beyond flared to life. My vision sharpened, the world awash with unseen energies—yet the ring remained inert. No enchantments. No hidden curses. Just a symbol.
I slipped it onto my finger anyway.
Then, driven by instinct, I reached again into the drawer. Edward's diary. The last entry sent a chill down my spine.
"This may be my last day. The curse is quite strong..."
I snapped the book shut.
A quick scan of my body with Cosmic Sense revealed nothing amiss—no lingering sickness, no arcane afflictions. "The One Beyond must have purged it," I murmured.
Alive. Healthy. And now, impossibly, someone else entirely.
---
I straightened my shirt, fastening the remaining buttons with deliberate slowness. A comb smoothed my hair into something presentable. Then, with a deep breath, I rang the bell for the maid.
She arrived promptly, a young woman with downcast eyes and practiced efficiency. I requested tea and snacks—simple things, yet luxuries my past self could only have dreamed of.
When she returned, I settled into an armchair by the window, the afternoon sun painting the world in gold. The tea was fragrant, steaming, a delicate porcelain cup cradled in my hands.
"So," I mused aloud, "this is the role you've given me. Edward Cain."
The name tasted strange on my tongue.
But strangeness was the least of my concerns. My mind was already racing, plotting, weaving the threads of this new life into something greater.