Chapter 1: The Dusty House and the Dice

It had been five years since Grandpa disappeared. Officially, the city had declared him dead, and the papers had long since been filed away, buried in dusty archives. Yet here we were, summoned by our parents to clean out the old Izumi house—a task supposedly meant to honor him, though it felt more like a chore designed to keep us busy.

I trudged behind the others, hands stuffed in the deep pockets of my hoodie, watching the afternoon sun slant over the house. Its peeling paint hung in long ribbons from the wooden siding, shingles missing from the roof, the lawn long since surrendered to wild grass that scratched at our ankles as we walked. Even from outside, the house seemed alive in its decay, groaning under the weight of years left unattended.

Makoto muttered behind me, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Argh… this place stinks. How did Grandpa even live here?”

Tatsu, adjusting his glasses with precise fingers, observed the crumbling walls. “It’s not terrible if approached methodically. Dust accumulates in areas with poor airflow. If we begin with the upper floors, we can prevent contamination of the lower rooms.” His calm, exact tone contrasted sharply with Makoto’s brash energy.

Maki, ever dramatic, had already flopped onto a sagging couch, one arm flung over the armrest. “I, Maki, shall restore this house to glory! But first, I demand proper cleaning tools! A warrior of my caliber should command, not scrub!”

Kengo crouched nearby, muttering, “I’m only here because you guilted me into it. And if I catch tetanus, you’re paying my hospital bills.”

I leaned against the doorway, letting the familiar ache of reluctance settle in my chest. “At least it’s not raining dust yet,” I muttered softly, the words swallowed by the vast, hollow house.

The interior was a museum of decay and memory. Dust-coated trinkets and yellowed photographs peeked from corners, their faces faded, yet somehow holding the laughter of years past. Odd inventions, long abandoned, littered the shelves—mechanical toys with missing gears, clocks frozen mid-tick, glass spheres with swirling colored liquids. Each object tugged at a memory of Grandpa, eccentric and unpredictable, and yet undeniably present in these remnants.

Makoto accidentally knocked over a small stack of papers, sending a shower of yellowed notes fluttering to the ground. “Progress!” he announced proudly, though his triumphant smile was quickly drowned out by Tatsu’s sigh.

“Unnecessary. Now we have to sweep again,” Tatsu muttered, bending down to gather the scattered pages.

Maki rose with dramatic flair, clapping a hand to his chest. “Physical exertion is proof of dedication!”

“Dedication, or just breaking things for fun?” Kengo muttered under his breath, clearly unimpressed.

Hours passed as we moved from room to room, uncovering bits of Grandpa’s life. A cracked mirror reflected our tired faces; a moth-eaten rug gave off a faint, earthy scent. The house felt suspended between worlds, between the life Grandpa had led and the one we were living now, a liminal space where time seemed to bend.

Eventually, the attic drew us in like a magnet. A single round window allowed a narrow shaft of sunlight to pierce the gloom, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the air. There, amid cobwebs and stacks of forgotten boxes, we found it: a chest, wooden and carved with faint, intricate symbols—the kind only Grandpa could have chosen.

Makoto bent down, brushing decades of dust away. “What’s this? Some old chest?”

Tatsu stepped closer, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “It’s… a tabletop game, judging by the dice and sheets. Look at the layout—it’s precise. Whoever designed this had a meticulous mind.”

Maki scoffed, spinning dramatically. “A game? Ha! I don’t have time for childish diversions!”

Kengo crouched, peering at the corner of the chest. “We’re all children here, apparently. And by ‘we,’ I mean you four.”

I knelt before the chest, hands brushing the polished wood. Its surface was smooth, almost alive under my touch, carrying the warmth of years of handling. I whispered, almost to myself, “Grandpa… still playing games, even after all this time.”

We lifted the character sheets and began to read, laughter and teasing bouncing through the small attic. Each of us selected a character, a reflection of ourselves or perhaps of the selves we wished to be.

Makoto chose Rhydor, a hulking Ogre Monk, fists wrapped tightly. “I’ll punch my way through everything,” he said with a grin, already imagining the chaos he could unleash.

Tatsu selected Vaelith, a High Elf Mage, adjusting his glasses as he calculated optimal spell combinations. “If I don’t optimize, what’s the point?”

Maki, ever dramatic, chose Zerath, a Dark Elf Paladin, sword and shield in hand as he declared, “I, Zerath, shall lead us to glory!”

Kengo, the reluctant one, picked Nerith, a Tiefling Rogue. “I’m only here because you guilted me. Don’t expect me to shine,” he muttered.

Finally, I chose Ciel, a Knight clad in tall, angular, sharp full plate armor, helmeted and carrying a massive greatsword. I opened my mouth to speak. “I think I’ll—”

Makoto leaned forward, impatient. “What’s that? You finally speaking up, Rei? About your character?”

I hesitated. “Yeah… well, she—”

Before I could finish, the dice rolled across the board. Blinding light erupted, wrapping the room in warmth and electricity. Dust swirled in spirals, walls and floors bending as if reality itself were stretching.

“Uh… guys?” Kengo’s voice cracked, fear lacing it.

“What—what is happening?!” Makoto shouted.

“I did not consent to this!” Maki bellowed, flailing.

And my unfinished thought—“…she’s…”—was swallowed by the white light.

When the brilliance subsided, each of us found ourselves alone in a strange new land.

Makoto, now Rhydor, stood in a dense forest, testing his arm wraps with frustrated punches against a tree trunk.

Tatsu, Vaelith, perched on a cliffside, staff in hand, studying the winds as a city shimmered in the distance.

Maki, Zerath, landed on a rocky plain, swinging sword and shield with dramatic precision.

Kengo, Nerith, crouched near a village square, muttering complaints at the unfamiliar terrain.

I—Ciel—found myself in a wide meadow. My armor glinted under the sun, angular and imposing, the helmet concealing my expression entirely. I caught my reflection in a shallow pond, and deep inside, a quiet unease settled over me:

“…This isn’t exactly… me.”

Around me, the land stretched endlessly. Forests swayed in gentle winds, rivers shimmered, and distant mountains loomed like silent sentinels. It was beautiful, yes—but alien.

I drew in a steady breath, forcing myself to push the thoughts aside. The others are out there. We’ll find each other.

Even now, amidst the uncertainty, a spark of determination stirred. I didn’t know what awaited us, nor the full extent of this world. But one thing was certain: we had to meet again. Together.

And so, I began to move, the grass brushing against armored boots, the weight of my greatsword comforting as it rested across my shoulder. Somewhere ahead, the others waited, just as lost—and just as determined.

The journey had begun.