Chapter 1: Thread of fate

I was running.
The steady thud of my sneakers against the pavement echoed in my ears, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the frantic pounding of my heart. I glanced at my phone screen: 8:16. I was screwed.
History class started at 8:00.
The crisp Tokyo morning slapped my face as I tightened the strap of my backpack to keep it from slipping. In my rush, I zigzagged between pedestrians who shot me annoyed looks. The streets were already packed: salarymen in black suits glued to their smartphones, schoolgirls in long skirts and pale blouses, kids with stiff little backpacks. I was just another student lost in the crowd. But today, I knew this delay would cost me.

After parking my motorbike I runned.

As I reached the classrom Islowed down to catch my breath. The university building loomed ahead modern, imposing, its glass façade reflecting the pale morning sky. I slipped inside, passing students chatting calmly, as if they had all the time in the world.
I nearly skidded to a stop in front of the lecture hall. The sliding door was already shut, but I could hear the professor’s deep voice from inside. I hesitated. Walking in now would be humiliating. But walking away meant a guaranteed zero.
I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and slipped inside.
Dozens of heads turned toward me. The professor peered over his glasses, one eyebrow raised.
“Takahashi, late again…”
His voice rang through the hall. A few muffled chuckles followed.
I bowed quickly. “Sorry, sensei.”
To my surprise, he didn’t kick me out. He just sighed and waved a hand. “Go on, take a seat. Try not to interrupt any further.”
I nodded, relieved, and scanned the room for an empty spot. My gaze froze on a familiar silhouette.
Hiyori.
She was sitting by the window, the morning sunlight catching her light brown hair. She looked up from her notebook and gave me a small smile—half teasing, half tender.
I rushed to the empty seat beside her and collapsed into it, trying to regain my composure. She shook her head, amused.
“You’re hopeless, Akihiko.”
“Hey, there was traffic…” I whispered, lying.
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
The professor continued his lecture, his monotone voice filling the hall. “As I was saying, Buddhism’s influence on Asian cultures goes far beyond spirituality. It shaped art, politics, even the way people perceive life and death. One of its core ideas is reincarnation…”
To my right, Hiyori perked up. She leaned toward me, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Hey, Aki… would you want to be reincarnated after you die?”
I stayed silent for a moment. The question sounded innocent, but I’d never liked thinking about death. Eventually, I shook my head.
“No. I think… if I died, I’d just want to rest. No more feelings. No more memories. Just peace.”
She frowned, surprised. “Really? You wouldn’t want to keep going, live another life somewhere else?”
I looked at her, unable to explain. She—with her energy, her passion, her way of seeing the world as an endless story. And me—I’d always felt this deep need for final rest, as if life was already heavy enough.
Before I could answer, the professor’s voice cut in, sharp: “Religion, dear students, is nothing more than a human construct. A clumsy attempt to make sense of the inexplicable.”
A murmur rippled through the room. One student raised his hand, clearly provoked. “Sensei, does that mean you don’t believe in God?”
A heavy silence fell. I felt Hiyori glance at me, probably trying to guess what I was thinking. I said nothing.
The class ended in that strange atmosphere. Students got up, chatting about everything and nothing, as if the little verbal storm hadn’t happened.
While packing up, Hiyori whispered, “You didn’t forget, right? The book signing…”
I froze. Crap. I’d completely forgotten.
“Ah, uh… yeah, of course!” I lied again, but her mischievous smile told me she wasn’t fooled.
I’d planned to visit Utakata, who was sick in the hospital. I thought fast. “Listen… we can do both. Signing first, then the hospital. Sound good?”
She nodded, delighted.
After class, we left together. My motorcycle was waiting in the parking lot. A secondhand Kawasaki—not flashy, but it made me happy. I handed Hiyori the helmet, and she climbed on behind me with practiced ease.
“Hold on tight.”
The engine roared, and we sped through Tokyo’s busy streets. The wind whipped my face, but I felt the warmth of her arms around my waist. For a moment, everything felt perfect.
The bookstore was packed. A line stretched out onto the sidewalk. Posters covered the storefront: Special Signing Event with Ken Madarame.
My heart raced. Meeting our favorite author was a dream. Hiyori clutched her copy of *Wandering Hearts*, while I held my beloved *Ascension*.
We waited a long time, inching forward. I used the time to tell her, “You know, I love *Ascension* because… the hero keeps going, even when everything around him falls apart. His perseverance inspires me.”
She looked at me, touched. “That’s true. I love *Wandering Hearts* because it’s about connection—love that survives anything.”
Slowly, we reached the signing table. And finally, there he was. Ken Madarame. A man in his forties, thin glasses, warm smile. The idol of a whole generation.
When our turn came, Hiyori stepped forward first. “Ken-san, we both adore your work!” she said enthusiastically.
I was about to hand him my book when suddenly, a scream tore through the air.
“Ke—eeeeen!”
A man had burst into the bookstore. Everyone turned to look.
Ken stood up immediately, startled. The security guard stepped forward, alert.
The intruder pointed an accusing finger. “You’ll pay for stealing my ideas!”
A wave of panic swept through the crowd.
Ken tried to stay calm. “Listen, this isn’t the time or place. We can talk later.”
But the man was shaking with rage. “Too late! I’ll take justice into my own hands!”
With a violent motion, he pulled a weapon from his bag. A machine gun.
Time froze. Then the roar of gunfire shattered everything.
Bursts. Screams. Chaos. Blood splattered across the bookstore walls.
I was thrown to the ground. A searing pain tore through my throat. I gasped, my hands drenched in red. Beside me, Hiyori collapsed. A crimson stain spread across her temple.
“Hi…yo…ri…” My voice broke into silence.
I reached out with a trembling hand. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t move.
Tears blurred my vision. I begged—God, Buddha, the kamis, even demons. “Someone… save her… I’ll do anything… anything you ask…”
The world darkened.
And in that void, a voice echoed.
“You’ll do anything that’s asked of you?”
“Yes…” I whispered.
Then, a light appeared. A woman. Seated on a throne. The most beautiful I’d ever seen. White hair. Pale skin. Eyes black as the abyss.
“Are you truly ready?” she asked, her voice both gentle and terrifying.
“… Yes.”
“Even to kill?”
I trembled. But I answered. “Yes.”
“Good. I am Tenanké. I can help you. But it won’t be easy. You’ll be my Avataros. I’m sending you to another world… Bring back what was stolen from me.”
Before I could react, the ground vanished.
I fell.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying at the bottom of a ravine. My face was crusted with dried blood.
I raised my hands. Hands that weren’t mine. A teenager’s, maybe.
And I understood.
I had been reincarnated.