Chapter 0:
The Day Nothing Happened
Veilborn: When the Moon Turns Twice
Japan wakes before the sun does.
Even at dawn, the city hums like a machine that never stops — vending machines glowing faint blue, train doors sliding open with mechanical grace, the smell of coffee and rain-soaked concrete blending in the air. Neon signs fade into daylight, and the sky turns silver over rows of glass buildings.
Tokyo never really sleeps.It just changes its rhythm.
That morning, I was part of that rhythm — another moving piece in a city too big to notice me.
The alarm on my phone buzzed at 6:45 a.m., slicing through the faint hum of traffic below.I didn’t move right away. The sound almost blended with the city — the train’s brakes screeching in the distance, a crow cawing on the wires outside my window, someone’s TV from the next apartment playing morning news.
My apartment was small, even by Tokyo standards.A futon by the window. A desk half-covered in notebooks. A cracked mug that used to have a handle. One flickering fluorescent light that always made a faint buzzing noise, like it was thinking too hard.
I lived alone. Had been for three years.No parents. No calls. No one really waiting for me.
I finally reached out and silenced the alarm. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Today’s forecast: clear skies.Chance of anything happening: 0%.
I got up anyway. The morning routine moved like a script — brush teeth, quick shower, throw on the uniform, grab the half-empty convenience-store bread from the counter.
The bread was cold. The air outside wasn’t.Tokyo was already awake.
Bicycles rushed past the narrow street as I stepped out. A delivery truck honked at a pedestrian glued to his phone. Two girls in matching uniforms laughed while waiting for the light to change. Their laughter echoed off the glass buildings, sharp and real — like something I couldn’t touch.
Everyone had somewhere to be. Everyone fit into the noise.I just moved through it.
The train station was packed, as always. A tide of uniforms, briefcases, and sleepy eyes.Announcements echoed overhead — “Yamanote Line bound for Shinjuku, arriving shortly.”
I stood near the edge, watching the reflections of lights ripple across the metal tracks. My reflection looked back — a boy with messy black hair, half-buttoned shirt, and eyes that always seemed tired, like he’d been awake for years.
That boy didn’t look like someone anyone would notice.
When the train arrived, I stepped inside and watched Tokyo slide past — towers, rivers, the flash of morning sunlight off windows.It all looked alive, but distant. Like a world that didn’t need me.
---
By the time I reached school, the bell was already ringing.
The hallways buzzed with chatter. Someone joked about last night’s game. Someone else shouted for their friend to wait. The smell of chalk and cleaning spray hung in the air.
I slipped into my classroom just as the teacher started attendance. My seat was the same as always — second row from the back, beside the window.
I liked that spot.You could see the whole city from there if you looked long enough.It felt like being close to the world but not in it.
I’d barely opened my notebook when a voice came from beside me.
“Hey, Ren.”
I looked up. Ayaka leaned over my desk — brown hair tied into a messy bun, smile that looked like she didn’t need a reason for it.
“You look like a ghost again,” she said, tapping her pen against my notebook. “Did you even sleep?”
“Maybe,” I said. “A little.”
“Liar. You have the same face as yesterday.”
“Pretty sure it’s always been my face.”
She laughed — soft, short, real. “You’re hopeless. Anyway— happy birthday.”
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
She grinned. “You didn’t know? I saw it on the class list. September 14th, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”
“You forgot your own birthday? Unbelievable. I’m bringing you something tomorrow. A cupcake. You’d better eat it or I’ll haunt you.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” She gave a mock salute before walking off to her group of friends, her laughter trailing behind her.
And just like that, the day went back to being noise.
The teacher’s voice blurred. The chalk scraped the board. The wind outside swayed the tree branches.I stared out the window, watching the clouds drift lazily over Tokyo’s skyline.
Another year. Another day that meant nothing.
---
Evening came wrapped in gold and rain.
The city changed again — office lights replacing sunlight, crosswalks glowing white, air filled with the hum of conversation and the faint hiss of rain against umbrellas.
I walked home alone, headphones in, my reflection flashing by in store windows and puddles.My playlist was on shuffle, but every song sounded like background noise for a movie where nothing happens.
My apartment looked exactly as I’d left it — quiet, dim, and slightly colder than I remembered.
Except for one thing.
A small wooden box sat on my desk.
Old, but clean. Dustless. Like it had just been placed there.I froze for a second. The door was locked. No one came in.
I stepped closer.There was something carved on the lid — a faint circle with strange lines crossing through it, like an eclipse drawn by hand.
I hesitated before opening it.
Inside was a single coin — bronze, heavy, its surface covered with tiny symbols that shimmered faintly when I tilted it under the light.Beneath it, a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it slowly.
> “When the moon turns twice, follow the light no one sees.”— Father.
The handwriting made my chest tighten.It had been years since I’d even thought about him.He’d disappeared when I was ten. No note, no reason. Just gone.
My hand shook slightly as I picked up the coin.It was warm.
Too warm.
And then — it pulsed.Once.Twice.
The lights in my room flickered.The hum of the city outside fell silent, like someone had unplugged Tokyo.
“...What the—”
The floor rippled like water beneath my feet.The walls stretched and bent, colors melting into liquid gold.The air trembled, and my phone slipped from my hand, the screen turning black.
A whisper slid through the air, soft as breath.
> “Veilborn.”
I stumbled back. The coin glowed brighter, symbols spinning across its surface like gears aligning.The sound in my ears wasn’t silence anymore — it was a low, humming note, like the whole world was breathing in.
The light surged. My apartment dissolved into streaks of white.I tried to shout, but no sound came out. My voice was swallowed by something vast — something that felt like both dream and memory.
And then—
Falling.Or rising.I couldn’t tell which.
My body felt weightless, like I’d been torn out of myself and scattered into light.
When my eyes opened, the world was wrong.
I was standing on a bridge made of glass, stretching into a horizon of silver water and stars.A city shimmered below — towers that curved like waves, lanterns floating midair, rivers glowing faint blue beneath twin moons.
One white. One red.
The air tasted like rain and metal.My heart pounded. The coin was gone.
Behind me, something stirred — a shadow against the mirrored skyline.
Then a voice, low and near, whispered:
> “Welcome back, Ren Arata.”
I turned.A figure stood at the end of the bridge, draped in light and shadow, their face unreadable.
> “You finally returned.”
The air around me rippled like glass cracking under heat.My vision blurred — city, stars, reflection — all folding into each other like a dream breaking apart.
And just before everything faded to white again, I heard that same word echo once more—
> “Veilborn.”
The light swallowed everything.
And that was the day nothing happened.
The day everything began.
Even at dawn, the city hums like a machine that never stops — vending machines glowing faint blue, train doors sliding open with mechanical grace, the smell of coffee and rain-soaked concrete blending in the air. Neon signs fade into daylight, and the sky turns silver over rows of glass buildings.
Tokyo never really sleeps.It just changes its rhythm.
That morning, I was part of that rhythm — another moving piece in a city too big to notice me.
The alarm on my phone buzzed at 6:45 a.m., slicing through the faint hum of traffic below.I didn’t move right away. The sound almost blended with the city — the train’s brakes screeching in the distance, a crow cawing on the wires outside my window, someone’s TV from the next apartment playing morning news.
My apartment was small, even by Tokyo standards.A futon by the window. A desk half-covered in notebooks. A cracked mug that used to have a handle. One flickering fluorescent light that always made a faint buzzing noise, like it was thinking too hard.
I lived alone. Had been for three years.No parents. No calls. No one really waiting for me.
I finally reached out and silenced the alarm. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Today’s forecast: clear skies.Chance of anything happening: 0%.
I got up anyway. The morning routine moved like a script — brush teeth, quick shower, throw on the uniform, grab the half-empty convenience-store bread from the counter.
The bread was cold. The air outside wasn’t.Tokyo was already awake.
Bicycles rushed past the narrow street as I stepped out. A delivery truck honked at a pedestrian glued to his phone. Two girls in matching uniforms laughed while waiting for the light to change. Their laughter echoed off the glass buildings, sharp and real — like something I couldn’t touch.
Everyone had somewhere to be. Everyone fit into the noise.I just moved through it.
The train station was packed, as always. A tide of uniforms, briefcases, and sleepy eyes.Announcements echoed overhead — “Yamanote Line bound for Shinjuku, arriving shortly.”
I stood near the edge, watching the reflections of lights ripple across the metal tracks. My reflection looked back — a boy with messy black hair, half-buttoned shirt, and eyes that always seemed tired, like he’d been awake for years.
That boy didn’t look like someone anyone would notice.
When the train arrived, I stepped inside and watched Tokyo slide past — towers, rivers, the flash of morning sunlight off windows.It all looked alive, but distant. Like a world that didn’t need me.
---
By the time I reached school, the bell was already ringing.
The hallways buzzed with chatter. Someone joked about last night’s game. Someone else shouted for their friend to wait. The smell of chalk and cleaning spray hung in the air.
I slipped into my classroom just as the teacher started attendance. My seat was the same as always — second row from the back, beside the window.
I liked that spot.You could see the whole city from there if you looked long enough.It felt like being close to the world but not in it.
I’d barely opened my notebook when a voice came from beside me.
“Hey, Ren.”
I looked up. Ayaka leaned over my desk — brown hair tied into a messy bun, smile that looked like she didn’t need a reason for it.
“You look like a ghost again,” she said, tapping her pen against my notebook. “Did you even sleep?”
“Maybe,” I said. “A little.”
“Liar. You have the same face as yesterday.”
“Pretty sure it’s always been my face.”
She laughed — soft, short, real. “You’re hopeless. Anyway— happy birthday.”
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
She grinned. “You didn’t know? I saw it on the class list. September 14th, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”
“You forgot your own birthday? Unbelievable. I’m bringing you something tomorrow. A cupcake. You’d better eat it or I’ll haunt you.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” She gave a mock salute before walking off to her group of friends, her laughter trailing behind her.
And just like that, the day went back to being noise.
The teacher’s voice blurred. The chalk scraped the board. The wind outside swayed the tree branches.I stared out the window, watching the clouds drift lazily over Tokyo’s skyline.
Another year. Another day that meant nothing.
---
Evening came wrapped in gold and rain.
The city changed again — office lights replacing sunlight, crosswalks glowing white, air filled with the hum of conversation and the faint hiss of rain against umbrellas.
I walked home alone, headphones in, my reflection flashing by in store windows and puddles.My playlist was on shuffle, but every song sounded like background noise for a movie where nothing happens.
My apartment looked exactly as I’d left it — quiet, dim, and slightly colder than I remembered.
Except for one thing.
A small wooden box sat on my desk.
Old, but clean. Dustless. Like it had just been placed there.I froze for a second. The door was locked. No one came in.
I stepped closer.There was something carved on the lid — a faint circle with strange lines crossing through it, like an eclipse drawn by hand.
I hesitated before opening it.
Inside was a single coin — bronze, heavy, its surface covered with tiny symbols that shimmered faintly when I tilted it under the light.Beneath it, a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it slowly.
> “When the moon turns twice, follow the light no one sees.”— Father.
The handwriting made my chest tighten.It had been years since I’d even thought about him.He’d disappeared when I was ten. No note, no reason. Just gone.
My hand shook slightly as I picked up the coin.It was warm.
Too warm.
And then — it pulsed.Once.Twice.
The lights in my room flickered.The hum of the city outside fell silent, like someone had unplugged Tokyo.
“...What the—”
The floor rippled like water beneath my feet.The walls stretched and bent, colors melting into liquid gold.The air trembled, and my phone slipped from my hand, the screen turning black.
A whisper slid through the air, soft as breath.
> “Veilborn.”
I stumbled back. The coin glowed brighter, symbols spinning across its surface like gears aligning.The sound in my ears wasn’t silence anymore — it was a low, humming note, like the whole world was breathing in.
The light surged. My apartment dissolved into streaks of white.I tried to shout, but no sound came out. My voice was swallowed by something vast — something that felt like both dream and memory.
And then—
Falling.Or rising.I couldn’t tell which.
My body felt weightless, like I’d been torn out of myself and scattered into light.
When my eyes opened, the world was wrong.
I was standing on a bridge made of glass, stretching into a horizon of silver water and stars.A city shimmered below — towers that curved like waves, lanterns floating midair, rivers glowing faint blue beneath twin moons.
One white. One red.
The air tasted like rain and metal.My heart pounded. The coin was gone.
Behind me, something stirred — a shadow against the mirrored skyline.
Then a voice, low and near, whispered:
> “Welcome back, Ren Arata.”
I turned.A figure stood at the end of the bridge, draped in light and shadow, their face unreadable.
> “You finally returned.”
The air around me rippled like glass cracking under heat.My vision blurred — city, stars, reflection — all folding into each other like a dream breaking apart.
And just before everything faded to white again, I heard that same word echo once more—
> “Veilborn.”
The light swallowed everything.
And that was the day nothing happened.
The day everything began.
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