Chapter 0: The Bullet That Should Not Exist

The night sky stretched out like a void, a blank sheet where destiny had yet to be written.

Atop the stone roof of the noble district, a man with hair as black as ink stepped soundlessly. Leather gloves encased his fingers—suppressing fingerprints, suppressing emotion. In his left hand, he carried a simple metal case—a small object that harbored death.

He stopped at the edge of the roof.

Below, the gala lights glittered like false stars. The laughter of aristocrats mingled with the clinking of glasses. The world looked peaceful.

From a distance, peace always looked convincing.

He knelt and opened the case.

Click.

Inside lay something alien to this world.

A sniper rifle.

It was no magical artifact. Not an ancient relic. Nor was it the work of the kingdom’s finest blacksmiths. It was a weapon from another world—born of steel, precision, and the intent to end a life from a distance no sword could reach.

He assembled it with movements that were almost mechanical. The bolt locked. The scope mounted. The magazine clicked into place. Every part found its home, like pieces of a predetermined fate.

In this world, people killed with magic or steel.

He killed with certainty.

He lowered his body. Elbows braced. His right eye pressed against the scope.

The crosshairs narrowed.

The two-story building across the street entered the glass circle. Marble balconies. Golden curtains. Servants scurrying about.

And there—

The target.

A man dressed impeccably like a true nobleman. An expensive suit, polished shoes, and a smile far too confident for someone who stole from his own people.

A Reincarnator.

Someone who had died in another world, then been given a second chance. A chance that should have been for redemption.

Instead, he chose power.

With memories of the modern world, he manipulated the kingdom’s tax system. He controlled the food supply. He bought officials with promises of progress. The people called him a visionary.

Yohaime called him a disruptor of balance.

"Hey, beautiful. Want to play with me?" the man said, grabbing a woman’s hand on the balcony.

"Ugh, disgusting. Get away from me, you creep!" the woman spat back, pulling her hand away in revulsion.

The nobleman’s face flushed red. His hand moved toward his waist, where a small dagger lay hidden.

Atop the roof, Yohaime’s breath remained steady.

Two hundred and eighty meters.

Light easterly wind.

Elevation corrected.

The world gave him a second life. But a second life did not mean limitless freedom. Some thought reincarnation was a gift.

To him, it was a test.

And those who failed—had to be erased.

His finger squeezed the trigger.

A single, dry crack shattered the night.

The bullet streaked out like an unbending line of fate. It pierced the air, sliced through the gala lights, and slammed into the nobleman's head.

Red wine spilled, merging with blood.

The body collapsed before it could even comprehend an end that came so swiftly.

Screams erupted on the balcony. The music stopped. Glass shattered. Panic spread like cracks on a mirror.

Yohaime bolted the rifle calmly.

"Target eliminated."

A woman’s voice crackled through the small comms device in his ear.

"Good. Now get out of there before anyone spots you."

He began to disassemble the rifle. No haste. No hesitation. Every part went back into the case like a deeply buried secret.

Below, the world trembled because of a single death.

Up here, there was only silence.

He stood up, gazing momentarily at the chaos he had created.

Once, he was Haku—a mercenary general who believed in loyalty and was destroyed by betrayal.

Now, he was Yohaime.

Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a tool to ensure this world did not crumble under those who felt "chosen."

If the Reincarnators thought they were the protagonists of this world—

Then he was their epilogue.