Crimson Reverie

Teppei woke up with a groggy mind, his vision still blurred by the faint sunlight seeping through the cracks in his tiny, cluttered room. The air was thick with the scent of old garbage, remnants of years spent in neglect. His body ached as he shifted under the weight of his own existence. Teppei Kinjo, age 21, unemployed, drowning in the crushing burden of 5.3 billion yen in debt—a twisted inheritance left behind by the very people who should have cared for him. His parents had long since vanished, abandoning him to fend for himself with nothing but their failures as his legacy.

He forced himself up, stumbling over heaps of discarded food wrappers and broken objects, his mind searching for purpose in the monotony of survival. There wasn't much for him to do except drag himself toward the barely-standing closet, its doors hanging loose from rusted hinges. He pulled out a wrinkled, sweat-stained uniform and got dressed, preparing himself for another grueling day on the construction site.

Work was hell. It always was. Under the iron grip of his ruthless boss, he had no choice but to push his body past its limits. Each brick he hoisted felt heavier than the last, each breath he took seemed thinner in the oppressive heat. The relentless sun bore down on him, searing his skin, draining his strength, yet there was no respite. The day stretched on endlessly, his muscles screaming in protest, his fingers raw from the coarse ropes and cement dust. By the time his first break came, his body was already on the verge of collapse.

With trembling hands, he reached for the bottle of water he had packed that morning, eager for the relief it would bring. But before he could take a sip, his chest tightened. A sharp, unbearable pain tore through his ribs, his vision darkening as the world around him tilted. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the hard ground, gasping for breath that would not come. The sounds of the construction site faded into a muffled haze, his heartbeat hammering like a war drum in his ears—until it stopped.

Darkness. A vast, unending abyss. Teppei floated weightlessly in the unknown, his thoughts slow, sluggish. Was he dead? Was this some kind of limbo? Or had he finally been cast into the depths of hell? The questions spiraled in his mind, but there were no answers, only the silent void that stretched infinitely in every direction.

Then—impact. His body hit the ground with a force that should have shattered his bones, but there was no pain, no breath in his lungs, yet he did not suffocate. Crawling, searching, his fingers clawed at the nothingness, desperate for a light, for anything to ground him in reality.

A voice.

"My my~ Look at you, crawling like the pathetic creature you are."

The voice was smooth, teasing, and undeniably feminine. Teppei froze, his senses sharpening as he turned his gaze toward the source. And there she was. But his mind refused to comprehend her form, as though his very perception rejected her existence. She was there, and yet not. The only thing tangible was the sensation of her fingertips brushing against his cheek, a warmth so foreign in this abyss that it sent shivers down his spine.

His eyes met hers—if they could be called that. Darkness. A void even deeper than the one surrounding them, pulling him in, consuming his thoughts.

"You wanted to live, didn't you?" she whispered, her voice dripping with amusement. "You had dreams, ambitions... You wanted a story worth telling. Such a shame, really. No friends to hear it, no one to care. But..." Her fingers traced his jaw, her touch both delicate and possessive. "I can grant you your wish."

Teppei's breath hitched—if he was even breathing at all. His instincts screamed at him, but he couldn't move, couldn't pull away from the invisible force holding him in place.

"But I won't do it for free," she continued, her voice laced with something almost affectionate, yet sinister.

Something wet, warm, and invasive pressed against his lips, sliding into his mouth. Teppei's eyes widened. A kiss? No, it was something else—something deeper, something primal. It slithered through his very being, embedding itself into his soul. His body trembled as an unknown force surged through him, wrapping around his core like a chain of inescapable fate.

As the sensation faded, she pulled away, a wicked smile playing at the edges of her unseen lips.

"This was my Kiss of Death," she whispered, her voice reverberating through the void. "I bestow upon you a gift. Cherish it well... for you will use it wisely."

And with that, Teppei's new reality began.

Teppei's lungs filled with air, but it was different this time—thicker, heavier, as if he were sinking into something deeper than mere water. The void around him pulled him down, endless and inescapable, yet the only sound that accompanied his descent was the faint, echoing giggle of the being who had cursed—no, blessed—him.

His body felt weightless, dissolving into the abyss like ink in water. It should have been terrifying, but something about it felt... inevitable. And then, just when he thought he would sink forever—light.

A flicker at first. Then a brilliant glow, distant but unwavering, calling to him.

He reached for it.

And the moment he did—

A gasp.

His eyes shot open, and the first thing he saw were two unfamiliar faces staring down at him. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A man and a woman, their expressions filled with relief and warmth. But something was wrong.

Teppei tried to move, but his limbs felt sluggish, strange. His body wasn't his own—it was smaller, softer. His hands, now tiny and chubby, trembled as he lifted them. Panic surged through him.

What the hell...?

It didn't take long for him to understand. He wasn't Teppei Kinjo anymore.

He had changed.

Years passed. He adapted. He learned.

This new world was called Asteoteria, a land unlike anything he had ever known. Magic thrived here, a force as natural as breathing. The people who wielded it could become adventurers, knights, or, if they were strong enough, they could rise to the highest rank of all—Grand Magister, a title only a select few ever attained.

But what shocked him the most wasn't the magic. It wasn't the sprawling cities or the towering beasts that roamed the land. It was himself.

He was no longer Teppei. That name, that life, was a distant memory.

Here, he was Caspian.

Caspian Harkin.

His new mother had given him that name, and with time, he had learned to accept it. The life of a struggling construction worker felt like a dream, hazy and distant. He had been reborn into this world with no baggage, no debt, no endless days of suffering under a ruthless boss. Instead, he had a loving family, a home in the small town of Dragona, and a future wide open with possibilities.

But there was one thing he knew for sure—he wouldn't waste this new life working away in some village.

No.

He wanted more.

Caspian wanted to learn magic, to wield power, to rise above the mundane and carve his own path in this world. He didn't just want to live—he wanted to thrive.

And in a few years, when he came of age, he would leave Dragona behind and set out to become something greater. Whether it was as an adventurer, a knight, or even something beyond—he would find his place.

He would rise.

And maybe, just maybe...

He would uncover the truth behind the being that had sent him here in the first place.

Caspian's fifteenth birthday had finally arrived—a day he had been anticipating his entire life. Today was the Recall Event, the sacred ceremony where grimoires would find their destined owners. Some grimoires would manifest on their own, drawn to an individual's soul, while for those of noble or royal lineage, their grimoire had been predetermined, passed down through generations. Caspian wasn't of noble blood, but that didn't matter. He had spent years preparing for this moment, honing his body, training his mind, and dreaming of the day when his own magic would awaken.

The morning sun filtered through his window, casting golden hues over his small wooden room. His heart pounded with excitement as he threw off his blanket and leapt out of bed, nearly stumbling over a pile of books and parchment.

"This is it!" he exclaimed, a grin splitting across his face as he hurriedly got dressed.

He pulled on a simple white tunic and dark trousers before fastening a leather belt around his waist, securing the small dagger his father had given him years ago. Not that he would need it today, but it made him feel prepared—like a real adventurer.

As he rushed through the house, he searched for his parents.

His father, Jozeph Harkin, was the first to come into view. A towering man with broad shoulders, he was built like a warrior, with thick arms that bore countless scars from years of battle. His dark beard was wild and unkempt, a symbol of his rugged nature, and in his right hand, he casually held his massive battle-axe—an absurd sight, considering it was nearly the size of Caspian himself. But to Jozeph, it was as light as a handaxe.

Caspian grinned. "Morning, Dad!"

Jozeph turned, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Morning, boy. You're up early."

"Of course! It's the Recall Event today. No way I'd sleep in!"

His father let out a low chuckle and ruffled Caspian's hair, nearly knocking him over with the sheer strength behind it. "That's the spirit."

But as Caspian's excitement burned bright, his thoughts drifted toward his mother. Is she awake? Is she feeling better today?

He made his way to the main room, where his mother, Elena Harkin, sat in her usual chair by the window. Her long white hair cascaded over her shoulders, contrasting sharply against the deep blue fabric of her robe. Though she smiled warmly when she saw him, Caspian couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked. Her skin was paler than usual, and there was a weariness in her eyes that had deepened over the last few years.

"Happy birthday, my sweet Caspian," she said softly, her voice gentle but weak.

Caspian hesitated before rushing to her side, kneeling beside her chair. "Mom... are you okay today?"

Her smile didn't falter. "Of course, dear. Just a little tired, that's all."

That's what she always said.

But Caspian knew better.

For the past year, he had been asking around, searching for answers, and the whispers among the town's healers had all pointed to one terrifying truth—his mother was suffering from Matricartel, a rare and incurable illness.

Matricartel wasn't an ordinary sickness. It wasn't caused by infection, poison, or injury. It was something far worse.

It attacked the very foundation of magic itself.

Arunites—the microscopic molecular cells responsible for a person's ability to use magic—were essential to all life in Asteoteria. Every living being had them, though their concentration varied. Some were born with only a few, rendering them incapable of wielding magic, while others had an abundance, allowing them to cast powerful spells, shape the elements, and bend mana to their will.

But Matricartel consumed Arunites. It spread like a curse, draining the very essence that allowed a person to wield magic. And while Elena was not particularly strong in magic—her Arunite count being only slightly above dormant levels—the disease had been slowly eroding what little she had left.

And there was no cure.

Caspian clenched his fists. He had spent months secretly searching for a way to stop the disease, but every healer, scholar, and mage he had consulted all said the same thing.

There is nothing you can do.

But he refused to accept that.

Not yet.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to smile. Today was supposed to be a happy day. His mother wouldn't want to see him worrying.

"I'll make you proud today, Mom," he said, taking her hand gently.

She squeezed it weakly. "You already have, my dear."

His father clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's time. We should get going."

Caspian nodded, standing up and straightening his posture. "Let's go."

---

The Temple of Eveliriana stood at the heart of Dragona, an ancient structure built in honor of the Goddess of Magic and Fate. Towering stone pillars lined the entrance, each engraved with scriptures from a time long forgotten. The air inside was thick with mana, humming softly as if the temple itself was alive.

The Recall Event was held here, presided over by the town's elder, Master Vael, a wise old mage who had guided many generations through their awakening. Today, he stood before the grand altar, a massive statue of Eveliriana behind him. Her hands were outstretched as if bestowing blessings upon the children who had gathered.

One by one, the fifteen-year-olds stepped forward, kneeling at the altar as Master Vael uttered prayers. When the ritual was complete, the skies darkened.

And then—it began.

The Rain of Awakening.

Magic-infused raindrops descended from the heavens, each droplet shimmering with ethereal light. As the rain touched the children, their destinies unfolded. For some, nothing happened—their fate was sealed as non-magical. Others gasped as books of power materialized in their hands, glowing faintly with their chosen element.

But then—

Caspian stepped onto the altar.

He knelt before the statue, closing his eyes as he felt the first raindrop hit his skin. A shiver ran down his spine. The air grew heavier, charged with something ancient, something powerful.

A deep, pulsating hum filled the temple, resonating through the stone walls. The rain around him began to slow, as if time itself had hesitated.

Then, a sharp crack split the air.

Gasps erupted from the crowd as a brilliant, blinding light engulfed the altar.

And in that moment—

A book appeared before him.

But it was unlike any other grimoire summoned that day.

Its cover was pitch black, as if forged from the void itself. Strange crimson markings twisted and shifted across its surface, pulsing with a life of their own. The rain that touched it evaporated instantly, as though rejected by its very existence. The air around it warped, crackling with untamed energy.

Master Vael took an uncertain step back, his face pale.

"This..." he whispered, his voice laced with disbelief. "This is no ordinary grimoire."

Caspian stared at it, his heart pounding.

Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, his hand reached out—

And the moment his fingers brushed the cover, an overwhelming surge of power shot through him.

His vision blurred. His body trembled.

And deep within his soul—

Something woke up.

Everyone around stood frozen, eyes locked onto the dark grimoire as it pulsed with an eerie glow before vanishing—absorbing itself into my very being. My breath was shallow, my heart pounding like a war drum. I should have felt excitement, maybe pride. Instead, I was paralyzed.

For the others—those who received ordinary grimoires, those who got nothing, and even the ones who manifested entirely new books—there was a sense of finality, an expected outcome. But this? This was different. The silence that had fallen over the temple was heavier than anything I had ever known.

A hushed murmur spread through the crowd, but no one dared to speak above a whisper. Eyes bore into me, some with awe, others with fear.

I turned sharply to Master Vael, the man who had overseen this ceremony for decades—maybe even centuries. His face, usually calm and wise, was frozen in shock. I had never seen him this way. This is wrong. This isn't normal.

"Master Vael… what was that?" My voice wavered, betraying my attempt to sound composed. "Was that my grimoire?"

I already knew the answer. But I needed to hear it.

Vael remained silent, his gaze piercing but unreadable. He seemed lost in thought, struggling to process what had just occurred. This was the same man who had seen thousands of awakenings, had guided generations through this very ceremony, and yet—he was at a loss for words.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. "Young Harkin," his voice was measured, cautious, "what I have witnessed here today is… beyond ordinary. Your grimoire, whatever it is, holds something… unusual. Powerful. Perhaps even dangerous."

I swallowed hard. Dangerous?

"But," he continued, his tone shifting, "do not fear it. A grimoire is a reflection of its wielder. It is not simply a tool—it is a piece of your soul. Yours is no different. It is your duty to understand it, to master it. Whatever power resides within that book, it is now a part of you."

I felt the weight of his words settle deep in my chest. My hands curled into fists. Was this a blessing? A curse? I didn't know. I only knew that I couldn't stay here any longer, with their eyes on me, their whispers following my every step.

I pulled my hood up, hiding my face, though it was pointless. They had already seen everything.

I turned away from the altar and walked back toward my father, who had been standing at the edge of the crowd, waiting. His face was unreadable, but his hands were firm on his axe, knuckles white.

We left in silence, stepping away from the temple and back toward home. The further we walked, the heavier the air became around us. My mind raced with questions, but I only found the strength to ask one.

"Dad," my voice was quiet, unsure. "What was that? That wasn't like yours… why is mine so dark?"

My father sighed, running a hand through his thick beard. "Caspian… black grimoires aren't rare. There have been many throughout history. Some belonged to great mages, powerful warriors… but yours—" he hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Yours is darker than any I've ever seen."

His words did little to comfort me. If anything, they made the weight in my chest even heavier.

"But it'll be fine," he added, forcing a small smile. "You'll see."

I wasn't sure if I believed him.

I was happy. I was scared.

And more than anything—

I was worried.

"Let's not… tell Mother. Let's say I didn't get any—"

Before I could even finish my sentence, a sharp smack landed on the back of my head.

"Caspian!" My father's voice boomed, filled with a mix of disappointment and something deeper—something raw. "Lying to your mother is something I should break every damn bone in your body for. She wanted to see this more than anyone, more than you. And trust me, I didn't think that was even possible."

I rubbed the back of my head, wincing. He wasn't wrong. My mother had been talking about the Recall Ceremony for years, probably dreaming of the day I would walk up to that altar and receive my grimoire. The excitement in her voice whenever she spoke about it, the way her eyes lit up despite her exhaustion—it was something I could never ignore.

I couldn't lie to her.

But… what would she say when she saw what I had received? Would she be proud? Scared? Would she look at me the same way, or would there be fear in her eyes?

A sickening unease settled in my stomach.

Something felt… off.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing—something important.

The walk home felt longer than usual, the air heavier with every step. My mind was a tangled mess of thoughts, but none of them prepared me for what was waiting beyond that door.

As I pushed it open, the scent of home greeted me—the faint aroma of herbs and the lingering warmth of a place well-lived. But something was… wrong.

There she was.

Sitting in her usual chair, hands resting in her lap, her head tilted slightly to the side, resting on the pillow.

Too still.

Too quiet.

"Mom!" I called, stepping forward, shaking off the dread creeping up my spine. "We're home!"

She didn't move.

My heart skipped.

"Mom?" I called again, my voice cracking slightly.

No answer.

I rushed forward, grabbing her hand.

Cold.

Too cold.

"Mom?!" My voice was desperate now, my hands gripping hers tightly, willing warmth back into them. "Hey, wake up!"

Then—

"Elena!"

My father's voice, usually strong and unshakable, broke as he crossed the room in an instant. He reached for her, hands trembling, checking for something—anything. A pulse. A sign. Hope.

But hope was cruel.

His breathing turned ragged, and I watched in stunned silence as the strongest man I knew—the man who had felled monsters, the man who had held our family together through everything—collapsed.

His fingers dug into his scalp, his shoulders heaving. A guttural, broken sob escaped him as he pressed his forehead against her lap, gripping the fabric of her dress as if letting go would make it real.

His whole body trembled, his pain raw, uncontained.

I had never—never—seen him like this.

The man who stood like a mountain, unshakable and proud, was crumbling right before my eyes.

And I could do nothing.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't even cry.

My mother—the woman who raised me, who smiled even when she was weak, who always made our small home feel like the warmest place in the world—was gone.

The world blurred around me, my vision spinning, my chest tightening. The unease I had felt earlier now clawed at me, suffocating.

Something was wrong.

Something was missing.

I looked at my father, hunched over, shaking with grief. I looked at my mother, her face still peaceful, as if she had simply drifted into a deep sleep.

I held her hand, gripping it tightly, desperately, hoping for something—a miracle, anything.

I wanted her back.

The woman who meant everything to me, who had raised me with warmth and love despite her illness, despite her exhaustion. The woman who had tamed a monster of a man like my father, who had brought peace into our home even in the darkest times.

She had to come back.

She needed to come back.

The thoughts consumed me, twisting and clouding my mind like a storm. The desire burned so fiercely in my chest that I barely noticed when my father's sobs faded into silence.

Then, he stood.

His movements were slow, heavy, as if he were dragging the weight of the world on his shoulders. He wiped his face with a trembling hand before turning toward the door.

"I'll… be right back," he said, his voice hollow.

And then he left.

I stayed.

I stayed by her side, unwilling to leave, unwilling to accept what had happened. My hands trembled as I stroked her fingers, now so cold compared to the warmth they once held.

I waited.

I didn't know how much time passed before my father returned, but when he did, he wasn't alone.

Elder Vael, his expression grim yet composed.

Head Doctor Otto, an old man with tired eyes, followed by his colleague.

They approached with quiet reverence, their presence filling the house with a suffocating air of finality.

I watched as they examined her. I saw the way Otto's face fell, the way his colleague exchanged a knowing look with him.

And then the words came.

"The cause of death is clear," Doctor Otto finally said, voice low. "Matricartel."

My stomach twisted.

"Her body simply could not sustain itself with such a dangerously low amount of Arunites. Even though I was monitoring her weekly, I wasn't in Dragona recently." His voice carried regret, frustration. "But even so, her condition was far worse than I had ever seen before. She lasted longer than anyone else with this illness. By all logic, she should have—" He hesitated.

"It was her will," his colleague finished for him.

Otto nodded solemnly. "She was holding on… but in the end, it seems suppressing it only accelerated the process."

Silence hung over us, thick and heavy.

"I'm sorry, Jozeph..." Otto placed a hand on my father's shoulder. "If I had been here sooner, if she had asked for me, maybe… maybe I could have done something. But—"

My father shook his head. "No, Otto. It's… okay. I trusted her. I knew she wouldn't say a word. That was just the kind of woman she was."

Elder Vael sighed, stepping forward. "This is a sorrowful time. I will inform her family."

And with that, they left.

And I was alone.

Alone in my room.

Alone with the fear clawing at my chest.

Too scared to go back downstairs.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Feminine. Dripping with amusement.

"You caused this~"

A sharp chill ran down my spine.

"You cast it~"

A giggle. Light, playful, but something deeply wrong lurked beneath it.

My breath hitched as I whipped around, eyes darting across my room.

Nothing.

No one.

"W-What is this?!" I shouted, heart pounding.

"Matricartel is born when someone with an extremely low amount of Arunites comes into close contact with someone who has at least ten times more~."

The voice purred, echoing in my mind, slithering around my thoughts like a snake.

"In other words… the child she bore with pride, with undeniable, unbreakable love… was what caused the illness to appear~."

My blood ran cold.

No.

No, that wasn't—

That couldn't be true.

I felt something behind me.

A presence.

Something shifting in my blind spot—always just out of reach, always moving the moment I turned my head.

I spun around.

Nothing.

But I felt it.

It was there.

Watching.

Waiting.

"And what are you supposed to be?!" I shouted into the darkness of my room, my voice raw with anger, fear, and confusion. "You blame me for what happened, yet you refuse to show yourself! Well then—tell me! Explain it to me!"

A sudden force surged through my body, and before I could process what was happening, my grimoire materialized before me. Its pages fluttered open—

Blank.

Every single one.

Not a single sigil, spell, or mark of power.

A hollow book.

A useless book.

Then, the voice returned, smooth and dripping with amusement.

"That's who I am~"

The air around me grew thick, suffocating.

"The emptiness~ The part of you you've forgotten, my dear Teeeppei~"

A shiver ran down my spine. My pulse pounded in my ears.

Then—something wet and warm dragged along my cheek.

A tongue? A finger? A breath?

I recoiled, whipping my head to the side—

Nothing.

No one.

Yet, I could still feel it.

Right there, just outside my vision.

Lurking.

Watching.

"I am the Hollow Jester~" the voice purred, teasing, relishing in my unease.

"Your own grimoire. You are me, and I am you~"

The air around me twisted, shadows curling at the edges of my sight.

"You are my shell~"

A whisper slithered into my ear, a touch colder than ice yet burning like fire.

"And I am your emptiness~"

The room spun. My breath hitched.

What was this thing?

What had I just awakened?

"What the hell do you mean by my emptiness?! And I am your shell? What the hell is this? Who are you? What are you? And what do you want?!" Caspian's voice cracked with rage, desperation clawing at his throat as he spun around the dark room.

He could feel her. Just barely. A presence that slithered right beyond the edge of his vision, shifting, hiding—teasing. Every time his eyes tried to land on her, she slipped away, vanishing before he could grasp even a fragment of what she was.

He needed to see her.

He had to.

His mind was unraveling at the edges, burning with an insatiable need to understand. But something deep inside him, a primal, ancient part of his soul, screamed for him to stop.

There are things that should remain unknown.

There are things that should never be seen.

But curiosity had already begun its slow, poisonous descent.

And then—cold fingers gripped his skull.

Before he could react—

CRACK.

A wet, sickening snap echoed through the room.

His vision spun.

A violent, unbearable wrongness seized his body.

Pain—no, not just pain—something worse. Something unnatural. Something absolute.

His body folded, crumbling to the ground like a broken puppet. His breath caught, his lungs locked in terror, and his fingers scrambled at his neck, expecting to feel shattered bones, torn muscles—but there was nothing.

His neck was fine.

Whole.

Untouched.

Yet the pain—the memory of dying—lingered.

"What… was that?" he gasped, his voice barely a whisper.

And for a long, endless moment—

Silence.

Stillness.

A void so deep it threatened to consume him whole.

Then—

*"That was~ ahhh~"

The voice.

Twisted. Dripping. Hungry.

"That was a death~"

A shriek, high and sharp—filled with something perverse, something wrong.

Lust.

Madness.

A thing delighted, aroused by suffering.

Her voice shivered against his ear, soft, breathy.

"I want to see you die so much~"

Caspian froze.

"I would love to see more~"

And then—

Agony.

His body ripped itself apart.

A phantom force tore into him—muscle from muscle, bone from bone.

He could feel his own nerves unraveling, fraying apart like strings pulled too tight. His tendons snapped, his skin peeled, his joints twisted in ways they were never meant to.

His heart—his heart.

A hand—something unseen—grasped it.

And then—

Squeezed.

A cruel, deliberate crush.

His ribs cracked inward as unseen blades stabbed into his flesh—again, and again, and again.

Precise.

Intentional.

Loving.

Like someone who knew the human body too intimately—who understood exactly where to cut, where to pierce, where to shatter to cause the most exquisite torment.

The pain was unbearable.

Unreal.

Caspian didn't even have the strength to scream.

His vision blurred, blackness curling at the edges.

Then—

The darkness took him.

Caspian jolted upright, gasping for air, his entire body drenched in cold sweat. His chest rose and fell in ragged, frantic breaths, his limbs trembling as if he had just run for his life. His room was bathed in the pale, bluish hue of early morning, the faint chirping of birds outside the only sound breaking the suffocating silence.

He pressed his palm against his forehead. What the hell was that?

Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood shakily, every muscle in his body sore, his limbs tingling with numbness. His breath came in uneven gasps as he staggered toward the window, throwing it open in search of fresh air.

The cool morning breeze washed over him, but it did nothing to calm the unease slithering in his chest.

I… I didn't die?

The memories of that moment were still fresh. The snap of his neck. The way his body had been torn apart. The crushing grip around his heart. The knives slicing through his flesh like a butcher methodically carving meat.

And yet—he was whole.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the hem of his shirt, peeling it off with shaky hands. But the moment he looked at his bare chest, his blood turned to ice.

Right over his heart, carved into his flesh like a branding mark—were claw marks.

Dark, jagged gashes, almost too perfectly placed, as if something—someone—had marked him. The wounds weren't fresh, but they weren't old either. They pulsed faintly, as if alive, the flesh around them unnaturally cold.

His fingers brushed over the scars, expecting pain, but there was none. Instead, there was—

Nothing.

No heartbeat.

No thump-thump beneath his fingertips.

No familiar rhythm of life.

Just—silence.

His throat clenched, his breath caught in his chest.

No.

No, no, no.

He pressed harder, feeling, searching—desperate for something.

Nothing.

A choked noise escaped his lips.

"Why… doesn't my heart beat?"

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. His hands were shaking now, his body wracked with an emotion he couldn't describe. Fear? Panic? Terror?

He stumbled backward, crashing into the doorframe. The world felt wrong, distorted, unreal.

I need to get out of here.

His feet moved on their own.

He ran.

Bursting through the door, he sprinted down the narrow streets of Dragona. His legs carried him forward at a relentless pace, yet—

No exhaustion.

No burning in his lungs.

No sweat dripping down his skin.

No desperate need for air.

Just the eerie, unnatural calm of his body moving like a machine—perfect, unyielding, tireless.

The town blurred past him, early risers barely sparing him a glance as he raced through the streets like a madman. His mind screamed for an answer, his pulse—if he still had one—pounding in his skull.

What happened to me?

And more importantly—

What am I now?

Caspian finally slowed down, his feet dragging against the cobblestone as he turned into a secluded alleyway. The towering brick walls cast a shadow over him, shielding him from the golden rays of the morning sun. He pressed his back against the rough surface, sliding down until he was seated on the cold ground. His eyes drifted upward, staring at the endless blue sky above.

It was beautiful. The same sky he had always known, the same world he had dreamed of conquering. And yet—everything felt wrong.

His chest remained still.

His body showed no signs of exhaustion.

No rapid heartbeat.

No aching muscles.

No desperate need to catch his breath.

He had run—faster and longer than ever before—and yet he wasn't even sweating.

A bitter chuckle left his lips.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Ever since he was a child, he had dreamed of joining the Great Blauxnarth Academy. A place where the strongest mages, knights, inquisitors, and visionaries were forged. A place where legends were born, where people could carve their names into history.

He had always imagined himself standing among them.

Fighting.

Training.

Rising through the ranks, earning glory, becoming a hero—like the ones he read about in novels, fairy tales, webtoons, manga.

That was supposed to be his path.

But now?

Now, he didn't even know if he was alive.

His fingers curled into fists as he stared down at them, flexing and unflexing, testing his movements. Everything felt normal, yet he knew it wasn't. His body responded perfectly, almost too perfectly, like a well-oiled machine—flawless, tireless, inhuman.

No exhaustion.

No fatigue.

No heartbeat.

What am I?

He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. His mind raced, trying to grasp at something, anything that could make sense of this. Was it the grimoire? That thing—the "Hollow Jester"—had said it was a part of him. His emptiness. His shell.

Was this… its doing?

Did it take something from him?

Or—

Did it give me something?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

No. He refused to believe he had died. That was impossible. He was here, wasn't he? Thinking, breathing, moving—he was here.

But then why—

Why did he feel so empty?

Caspian gently touched his chest, his fingers tracing the claw-like marks over where his heart should have been. He inhaled, more out of habit than necessity, before speaking the words that had been burned into his mind since the night before.

"Hollow Jester."

As soon as the name left his lips, a darkness curled around his hand, thick and heavy like ink spilling through water. The air trembled with an unnatural chill, and then, with a whispering shhhff, the grimoire appeared before him.

A book unlike any other.

Pitch-black, its cover was adorned with eerie red markings that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive, as though they were watching him.

Yesterday, when it first manifested, its pages had been blank. But now—

Caspian flipped through hurriedly, his pulse absent yet his anticipation mounting.

Every page was filled.

Rows and rows of intricate symbols, letters he didn't recognize, writing that seemed to slither and shift beneath his gaze as if mocking his inability to understand. They weren't spells—at least, not any kind he knew. They were something else entirely.

His heart—if he even had one anymore—felt like it clenched in his chest. He turned page after page, but nothing made sense.

Until one.

One single page.

Unlike the rest, this one was clear. Written in an ancient script, yes, but one he could read as if the words had been embedded in his mind long ago.

The passage began simply.

"Lo, in the space betwixt breath and oblivion, a vessel doth stand—neither of flesh, nor of dust, but of that which lingers beyond the veil."

"He whose heart beateth not, yet moveth unshackled; whose lungs draw no air, yet tireth not. This is the form forsaken by both life and death, a husk untouched by decay, yet void of warmth."

"No blood courses his veins, nor does hunger gnaw at his belly. Pain doth whisper but never wail, wounds do mar yet swiftly mend, as though the abyss itself doth knit his sundered flesh. Time's cruel fingers slip from his form, for he is no longer bound to its frail decree. Yet beware—such a gift beareth a silent toll. For that which defies the natural order shall ever be watched by the abyss from whence it came."

"To name it is folly, to unmake it is impossible. A shade in the waking world, a mockery of mortality—he is the Hollow Sovereign, adrift in eternity, unclaimed by the gods, unbroken by the grave."

The words settled in Caspian's mind like iron chains.

The Hollow Sovereign.

A name. A title. A curse.

And it described him perfectly.

No heartbeat. No breath. No exhaustion. No hunger.

No death.

His stomach twisted. A sickening realization crept into his bones like a parasite, growing and festering, whispering a terrible truth he hadn't yet dared to speak aloud.

"I'm not alive."

The book trembled in his hands. The red markings along its spine brightened, as if feeding off his dread.

"I'm not alive. But I'm not dead either."

His fingers curled into fists. He wanted to deny it, to believe it was all some nightmare he hadn't woken from.

But he knew better.

He had felt it.

The snapping of his neck. The cold fingers of death wrapped around him. The endless cycle of agony, dismemberment, mutilation. He had died, over and over again, and yet—

He was still here.

A choked laugh escaped him. It wasn't amusement. It was terror, raw and bitter.

"What… what am I supposed to do now?"

His whole life, he had dreamed of becoming a knight. A hero. A champion of justice. He had wanted to join the Great Blauxnarth Academy, train to become a Visionary, a Magister, or even an Inquisitor. He had spent years reading about adventurers, warriors, legends of old.

But what place did a creature like him have in that world?

Could he even live among the living?

Would they even allow him to?

A giggle echoed through the alley.

Caspian stiffened, his grip tightening on the grimoire. The sound was soft, musical—yet deeply, deeply wrong.

It slithered through the air like silk, playful yet unsettling.

"You read it~"

His blood—no, whatever was left of it—ran cold.

"You finally read it~"

The voice curled around him, unseen yet everywhere. It dripped with amusement, with delight.

The Hollow Jester.

She had been with him since the moment the book manifested. Always lingering just out of sight. Always just beyond his reach.

"Show yourself," he demanded, his voice sharp despite the unease gnawing at him.

A giggle.

"Why? Would that make you feel better? Would it make you feel... real~?"

Caspian's body tensed. He knew what she was doing—toying with him.

And then—pain.

Agony.

A violent, brutal snap.

His body collapsed to the ground, his vision exploding into blinding white. A scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural. His neck—his neck! It was broken.

He tried to move, but his limbs refused to obey. His body was a puppet with its strings severed.

Then—

Nothing.

He was whole again.

His hands shot to his throat, gasping—except there was no need to breathe. No lingering ache. No damage.

It was like it never happened.

But he had felt it.

"W-what… what was that?!" he choked.

Silence.

Then—

"A death~"

The way she said it, trembling with delight, sent ice through his veins.

"Ahh~ that was a death, Caspian~"

Her voice quivered with an obscene kind of pleasure, as though the mere mention of his suffering was ecstasy.

"You break so beautifully~ I wonder… how many times can I do it before you break for good?"

Cold fingers trailed down his spine.

And then—worse.

His flesh split open.

Agony unlike anything he had ever known consumed him as his body was torn apart—muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve. His ribs cracked. His limbs were carved open, his skin peeled away. His nonexistent heart was crushed, shredded, stabbed over and over again.

He died.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, he felt everything.

Blades slicing. Bones snapping. Eyes gouged. Spine shattered.

He screamed.

Begged.

Broke.

And then—

Nothing.

Sunlight.

An alleyway.

The world was exactly as it had been. The birds chirped. The air smelled of the city.

But he could still feel it.

The pain. The memory of being torn apart.

The Hollow Jester was still there.

Still watching.

And she wasn't done with him yet.