The sensation was different this time—less harsh, more surreal. Gin Chan awoke not to pain or heat, but the quiet rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and slow. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on soft tatami mats, warm light pouring through paper sliding doors. The scent of incense drifted in the air, mingling with the faint scent of rain outside.
He sat up slowly.
This body felt younger. Lighter. Graceful in a way the others hadn't been. He glanced at his hands—slender, smooth, with calluses along the fingertips. A koto, the traditional Japanese string instrument, rested nearby.
Shin Ryouma.
The name came to him as always, smooth and silent like a whisper from the past.
A prodigious musician in a prestigious Kyoto conservatory. Ryouma was a reserved, deeply disciplined artist—born into a lineage of traditional performers who expected perfection and obedience. His music was haunting, flawless… and utterly joyless.
He had taken his life by walking calmly into a lake, pockets filled with stones, unable to bear the pressure of inherited greatness.
Gin Chan exhaled.
"This one died quietly."
As he stood, he took in the surroundings—a traditional home filled with musical artifacts, walls lined with black-and-white portraits of past masters, all wearing the same stoic expression.
Memories trickled in like the sound of gentle strings:
His father's cold voice.
His mother's silence.
Applause from endless concerts.
The echoing emptiness inside.
Ryouma had always longed for something beyond the string of expectations.
Gin sat down in front of the koto. His fingers moved on their own, plucking strings that shimmered like water ripples. The music filled the room. A melancholic melody—gentle, longing, beautiful.
As the final note faded, a quiet knock sounded on the paper door.
"Ryouma-kun," came a girl's voice. Soft, trembling. "You haven't come to rehearsal. Are you okay?"
He stood, crossing the room. He opened the door to reveal a young woman in a school uniform. Her eyes were red from crying.
Yui.
A name surfaced.
Yui Tanaka—his childhood friend and only true companion in Ryouma's life. They had grown up playing music together. She was a violinist who always smiled through her own storms.
"I'm fine," Gin Chan said, surprised at how natural Ryouma's voice felt on his tongue.
She didn't believe it.
She stepped in. "You've been gone for days. I thought… you'd done something. Again."
He looked away. He could feel Ryouma's shame clinging to his bones. The burden of having someone care.
"Why do you stay?" he asked her.
"Because I know what it's like to drown quietly. And because… even if you don't see your worth, I do."
Her words pierced deeper than the desert sun or the raider's blade ever had.
But fate had already written this life's end.
Gin Chan remembered now—Ryouma left that day, walked into the nearby lake before anyone could stop him.
I can't change it, Gin Chan realized. Only live it.
---
He walked alone toward the water later that evening.
The sun dipped behind the trees. The lake reflected a sky turning violet.
He carried stones in his hands.
But this time, he stopped at the edge.
"I don't want to die," he whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—a pull. His body stepped forward involuntarily. As if Ryouma's will was stronger than Gin's.
He stumbled, fought it—but the body dragged him under.
Water filled his lungs.
Darkness.
Cold.
---
And then—timeless silence.
---
The stars above were unmoving. The black stone platform rose from a sea of stardust. Gin Chan sat upright, soaked and gasping. Death stood nearby, arms folded, her silver gun gleaming.
"Lovely performance," she said, tilting her head. "That melody almost made me cry."
Gin glared at her. "He didn't want to die. Not really."
"No one ever does. But habit is a powerful thing, Gin."
He stood, unsteady. "These lives… they're all pieces of something."
Death nodded slowly. "Like broken notes in a song. You're learning the rhythm, finally."
She drew the silver gun.
"I still don't get it."
"That's fine." She aimed.
Bang.
---