Cough!
Cough-cough!
A harsh, haggard breath ripped through the silence of the broken house. A boy—barely in his teens—jerked awake, his lungs spasming as he hacked up a mouthful of water.
"Agh… haaah…" he wheezed, his chest heaving as he rolled to his side. Cold mud clung to his soaked clothes, rain dripping from above through the shattered roof. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and darting around in panic as he tried to make sense of where he was.
The sharp sting of air in his lungs, the ache in his ribs, and the freezing chill on his skin were too vivid to be a dream.
I'm alive... How?
His mind spun with questions, each more impossible than the last. He had been drowning—he remembered it clearly. The pull of the water. The slow fade. The stillness. He should be dead. But here he was, breathing and conscious, though barely.
The house around him was in ruins—wood splintered, beams collapsed, windows shattered. The sound of rain pattered down in rhythm with the drumming of his heart. The smell of smoke, blood, and wet earth filled his nose. He tried to sit up, groaning as pain lanced through his side. His fingers trembled.
I survived that...
How is that possible?
Something caught his eye. A shallow pool of rainwater at his side. In its murky reflection, he saw himself—a pale, gaunt face, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot and vacant. He stared, his mind going quiet, blank. Then the shock began to settle in.
Is this the afterlife?
Or... did I reincarnate?
The thought didn't feel absurd—more like a grasp at reason in the face of something incomprehensible.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the silence.
"Hey!! Over here! Someone's alive—we found a kid!"
Ken jerked his head up, startled. A man in his twenties dropped down from a hole in the ceiling, landing with casual grace. His outfit looked... strange. Leather armor with intricate stitching, belts strapped across his torso, gloves, and a long coat that looked like it belonged in a fantasy RPG.
Cosplay?
He blinked. No... I need to be flexible about this. This might be normal clothing here. Wherever here is.
He had no memory of this world, no idea how he came to be in this place. All he could do was observe—and try to stay alive.
The man knelt beside him and, with surprising ease, hauled him up by the arm. Ken staggered, still dizzy. Before he could say anything, the man turned toward the wall and—without hesitation—kicked it.
The whole wooden panel crumbled outward.
Ken blinked in disbelief.
"Do you really need to show off like that?" a woman's voice called out.
From the side of the ruined house, another figure stepped through—a woman, also in her twenties, dressed in equally unusual gear. Her expression was calm, unreadable.
A third figure approached—a burly man with heavy gauntlets who silently lifted Ken into his arms like he weighed nothing.
Ken's head lolled as he was carried outside.
Then he saw it.
The village.
Or what was left of it.
Shattered homes, bloodied cobblestones, carts overturned and splintered. And bodies. Dozens of them. Twisted, broken, slumped in unnatural positions. Some missing limbs. Some are barely recognizable as human.
The cold wind howled through the open spaces, carrying with it the stench of smoke, iron, and death.
Ken's body trembled. Not from the cold, but from the horror. A silent scream echoed inside him, clawing at the walls of his mind.
What happened here...?
One body nearby had its head crushed into pulp—bits of bone and brain scattered across the ground. Another lay curled around a smaller body, a child's hand clutching its shirt.
Ken felt the bile rise in his throat—but he held it back.
He had seen blood before. He had worked in a butcher shop. He knew the sound of meat being cleaved and the smell of blood on the floor. That experience steadied him more than it should have. But this wasn't just blood. This was people.
Dead people.
And yet... he didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just stared, numb.
"You can close your eyes, kid."
The woman from before had walked up beside him, her expression softening ever so slightly. She placed a hand on his head—gentle, almost sisterly. Her fingers were warm despite the cold air, and Ken noticed a faint glow in her palm, like a soft golden light.
He didn't understand what she was doing. But in that moment, he didn't care.
He was so, so tired.
"Haah… hmm…" he murmured, the fear still lingering in his eyes as he took her advice and slowly shut them.
Her hand stayed on his head. The warmth spread through him, and with it came a strange sense of calm, like a heavy blanket over his exhausted soul. His thoughts dulled. The pounding in his chest softened.
He let himself fall into the dark, this time willingly.
Sleep claimed him again.
In that sleep, Ken was pulled under again—not into darkness, but into memory.
A flood of unfamiliar-yet-familiar images washed over him. Faces. Voices. Places. The life of a boy who had grown up in this very world.
Not his world.
This one.
He saw a small village nestled in wild lands filled with monsters, skill users, hunters, and adventurers. It was a world where magic was real, and fantasy was everyday life. The boy in the memories—his other self—had grown up here. His father, a stern but kind man, was a hunter who wielded twin axes with the ease of a veteran. His mother was gentle and warm, and his sister always clung to his side.
They had been a family.
Until a year ago.
His mother had left suddenly, taking his sister with her. No letters. No signs. Just gone. The memory carried a hollow ache, something unresolved, buried under time.
His father changed after that. The warmth left him. He pushed himself harder, took on more dangerous hunts, desperate to find them or earn enough money to search further. Then came the day the monster took his arm—one cruel strike, one moment too slow—and just like that, he lost his livelihood.
Ken felt the memory grow darker.
That night, it happened.
The village was attacked.
Monsters stormed the outskirts, tearing through defenses with terrifying coordination. Not just brute strength—they struck where the walls were weakest, where there were fewer guards. Like they knew.
That's not normal... Ken thought, suddenly aware that something about that attack didn't add up. Monsters weren't supposed to be smart—not like that.
So then... what really happened?
The question echoed like a stone dropped into still water.
And then, slowly, Ken stirred.
His eyes blinked open, dry and heavy. He lay on a makeshift bed, woven from dried grass and tattered cloth. A rough blanket covered him, barely keeping out the chill.
"Haaah..." He exhaled and turned his head.
Rows of other survivors lay around him—some children, others adults. All bandaged heavily, wrapped from head to toe like mummies. The air smelled of blood, medicine, and wet earth. The sky above was gray, filtered through a tattered canopy.
A cry broke the fragile quiet.
"We need a healer out here! Now! People are going to die if this keeps up!"
The shout was deep and furious. Ken looked to the side.
Not far from him, three men stood in a heated argument. One was an older man with a long gray beard and hunched back, his face lined with stress. Beside him stood a familiar figure—dressed like the man who had rescued Ken, in worn leather and light armor.
The third was the odd one out.
He wore pristine white robes trimmed with gold and polished boots that looked untouched by dirt. His hair was slicked back, and golden rings glinted on his fingers. He looked like someone rich. Noble. Out of place.
Ken couldn't hear every word, but the tension was thick.
"You promised assistance—!" the elder shouted.
"My orders were to assess," the man in white replied, his tone cold. "We cannot commit resources to every small tragedy in the outer regions. Be thankful you're even being acknowledged."
Ken clenched his fists beneath the blanket.
So that's how it is...?
Even in this world—where monsters and magic were real—some things hadn't changed. The powerful overlooked the weak. Bureaucrats haggled while people bled.
He glanced around again. A young girl a few beds over was wheezing, her chest rising unevenly. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale. No one stood near her.
Ken bit his lip, struggling with the unfamiliar heaviness in his chest.
He had memories now. Not all of them. Not clearly. But enough.
Enough to know this was his life now.
No going back...
"Same shit even in this world, huh..."
Ken muttered under his breath, the words barely more than a whisper buried deep in his chest. No one heard him. It was just for himself—just enough to let the bitterness bleed out. His gaze lingered on the frayed canopy above, patches of gray sky peeking through holes in the worn cloth. After a moment, he shut his eyes, retreating into the stillness.
Time passed—he didn't know how much. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the muffled sound of footsteps and soft voices brought him back. He opened his eyes again to find the familiar faces of the adventurers approaching—those who had pulled him from the wreckage. They noticed him awake and greeted him with warm relief, a few smiling gently, others just giving a nod.
"You're up. Good," said the same burly man from before—Boris, if he remembered right.
They helped him sit up and guided him to a spot near the food tent, careful not to strain his weakened limbs. Ken didn't resist. His body still ached in places he didn't know existed, and the idea of walking alone seemed laughable. For now, he'd lean on them.
"Thanks," he said quietly. The word felt foreign on his tongue, but he meant it.
Outside, the sky had begun to clear just slightly, though the ground remained muddy and uneven. Survivors huddled around fires, bandaged and quiet. Some had vacant stares; others wept silently. The mood was heavy. It clung to everyone like smoke.
Then, he saw her—the older girl who had comforted him earlier.
She was moving from person to person with bowls of steaming broth, her calm demeanor unchanged despite the chaos around her. She paused by Ken and gently handed him a bowl, warm and fragrant with a touch of spice.
After serving the rest, she came to sit beside him beneath the crooked shade of an old tree. A few of the other adventurers gathered as well, forming a quiet little circle around him. They looked tired—but alert. Wary. As if expecting something worse to come.
They began speaking in low tones.
"Hm. It was weird," the older girl muttered, breaking the silence. "The way that attack came... it felt wrong. Like they waited for the exact moment we were weakest."
Ken sipped from his bowl, eyes down. He listened silently at first. The stew was plain, but warm. More comforting than it had any right to be.
Then, without really thinking, he spoke.
"They did. They attacked during the village's weakest moment—right when most of the guards and adventurers were drinking together."
His voice was soft, rough, but it cut through their conversation like a thread snapping.
All heads turned toward him.
Ken continued, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if seeing it all again in his mind.
"They avoided the patrolled areas and went for the opening near the livestock pen. They struck fast... took out my dad first. He'd been injured a few days before. It's like they were targeting those who couldn't fight back."
Silence.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
"...That's not something a dumb monster would do," the girl said finally, voice tight.
"No," Ken agreed. "That's what's bothering me."
"You're thinking of this very rationally," Boris said, leaning forward slightly, brows furrowed.
Ken nodded faintly, then added, "My dad said something like that while fighting. About it not feeling right. I just... remembered that, I guess."
He let the lie sit there. It made the truth easier to accept.
It also made it more believable.
The group exchanged glances. A few of them had likely thought the same thing—but hearing it from someone who had lived through it gave it weight. Gave it shape.
"Well done," Boris said eventually, placing a firm hand on Ken's shoulder. There was no teasing in his tone this time—just quiet respect. "You've got a good head, kid. Don't let it get buried."
Ken gave a slow nod, not trusting himself to speak. A part of him still throbbed at the mention of his father.
The group sensed it.
None of them pressed further.
Instead, they sat beneath the tree in silence, letting the wind rustle through the leaves above them. The stew grew cold in their bowls. And all around them, the camp pressed on—wounded, wary, and waiting for answers.