The first light of dawn stretched across Tokyo, painting the sky in pale golds and muted blues. From the window of a cramped sixth–floor apartment, a young man leaned against the sill, staring down at the rushing people and the blur of cars below.
His name was Shiro Shimizu. Twenty years old. A university dropout. A boy who once dreamed of standing tall, of becoming someone whose name would be remembered, yet ended up becoming invisible.
The alarm on his desk had been ringing for almost ten minutes. He ignored it, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his face drawn and pale. His room looked more like a storage closet than a home—scattered books, crumpled notebooks filled with abandoned drafts of novels he tried to write, and empty convenience–store meal boxes. The faint hum of the fridge was the only sound filling the silence of his life.
Shiro sighed. He didn't hate life, but he no longer felt part of it. He was just… drifting.
The Nobody
Once, he had dreamed of writing great stories. Of becoming someone admired, someone with purpose. But the world was harsher than dreams. His manuscripts had been rejected one after another. Friends, once supportive, distanced themselves when they realized he had nothing to offer—no stable career, no shining future, no social status. His parents had long since stopped asking about his progress, leaving him with curt messages about finding real work.
Shiro was just another ghost in the crowd.
He often told himself it was fine. Not everyone could become extraordinary. Someone had to remain ordinary. But inside, in the quiet hours of night, resentment coiled in his chest like smoke. Why him? Why did he fail no matter how hard he tried?
The thought came unbidden: If only I could start again. In a different world. A different era. Where power wasn't given by birth or wealth but earned by courage.
It was childish, he knew. Fantasy to escape reality. Yet those were the thoughts that kept him breathing.
The Book
That morning, Shiro dragged himself out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen. The tap sputtered when he twisted it, spilling lukewarm water into a cracked glass. He sipped absentmindedly, staring at the counter.
And that's when he saw it.
A book.
Not one he owned—he was certain. Its cover was black leather, weathered and cracked with age. Strange symbols, like twisting chains, were embossed across its surface in silver. He touched it hesitantly. The leather was cold, almost unnaturally so, as though it had been left outside in the winter frost.
"What the…? Where did this come from?"
He looked around his tiny room. The door was locked. The window shut. No one had been here. And yet, the book lay on his counter as though it belonged there.
Curiosity outweighed caution. Shiro flipped it open.
At once, the smell of iron and smoke filled the air, faint but suffocating. The pages were yellowed, brittle, filled with handwritten script in an archaic style he didn't recognize. Yet somehow… he could read it.
"To the one who is bound, heir to thorns, chains shall guide your path."
The words blurred, shifting before his eyes. He blinked, but the letters writhed like living things, rearranging themselves. Whispers tickled his ears—low, incomprehensible murmurs, growing louder the longer he stared.
A sudden headache struck, sharp as a blade splitting his skull. Shiro staggered back, nearly dropping the book. His breath quickened. His heart pounded.
"What the hell is this…?"
He shoved the book shut, yet the whispers lingered in his mind.
That day, he couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the same silver chains coiling around his limbs, dragging him downward. He tried to throw the book away—down the apartment chute. But when he returned to his room, it lay once more on his desk, as though mocking him.
Shiro's chest tightened. Fear and fascination warred inside him. He wanted to run. But something compelled him to open it again.
The Descent
It was past midnight when he finally gave in.
Rain pattered against the window as Shiro sat at his desk, the single dim bulb above casting a yellow halo over the book. His fingers trembled as he opened it once more.
This time, the pages turned on their own. Faster. Faster. Until it stopped.
On the yellowed paper, three words burned in glowing silver:
"Chains bind you."
Shiro's breath hitched. The room suddenly grew cold. His vision blurred.
"Wh… what is happening?"
The whispers returned, louder than before. He clutched his head, but it was useless. The chains he saw earlier now wrapped around his arms, his chest, his throat—phantoms, yet he felt their icy weight. His body convulsed as he was dragged downward, the chair toppling.
The room dissolved. Walls stretched, shattered, became mist. His ears rang with screams, his own or someone else's, he couldn't tell.
"Chains bind you, heir of thorns."
The words boomed inside his skull like a curse.
He fell. Through endless mist. Through a labyrinth of whispering voices. His limbs felt heavy, his chest burned. His vision split into fragments—flashes of unknown lands, castles under storm, blood–soaked battlefields. A boy's face appeared, sharp and pale, with dark hair and grey eyes.
Adrian.
The name struck him like lightning. It wasn't his. Yet it belonged to him.