Morning did not come with warmth.
Kyomu woke to the sound of coughing—dry, strained, and too familiar. It came from the corner of the room, where a thin woman sat wrapped in a worn shawl, her back slightly hunched as though the weight of years pressed constantly upon her shoulders.
Neil's mother.
She noticed his eyes open and froze, the wooden spoon in her hand trembling slightly.
"…Neil?"
Kyomu hesitated for only a breath before nodding.
Her relief was immediate and overwhelming. She crossed the room in quick, uneven steps and pressed her palm against his forehead, as if afraid he might vanish again.
"You collapsed," she said quietly. "You wouldn't wake up. I thought…"
Her voice broke, but she forced it back under control. "Never mind. You're awake now. That's what matters."
Kyomu said nothing.
He was still learning how to exist in this body.
The house was small—smaller than Kyomu expected. Cracks ran along the wooden walls, and the scent of damp earth lingered no matter how wide the window was opened. Everything here spoke of survival, not comfort.
Neil had lived like this his entire life.
A bowl of soup was placed in Kyomu's hands. It was thin, mostly water, with a few soft vegetables floating at the surface.
Neil's memories stirred again.
This was normal.
This was enough.
Kyomu swallowed slowly, feeling something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
When he stepped outside later that morning, the village unfolded before him like a quiet accusation.
Stone paths wound between wooden buildings reinforced with iron bands. Tall walls surrounded the settlement, etched with symbols Kyomu did not recognize, yet somehow understood were important.
People moved with purpose.
And they noticed him.
Their eyes followed him—not openly hostile, but sharp, weighing, measuring.
"That's Neil," someone whispered.
"The one who collapsed yesterday?"
"No… the one who never passed."
Kyomu felt it then.
Neil's reputation was not neutral.
It was settled.
Children gathered near the center of the village, laughing and pushing one another. Adults stood nearby, watching closely, their expressions tense with expectation.
At the center stood a tall stone pillar—smooth, ancient, and cold.
Kyomu stopped walking.
Neil's memories surged forward without warning.
Standing there.
Hand pressed to stone.
Waiting.
Nothing.
No glow.
No sound.
No acknowledgment.
Just silence.
The memory ended with lowered eyes and turned backs.
Kyomu exhaled slowly.
"So this world decides your value early," he murmured under his breath.
And it never forgets.
As the day passed, Kyomu observed.
The ones praised near the pillar walked taller. People spoke to them with respect. Doors opened for them.
The others… faded.
Not shunned.
Worse—ignored.
Neil had belonged to that second group.
That evening, Kyomu returned home with his mother. She spoke little, her words carefully chosen, as though afraid of burdening him.
"You should rest," she said. "Tomorrow… tomorrow will be better."
Kyomu almost smiled.
Neil had heard those words many times.
They had never been true.
That night, Kyomu lay awake on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling beams above him.
This world was orderly.
Structured.
Cruel in its simplicity.
You are tested.
You are judged.
You are placed.
Neil had been placed at the bottom.
Kyomu clenched his fist.
"I died once already," he whispered. "I won't disappear again."
Outside, the village slept peacefully, unaware of the quiet resolve forming within one boy's borrowed body.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the world waited.
And it would not be merciful.