"Uryuu-kun, are you ready yet?"
A sweet female voice, gentle as a summer breeze, drifted into the blonde boy's thoughts, pulling him back from the swirling vortex of his inner musings.
He blinked, his gaze softening as he turned his head towards her. A warm smile touched his lips.
"Yes, Mahiru-san."
"Then let's go. Your mother must be waiting." She replied, her own smile radiating kindness.
The blonde boy, now known as Uryuu, nodded and quietly followed Mahiru out of the small, shared room.
His mind, however, remained preoccupied, a knot of worry tightening in his chest as he thought about the problem that overshadowed his current existence.
His mother was dying.
My current name is Uryuu Kamihate,
he thought, the name feeling both familiar and strangely distant.
A boy with no father and a sick mother.
Life had dealt him a cruel hand.
With no other family to turn to, he had been taken in by an orphanage, a place filled with other children who shared a similar burden – the looming shadow of a parent's illness.
It was a place of quiet sorrow, where hope often felt like a fragile butterfly on the verge of taking flight.
And the most saddening thing for Uryuu was the undeniable truth that he knew his mother didn't have much time left.
The doctors' words, spoken with a practiced gentleness that couldn't mask the finality of their diagnosis, echoed in his mind.
But Uryuu was not just any boy.
Beneath the surface of this frail, young body resided the memories of countless lives, the weight of ages pressing down on his youthful shoulders.
He had determined himself, in more lives than he could readily recall, to never lose anything or anyone he held dear.
The pain of loss was a familiar sting, one he was no longer willing to endure.
He would do anything.
Even if it meant reaching into the depths of his being, pulling forth the power and knowledge of his other selves, those echoes of lives lived and personalities long dormant.
The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating, a desperate gamble with unknown consequences.
The orphanage was a simple, two-story building with a small garden in the front.
The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint, underlying aroma of disinfectant from the nearby children's ward.
Mahiru walked beside him, her presence a comforting warmth in the otherwise cold reality of his situation.
She was one of the older caregivers, her eyes always filled with a gentle understanding that transcended her own young age.
As they walked towards the gate, Uryuu glanced back at the building.
The faces of the other children, pale and etched with worry, flickered in his mind.
He felt a pang of empathy for them, for the shared fear that permeated their young lives.
The hospital was a short walk away, a stark white building that seemed to hum with a quiet tension.
The air inside was sterile, the silence broken only by the soft beeping of machines and the hushed whispers of nurses and doctors.
The smell of antiseptic was no stronger here, a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
Mahiru led him through the maze of corridors, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Her smile, though still present, held a touch of sadness, a reflection of the unspoken understanding they shared about his mother's condition.
Finally, they reached the familiar door of his mother's room.
Uryuu took a deep breath, trying to compose himself.
He pushed the door open.
"Ah, Uryuu, you finally came, my dear."
A beautiful blonde woman, her face pale but her eyes still bright with affection, exclaimed in joy upon seeing her son.
She was sitting propped up in the hospital bed, the thin white blanket pulled up to her chest.
It was Shiori Kamihate, Uryuu's mother. Even in her weakened state, her beauty shone through, a testament to the vibrant woman she once was.
"Ahh! Shiori-san, sit quietly in your bed, you are a patient."
Mahiru, who had followed Uryuu into the room, gently chided, her voice laced with concern.
"Mom, here, take this." Uryuu stepped forward, his small hand offering a simple, hand-crafted get-well-soon charm.
It was made of woven paper, adorned with a clumsily drawn image of a smiling sun.
"Thanks, Uryuu." Shiori happily accepted the charm, her fingers, thin and frail, closing around his.
A genuine smile bloomed on her face, a warmth that chased away some of the pallor of her illness.
"Uryuu-kun, you always pray for your mother, don't you?" Mahiru commented from the side, her smile soft and understanding.
"Mahiru-san, I am just doing what I can," Uryuu replied, his tone serious, his young face etched with a determination that belied his age.
"..."
Mahiru fell silent, her gaze softening as she looked at the mother and son.
She knew, just as Uryuu did, that prayers and well-wishes were often not enough.
After all, even the doctors had given up. Their words, though carefully chosen, had painted a bleak picture, offering no real hope for recovery.
There are some people that doctors can't save.
It was a cruel fact of life, a harsh reality that Mahiru had come to accept in her role at the orphanage.
Mahiru sighed softly, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult situation.
She decided to leave the mother and son alone, sensing that they needed this time together, away from the watchful eyes and hushed tones of the hospital staff.
"I'll be outside if you need anything, Uryuu-kun," she said gently, before slipping out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Sensing Mahiru's departure, Uryuu finally began to put his plan into motion. He turned back to his mother, his eyes shining with a mixture of hope and a touch of nervousness.
"Mom, I learned a magic spell that can cure you," Uryuu said, his voice filled with a childlike enthusiasm.
"A spell? Is that so? Then I am happy to hear it," she replied, her smile warm and indulgent.
It seemed she thought it was just another childish fantasy, a way for her son to cope with the difficult reality of her illness.
She didn't know the true weight of his words, the desperate gamble he was about to take.
But unknown to her, this "spell" was quite dangerous for the existence currently known as Uryuu Kamihate.
It was a technique he instinctively knew, a power that lay dormant within him, a relic of his countless past lives.
He had never used it before, not in this life, not in any of the others he could clearly recall.
Because…
It could distort his current personality, shattering the fragile sense of self he had painstakingly built in this eleventh iteration.
The memories, the skills, the very essence of his past selves lay waiting, ready to resurface, but their emergence could mean the fading away of Uryuu Kamihate.
That's why every Incarnation of Samsara, every single one of his countless lives, had instinctively avoided this technique, this dangerous shortcut.
The risk was simply too great, the potential cost too high.
But he was the Fool.
For every Incarnation of Samsara, a name was given, a temporary label to distinguish between the others, the countless versions of himself scattered across the vast expanse of time.
And Kamihate Uryuu, this frail, determined boy, had been given the Name: Fool.
And he didn't deny it. The label fit, in a strange, melancholic way.
After all, stacking your very existence, risking the loss of your current self, just to save a single mortal life, while simultaneously dreaming of an eternal paradise… it was the height of foolishness.
A beautiful, perhaps even noble, foolishness, but foolish nonetheless.
"So, Mom, I am starting," Uryuu said, his voice now more serious, his small hands reaching out to gently grasp both of hers.
Her hands felt so fragile, so light, a stark reminder of her fading strength.
"Go ahead, my dear," she replied, her eyes filled with trust and unwavering love for her son.
Uryuu closed his eyes, focusing his inner being, reaching into the depths of his memories, the echoes of power that lay dormant within.
He could feel the presence of his other selves, the faint whispers of their experiences, their strengths, their very being.
He began to chant, the words forming in his mind, ancient and powerful, resonating with the very core of his reincarnated soul.
"I, the Fool on Samsara's turning wheel," he whispered, his voice gaining an ethereal quality, a resonance that seemed to fill the small hospital room.
"Call to the slumbering God, the power I feel." The words flowed from him, not as a learned spell, but as an intrinsic part of his being, a language older than time itself.
"Self of Sacrifice, who pays the price to rise," he continued, his grip tightening on his mother's hands. He could feel a faint energy beginning to stir within him, a power not his own, yet undeniably a part of him.
"Lend but a spark of your undying guise!" The air in the room seemed to shimmer, a faint white light beginning to emanate from his hands.
"From Ash and Dawn, grant borrowed might!" His voice rose slightly, filled with a desperate plea, a yearning for the strength to defy the inevitable.
"Stir now! Awaken! Lend your light!"
As he finished the last words, the white light intensified, erupting from his body and enveloping his mother.
It spread through her frail form, a warm, comforting glow that seemed to chase away the shadows of illness.
Shiori gasped softly, her body relaxing against the pillows.
A look of peace settled on her face as the light permeated every cell of her being.
Uryuu let out heavy breaths, his small chest heaving as he felt the immense drain on his energy.
The connection to his other selves was severed, the borrowed power receding back into the depths of his soul.
He felt a profound weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to pull him under.
His legs felt weak, and he swayed, his vision blurring at the edges.
He stumbled and fell onto the edge of the bed, his body unable to support him any longer.
"Hah... hah... I am never using that again." The words escaped his lips in a ragged whisper, a promise made to himself in the face of such immense exertion.
The power was there, within him, but the cost… the cost was almost too much to bear.
Then, darkness claimed him, and he also fell asleep, his small form slumped beside his peacefully resting mother.
The faint scent of ozone lingered in the air, the only evidence of the extraordinary event that had just transpired in the quiet hospital room.