It was a cold, rainy day of mourning, Each raindrop tapped against the cold asphalt, mixing with the blood pooling on the road.
A man had just been hit by an oncoming truck. The fault was not the driver's, but his. He lay there, gasping for breath, replaying every decision that had led him there. This was no accident—it was a choice.
He was a nobody, am average man, with average looks, with a boring and irrelevant name, just a cog in a machine, a gear that can and now—will be replaced by an another unfortunate soul.
Why did he do it? Was it pressure at work, the death of his parents, his wife's betrayal, or was it an amalgamation of all the misfortune? Whatever it was, in the end, it broke him.
The man closed his eyes for the final time, his tears lost in heavy rain, as if God themselves were hiding his sorrow, his sufferings, his weakness. Was it mercy... or cruelty? Only God knows.
News article: 28 Men Die by Suicide This Week: A Growing Mental Health Crisis.
"Look, you're just another number in the article..." An ethereal yet cute feminine voice echoed—cute to the point of being annoying, with a hint of mockery woven into its tone.
It rang through a dreamlike world: an endless sky of brilliant blue, scattered with puffy white clouds, shallow water covering the surface perfectly mirroring the sky.
There he was again, but now, somehow complete fine, standing too still, so still, that the water's surface remained undisturbed. He stared at the news article, lost in a trance, his eyes empty, oblivion to everything.
"Hey, hey... Mr. Twenty-Eight~ Can you hear me? Mr. Twenty-Eight?" The same voice sliced through the stillness, sharp and mocking, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
He jolted in fear and fell back, instinctively throwing the news article away, sending chaotic ripples accross the water's surface. Sweat poured from every inch of his body, as he began to hyperventilate, his breath reduced to desperate, panicked gasps. Doubts of his demise crept into his mind, a primal, fear he thought he had already overcome... or so he believed.
"Hehehe that was quite a reaction." A cute and annoying giggle surrounded him, the voice echoing from nowhere, it's source still completely unknown.
"W-Who... are you...?" He replied, voice weak and trembling, as he looked around. Fear crept in with every desperate turn of his head.
"My name is not you priority, what you should be asking is... Where are you and most importantly—WHO ARE YOU?" Her voice strong and commanding, a sharp contrast to his timid, trembling response.
The question, did nothing but build on the already growing fear. He was on the verge of tears, his body trembling under the weight of a heart that should no longer beat. If he hadn't already been dead... This alone might have killed him.
"Who... am... I?" He whispered, barely audible, his voice even more pathetic than before. His emotions were fraying, one thread away from completely unraveling.
"You were nobody..." She said in a razor sharp tone.
"...and you are dead." The words cut that final thread, unraveling everything fear, panic, and pain. He collapsed into a loud, miserable cry.
He wept, tears streaming endlessly down his cheeks. Each breath came in trembling bursts, laced with dread and panic, his body unaklbke to stay still.
"Sigh—oh poor, poor you... now quit your whining and listen here." She said without a hint of empathy or compassion in her words.
"Beside, don't you remember how you died?" She asked, her tone laced with annoyance.
He shook his head slowly, mostly out of fear.
"Sigh—you're a loser who jumped in front of a truck. You ended your life and traumatized a kid who saw it." Her voice cold and clearly annoyed.
The truth hit him like a second truck. He froze, paralyzed by guilt... and then, as always, he accepted it. That was one of his flaws: a man with a good intentions and a coward's heart. He didn't want to dwell. He never did. So he took the guilt, like he took everything else life hurled at him—silently, and without resistance.
He slowed his breathing, pinching the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand. Then he gulped , voice weak as he finally asked,
"So... where am I? And why... why am I here? Is this... Heaven?
"You are here for your reincarnation," she said softly, her voice suddenly gentle, like a breeze drifting through eternity.
"As for you second question... this place is called the Planes of Existence." Her sudden shift tone didn't go unnoticed. But the word reincarnation clung to his mind harder than anything else.
"W-wait... did you say reincarnation?" He stammered, eyes winding. His voice trembled with disbelief, but there was a spark—a flicker of excitement sneaking past the fear.
"Why are you so surprised? You're literally standing on the Planes of Existence." She said, her tone dry, with a hint of annoyance.
It was a reaction too human—something she couldn't quite comprehend.
"So... like, will I be reincarnated into a he—"
"No"
The interruption was instant.
"Anyway," she continued without missing a beat.
"Have you heard of The Three Knights and a Hollow Tree?" She questioned him.
"That... novel? Yeah, I've read it. Like, seven times," he replied, confusion creeping into his voice. "Why do—"
"Do you know the novelist, Lamda-chan?" She interrupted, this time more sharply.
Her tone shifted, firm and commanding.
"I want you to kill him."
"Kill him... and for what reason?" He asked, her words still lingering in his mind, heavy as steel pressing against his fragile heart.
He had never killed anyone, or had the courage to imagine it.
"Yes." She said coldly, "I want you, and the seven other reincarnated—to kill him."
"As for the reason... you'll find out once you reincarnated." Her tone was void of guilt, as if the concept of taking a life meant nothing to her.
The first thing that struck him was her word—seven reincarnated.
The second was her complete lack of morals, especially when it comes to killing.
From his perspective, she was nothing more than a disembodied voice—cold, detached, and inhuman.
He and that voice were nothing alike.
Yet, at the end of the day, he was still human, bound by the individual chains of morality he couldn't bring himself to break.
"Seven others reincarnated, you say... who are they? And did they all agree to kill him too?" He asked after a moment of silence, his thoughts still racing.
"I don't know either of the things you asked me," she said, a lie coated in a calm tone. But before he could press further, she quickly added.
"What I do know is that they've all reincarnated alongside the author... as one of the Perspective." The voice felt close, eerily close
"So, would you like to be mine? The Eight Perspective?" The question was real, even if everything else wasn't. A carefully placed truth, woven into a web of lies, designed to confuse... and control.
He scratched his head, drifting back into deep thought. After a few seconds, he looked up at the sky with a confused smile.
"I'm little lost here—what do you mean by Perspective? What does that even mean? And why am I the Eight perspective? Shouldn't I be the Nine if the others already reincarnated...? Wait—don't tell me here's a perspective zero?"
His tone wavered between confusion and an odd spark of excitement.
"Ughhh... just listen." She groaned, clearly annoyed.
"Half of those will soon be answered, and you... you are one of the keys when it comes to killing..." She paused.
Something held her back—an uncertainty, like the words might rot the air if spoken aloud.
"Killing the author." He finished for her.
Her silence conformed it.
"Perspective Nine..." She finally said, her voice flat and emotionaless.
But her hesitation had already poisoned the air, thick like miasma—sufgocating and impossible to ignore.
"...the author, Kaito Shihito." Her voice stayed as flat and monotonous as before—but this time, there was a faint tremble, barely audible. Subtle enough that he didn't notice.
She was afraid. She didn't say anything afterwards, and the world became silent, as neither of them spoke.
After a few minutes lost in thoughts, surrounded by silence and the beauty of the scenery, he took a deep breath and finally spoke.
"I will become your PerspectiveEighth or whatever, if it is an order given by a goddess, I should follow it." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Thank you..." She whispered, and the world around him began to slowly fade into white.
"...and sorry—your life's about to become hell."
Almost everything was gone now, swallowed by the light. His breath caught as panic started to rise. The word hell echoed in his mind, sharp and cold.
"HELP—What is going on..." He screamed, and began to desperately look around him from escape.
But it was of no use, his body too had begun to fade away. He screamed and screamed, till his mouth faded away, then his nose, then his eyes, and finally all of his body had faded.
There was nothing. No sound, no light, he couldn't feel his body—only his mind remained, floating in the void. And that was the worst part. Because the only thing left to feel... was fear.
After what felt like an hour, he began to hear again. First, a faint murmur—soft and distant. Then came the shuffling of the footsteps, quite voice, the clink of metal, bird chirping overhead, the rhythmic clatter of hooves striking stone, and the creaking spin of wooden wheel. Each sound stacked upon the next, growing louder and louder, until it all blend into a single, overwhelming noise—alive, chaotic, and unmistakably a marketplace.
Then, slowly, his vision returned as well. It was blurry at first, he could barely make out figures that looked human, all moving and talking in different sizes, builds, and shades. Somewhere nearby, he saw the outline of the horse, it's form hitched to a carriage.
But as his vision cleared, he froze in shock. Before him stood a group of elves, dwarves, and human, chatting casually as if it were as if it were the most normal thing in the world. What he has mistaken for a horse was nothing of the sort—it had the body of the dog and the head of an eagle, standing nearly 150 centimetres tall, by his estimate.
The surrounding building were tall, made of bricks, and painted in dull shade of grey. Black street lamps and dark green benches lined the streets, adding to the monotony of the scenery.
The only thing that truly stood out were the small stalls clustered in the town square. Bursting with vibrant colours, they clashed against the drab backdrop like a festival in the middle of a rainstorm. Each stall offered something different: food, weapon, clothing, relics, and a wild variety of curiosities that drew the eye and stirred the senses.
Seeing it all unfold before him, a surge of excitement welled up inside him. There was no mistaking it now. This place with unique architecture, vibrant stalls, and that bizzare creature with the body of a dog and head of an eagle, could only be one place. Dorja an Lago. A fantastical kingdom straight out of The Three Knights and a Hollow Tree, his favourite novel.
But his excitement was cut short, when he try to move his head, his arms, anything.
To his absolute horror... he had become a doll. A small, delicate porcelain doll—with long, fluffy blond hair, big blue eyes, and a permanent, sweet little smile.
A adorable face and body that completely masked the sheer existential dread consuming him inside.
He tried to scream but no sound escaped his mouth, he tried to move his body but it wouldn't move an inch, and finally he tried to cry but no tears were shed and that smile of his never faded.
Now he was trapped in an unwanted body, just like he was trapped in a dead-end job, he was a key to ending the life of the author, just like a cog in a machine in his previous pitiful miserable life.