The first thing he registered was the light.
It wasn't the dim, flickering fluorescent hum of a classroom or the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. It was a violent, piercing brilliance that stabbed directly into his retinas.
"—?!"
Tatsuya's eyelids flew open, but he immediately squinted against the intrusive glare.
His nostrils flared.
The air didn't smell of chalk dust, floor wax, or the metallic tang of his own demise. It smelled of earth. It smelled of wild, untamed greenery. It smelled of "life".
"Where… am I?"
The words were a pathetic, dry rasp. They felt like sandpaper sliding against his throat.
I died.
The realization didn't come as a shock; it was a cold, hard fact anchored in his mind.
He remembered the weight of the knife.
He remembered the sickening, wet slide of steel parting his own flesh.
He remembered the teacher's scream—a distant, distorted sound that seemed to come from another lifetime.
And then, he remembered the darkness. A darkness so absolute it should have been the end of his story.
Yet, here he was, staring at a sky so blue it felt like a mockery.
I should be dead. I wanted to be dead. So why does my heart feel like it's trying to punch its way out of my ribs?
He tried to sit up, but his motor functions felt… disconnected. It was a terrifying sensation, as if his soul were a ghost haunting a body that didn't belong to him.
His consciousness felt thin, like a veil of mist threatening to scatter in the wind.
This was dissociation—a cruel trick of a mind pushed beyond its breaking point.
Then, a soft, cold breeze brushed over his skin.
It was the catalyst.
The phantom sensation of the wind acted like a needle, stitching his mind back into his physical form with agonizing precision.
Wait. Just a second ago, I was—
His hand moved. It was a frantic, jerky motion, driven by a sudden, surging terror. He didn't care about the blue sky or the strange world.
There was only one thing that mattered.
He clawed at his chest, his fingers desperate to find the ruin he had made of himself.
It should be there. The holes. The blood. The cold metal.
But his fingers didn't sink into open wounds. They didn't slip on crimson gore. Instead, they met the dry, coarse texture of warm fabric.
"No…"
He gasped, his fingers bunching into the cloth, twisting it with a strength that made his knuckles turn white.
It was impossible.
He had felt the blade bite. He had felt the life draining out of him.
And yet, as he pressed down, a phantom pain flared—a ghostly, searing heat that radiated from the center of his chest.
His brain screamed that he was being pierced, even though his eyes saw only unblemished fabric.
It was a 'ghost' of the blade, a psychological scar deep enough to trick his nerves into feeling a trauma that no longer existed physically.
The disbelief was a physical weight, crushing the air out of his lungs.
Did I fail? Even at this… did I fail to even die correctly?
Tatsuya looked down at his trembling hands. They were clean. Too clean.
In this world of vibrant colors and fresh air, Tatsuya Fukushū felt like a stain on a masterpiece.
He had reached for the abyss, and somehow, the abyss had spat him back out into a nightmare of sunshine.
A voice cut through the silence—jagged, alien, and utterly incomprehensible.
"—XXX—XXXX—"
Tatsuya's breath hitched. The sounds didn't register as language; they were just rhythmic vibrations that felt wrong to his ears.
It wasn't Japanese. It wasn't the broken English he'd struggled through in school.
It sounded like the grinding of stones mixed with a melodic hum. Maybe Norwegian? Swedish? He wasn't sure.
A hallucination, he decided instantly. That was the only answer.
I'm still on the floor of the classroom. My brain is misfiring because the blood isn't reaching it anymore. I'm seeing the "Light at the End of the Tunnel," but my dying mind is filling it with weird noises because I watched too much anime.
Yes. That had to be it. He was currently in the middle of a massive hypovolemic shock.
Any second now, the "dream" of the blue sky would flicker and die, and he would finally descend into the cold, quiet nothingness he had worked so hard to achieve.
Summoning a strength fueled by sheer denial, he pushed himself up.
His vision swam, dark spots dancing like insects in the air.
See? I'm dizzy. Typical symptoms of blood loss. Any moment now, I'll wake up in a hospital bed—or I won't wake up at all.
He turned toward the source of the noise, expecting to see a blurred memory of a doctor or his screaming classmates.
Instead, his eyes locked onto something that shattered his logic.
A figure sat on a fallen tree trunk.
A small campfire crackled between them, the orange flames licking at the air with terrifying realism.
But it was the figure that stopped Tatsuya's heart.
Armor. Full, heavy, battle-worn plate that gleamed with a predatory luster under the sun.
An aura of pure, unadulterated steel radiated from the man, so heavy it felt like the atmospheric pressure had suddenly tripled.
Knight armor? Tatsuya's mind recoiled. Is this... a joke? Is this some kind of twisted Comic-Con stunt? Did someone find me and take me to a movie set instead of a morgue?
The absurdity of it was a bitter pill.
He wanted to laugh, but his lungs felt like they were filled with lead. He refused to believe it. He had to reject it.
If this was real, then his escape had failed. If this was real, he was still trapped in the act of existing.
"Hey…" he called out, his voice cracking. He sounded like a child lost in a department store. "Stop the act. I'm... I'm lost. Is this a hospital? A set? Just tell me where the hell we are!"
The knight didn't move for a long beat. Then, slowly, the heavy helm tilted.
The narrow slit of the visor seemed to pierce through Tatsuya's very soul, evaluating the pathetic, trembling boy before him.
The knight spoke again, that same rhythmic, alien tongue flowing out like a decree from a king.
He didn't wait for Tatsuya to understand. He simply raised a gauntleted hand and beckoned.
Each step Tatsuya took toward him made his stomach twist tighter. His body screamed at him to run. What if this man caused all of this? What if the campfire, the sky—his body—were all part of some trick?
He'd never been good with people. Never knew what to say or how to act. But what choice did he have?
When he reached the campfire, the knight pulled a book from his bag—ornate, weathered, almost sacred. Opening it revealed a map that looked nothing like Earth.
Tatsuya's heart sank.
He squinted at the markings. Twisted letters. Unfamiliar shapes. His head throbbed from trying to make sense of them.
"I… I don't understand any of this," he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. "How am I supposed to read it?"
Then he froze.
There—between the lines of alien symbols—was Japanese.
It read:
"You who can understand the things written in this book. This is your guide, your life. Keep it with you at all times. I'll find you, my son."
His hands trembled. Who wrote that?
He turned the page and found what looked like a language guide. The title read: East Continent — The Language of Deity.
He hesitated, then tried reading one of the phrases aloud, carefully mimicking the symbols.
"I… need back home. Japan. Asia continent," he said awkwardly.
The knight studied him closely, then spoke again—this time slower, more deliberate.
"I was called to train you."
Tatsuya froze. Train him? The words weren't an offer; they sounded like a command. Like his future had already been decided.
He shook his head. "Home," he said quietly.
The knight's gaze softened, but his words hit like a blade.
"Your home is gone."
Tatsuya's blood ran cold. The words didn't sink in at first. His mind refused to accept them.
He didn't cry or panic. The calm certainty in the man's voice was worse than any outburst—it erased everything with a single breath.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then the knight removed his helmet, revealing a man with sharp, weathered features.
"I am Paul," he said simply.
Tatsuya fumbled with the book, flipping through pages just to keep his hands busy.
"Fukushū Tatsuya… nice to meet you," he murmured.
Paul pointed at the map. "We are on the East Continent, in the Speed Dragon Mountains, within the country of Montisora."
His tone was too sure. Too final. As if he'd already decided where Tatsuya belonged.
"But… I'm from Japan."
"There is no Japan here," Paul replied, certainty radiating from him.
Tatsuya's stomach dropped. Every familiar thing—every comfort, every memory—felt suddenly unreachable.
Part 2
"Grhhhaaaaa!!!"
The roar split the air like thunder.
A towering beast emerged from behind the ridge — scales white as divine fire, eyes burning molten gold. The ground trembled beneath its weight. Heat rippled through the clearing as its wings unfurled, blotting out the sun.
Tatsuya couldn't breathe.
His body refused to move, every instinct screaming to run.
What is that? Where am I? That thing's going to kill us—!
"Stay back, Tatsuya!" Paul's voice cut through the chaos.
But Tatsuya was frozen, staring up at the creature as if the world itself had shattered around him. His mind spun, searching for logic — a movie? a dream? a prank? Nothing made sense.
Paul stepped forward, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion. The metal caught the light, gleaming with quiet authority. He lowered his stance, murmuring words Tatsuya didn't understand.
"With the speed of lightning's sacred grace, guide my journey, quicken my pace.
In this moment, blessed and pure, I seek Your light—my heart secure.
Velocity Surge!"
Mana — or something that felt like it — crackled in the air. The ground around Paul fractured.
Then he was gone.
A thunderclap followed a heartbeat later.
The knight reappeared in front of the dragon, blade descending in a single, perfect arc. The impact never came — only silence. Then the dragon's neck parted cleanly, its head falling in slow, dreadful motion before crashing into the earth.
Tatsuya blinked once.
Twice.
Paul landed softly, sword already sheathed.
The world stood still.
"That's… magic?" Tatsuya whispered, the words trembling from his throat. He looked around wildly — the trees, the sky, the dirt beneath his feet — all ordinary. But nothing felt ordinary anymore.
Magic wasn't supposed to be real. Dragons weren't supposed to exist.
Yet he had seen both.
"This… this can't be real." He pinched his arm, hard. Pain flared. No change. "No way."
His heart pounded like it was trying to break free from his chest.
The truth pressed down on him like a weight:
This wasn't Earth. This wasn't a set or a dream.
"This is…" he whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, "…another world."
He stared down at his hands, half-expecting them to glow, to do something.
"Magic. Monsters. Another world…" The words came out broken, uneven — somewhere between awe and fear.
For the first time since waking, his mind went completely still.
He was alive.
But not home.
Part 3
"I'm… still alive."
The words left his lips before he even realized he'd spoken them.
The truth hit him like a wave of ice — sharp, suffocating.
He hadn't cared about tomorrow. He hadn't cared about anything.
He'd wanted to die.
He remembered the quiet—the moment before it all went dark. The relief he'd felt, thinking it would finally be over. The noise, the pain, the faces that sneered at him day after day… all fading away.
But it hadn't ended.
Tatsuya's shoulders trembled. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. He'd escaped that endless cycle of bullying, of loneliness… or so he thought.
Why couldn't I just die?
The thought cut deeper than any blade. The universe hadn't given him mercy—it had mocked him. Dragged him into this impossible place, where even death refused to let him go.
"This isn't what I wanted," he muttered, voice cracking. He gripped his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. "Why… why am I here?"
Images flashed in his mind — the knight, the magic, the dragon's severed head.
Things that shouldn't exist. Things that made reality itself feel like a lie.
For most people, waking up in a world like this would be a dream come true.
For him, it was hell with a prettier sky.
"I didn't ask for this," he whispered. His knees buckled, dropping him to the cold earth. A hollow laugh escaped him, thin and broken.
He looked up. The sky above was too bright, too blue — mocking him with its beauty.
I should have been gone by now.
The forest swayed around him, alive with sounds he couldn't feel.
Birdsong, wind, the crackle of the dying campfire — all of it blurred into a distant hum.
Tatsuya buried his face in his hands. His body shook, though no tears came.
"Why couldn't it have ended back there…?" he whispered into his palms.
"Why did I have to wake up… here?"
The world didn't answer. Only the rustling of leaves, and the sound of his own unsteady breathing.
"The words part of dying wasn't the end…"
Tatsuya stared at the ground, his eyes tracing the cracks in the dry earth beneath him. His heart felt heavier with each passing second, as if a part of him had been severed and left behind in a place he could never reach.
Footsteps approached, breaking the stillness. Tatsuya didn't have to look up to know who it was.
It was Paul.
He removed his helmet.
His face bore the quiet intensity of a seasoned knight—sharp, defined features tempered by a subtle gentleness in his steel-blue eyes. Walnut-brown hair framed his angular jaw, falling in just the right amount of disarray to hint at both charm and weariness. His beard was short and well kept, yet rugged enough to betray long days on the road and nights spent beneath the stars.
The man's presence alone filled the empty space around them, commanding and steady—like a mountain looming in the distance.
He knelt on one knee, leveling himself with Tatsuya.
"Young Tatsuya, I am sorry if I startled you with my sword art."
Paul's voice was calm, almost apologetic, but it didn't reach Tatsuya's heart.
Why would he help me? No one ever did before.
The thought came before gratitude. Trust didn't come easily. Help always had a price.
The sight of that sword art had been something beyond comprehension. Even now, Tatsuya wasn't sure if what he'd seen was extraordinary—or simply how things worked in this strange world.
Were powers like that common here? Was everyone capable of cutting through life as if it meant nothing?
"Well," Paul continued, "you are the one spoken of in prophecy. So I will take you under my protection, and teach you swordsmanship until you are ready to go on your own."
What could he even say to something like that?
No, I don't care? The words rose in his throat, but he swallowed them.
I'll make it on my own? Even he knew how foolish that would sound.
The truth was, he was terrified—of Paul, of this world.
He raised his eyes to meet Paul's gaze. There was something calm in the older man's body language, something reassuring in the way he waited—as if he already knew what Tatsuya would decide, and was giving him the space to accept it.
"Tatsuya exhaled, his breath shaky but resolute.
"All right," he whispered, barely louder than the wind passing between them. "I accept."
The words left his mouth, but the burden in his chest didn't lighten. If anything, it tightened, coiling around his heart like cold iron. He had made a choice, but what that choice actually meant… he wasn't ready to face. Not yet.
Part 3
Paul led him higher into the Speed Dragon Mountains.
Speed Dragons. The name sounded childish to Tatsuya—like a cartoon or a video game. But the absurdity didn't make him laugh. It just felt surreal, a sick joke that stopped being funny the moment his real life ended in a pool of blood.
They reached a small, rustic dwelling built into the side of a jagged cliff face. Half cave, half house, topped with a domed roof and two simple windows framing a weathered wooden door. A large, faded cross was painted onto the exterior wall, its color scrubbed away by years of harsh mountain wind.
Stepping inside, the air felt thick and heavy.
Tatsuya's eyes darted across the space—a crooked wooden bench, a cold stove that hadn't burned wood in years, and a single bed.
Just one.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. There was no room here for him. He was an intruder, an extra body in a space meant for a solitary man.
He fumbled with his translation handbook, trying to apologize, but Paul cut him off before he could find the words.
"The bed is yours; don't worry," Paul said gently. "I'll sleep under the stars tonight."
The generosity only twisted the knife in Tatsuya's chest. Why is he being nice to me? Why am I stealing warmth from someone who actually deserves to live?
He didn't argue. He couldn't. He dragged his numb body over and collapsed onto the mattress. The wood creaked beneath his weight. It was soft enough, but comfort meant nothing to a mind caught in a spiral. You can't relax when the world you knew has collapsed, and the hands you're staring at are still ghost-stained with blood.
Sleep refused to come. His thoughts pressed violently against the inside of his skull, screaming at him, reminding him of the violent end he had sought—and failed to achieve.
Suffocating in the cabin's silence, Tatsuya forced himself up and stumbled toward the window. He cracked the glass open, desperate for cold air to snap him out of the haze.
But what greeted him wasn't the familiar night sky of home.
It was a cosmic mockery.
Two moons hung suspended in the abyss, pale, vast, and horribly distant. Their light wasn't a warm, comforting glow; it was a brilliant, haunting silver that felt surgically cold. The rays stretched across the jagged peaks like long, skeletal fingers, turning the valley into a graveyard of shadows.
The light didn't just illuminate the room—it felt as though it were peeling back Tatsuya's skin, exposing his nerves to the freezing mountain air. An uncaring, sterile glare, as if the heavens themselves were two massive, unblinking eyes watching an insect struggle inside a jar.
To anyone else, twin moons would have been a breathtaking invitation to adventure.
To Tatsuya, it was a sentence.
"I really am in a fantasy world," he whispered. The words were empty, crushed under their own weight. It wasn't a moment of wonder. It was a confession of defeat.
Two moons.
A world of magic he didn't understand.
A knight who slaughtered dragons without blinking.
It should have been every bullied kid's ultimate escape fantasy. But for Tatsuya, it was merely a cruel extension of his nightmare. He hadn't been saved; he had been denied the only thing he had truly chosen for himself: his end.
He backed away from the window, pulling the coarse, heavy blanket over his head like a child hiding from monsters. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the silver light bleeding through the threads.
There was no spark of hope. No heroic resolve. Only the suffocating certainty that tomorrow would bring no relief.
Because in the silence of that alien night, he understood the most terrifying truth of all:
The worst part of dying wasn't the end.
It was waking up to a world that refused to let you go.