As the last traces of light faded into the abyss, the lazy man's eyes fluttered open. His senses stirred, greeted by the suffocating stench of decay. A dull ache throbbed in his skull, his body sinking into the filth beneath him—piles of manure cushioning his fall yet doing little to ease his discomfort. His clothes reeked of rot, clinging to him like a second skin of misery.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, his trembling hands sinking into the filth as he tried to steady himself. The world around him was cloaked in shadows, the air thick with dampness.
"Where… am I?" he murmured, his voice hoarse and unsteady.
As he gained his footing, his gaze drifted downward to the tattered remains of his black shirt. It bore the scars of time—patched and re-stitched countless times with scraps of fabric, an unspoken testimony to hardship. Every frayed edge and mismatched thread whispered of struggle, of survival.
Steeling himself, he staggered out of the alley. The sight that met him sent a shiver through his spine. Towering buildings lined the cobbled streets, their architecture steeped in an ancient, almost medieval elegance. Flickering lamps cast pools of dim golden light onto the pavement, though they held no ordinary flames. Fireflies—captured within delicate glass casings—danced inside, their glow wavering like dying embers.
Horses trotted through the streets, their hooves striking against the stones in rhythmic precision, pulling ornate carriages behind them. A realization settled upon him, heavy and unnerving.
"I'm in some kind of… Victorian era?" he whispered, his breath curling in the cool night air.
He walked on, his gaze flitting from one building to the next, drinking in the eerie beauty of the world he had stumbled into. Then, something caught his eye—a boutique window showcasing an exquisite velvet-colored suit, paired with matching trousers and a sleek black shirt beneath.
His breath hitched.
He had never been able to afford something so fine in his previous life. The thought clawed at his chest, igniting a flicker of longing. Was this his second chance? A life where a man like him, one who had always lived in the shadows, could finally grasp luxury?
His reflection in the glass stole his attention.
A boy—no older than his late teens—stared back at him, his crimson-red hair a striking contrast against his olive-toned skin. His brown eyes, once unfamiliar, now felt eerily intimate. It took mere moments for realization to settle in.
He was in another body.
'So… this is me now.'
His fingers brushed over his features, tracing the unfamiliar contours. From the ragged clothes clinging to him to the mud-caked boots on his feet, he inspected every inch.
Then, movement.
Beyond the glass, past the elegant display of suits, a figure stood watching him.
His heart lurched.
'Who is that…?'
The boutique's front door swung open with a creak, and a man stepped out, his presence commanding, his eyes scrutinizing. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit, polished shoes gleaming beneath the dim streetlights, a top hat perched elegantly atop his head.
His gaze bore into the young man with a sharpness that made his skin prickle.
"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice curt and laced with suspicion.
The lazy man hesitated, a sudden rush of memories invading his mind—fragments of a past that did not belong to him yet felt undeniably his.
"My name is…" He faltered, then, as if whispered by the very essence of his new existence, the name surfaced.
"…Tristan Merigold."
The man's expression shifted in an instant. Laughter erupted from his chest—rich, full of relief. Tears of joy welled in his eyes as he clapped a hand to his mouth.
"So you are Tristan Merigold!" he exclaimed, his voice brimming with elation. "I have been waiting for you. Your mother informed me of your arrival, but I had no idea when you would get here."
He gestured toward the boutique, motioning for Tristan to follow.
Still reeling from the encounter, Tristan allowed himself to be guided inside. The boutique was a haven of refinement, lined with suits of unparalleled craftsmanship. A navy-blue ensemble adorned with delicate white floral embroidery stood beside a golden suit that shimmered under the soft glow of the chandelier.
The man led him upstairs to his living quarters—a modest apartment connected to the boutique below. It was not grand, yet it exuded warmth, with a cozy sitting area and a simple bedroom.
"You will be staying here with me, in the Middle District," the man declared.
Just then, his nose wrinkled, his expression twisting in disgust. He waved a hand in front of his face before pinching his nose between two fingers.
"You should really take a bath," he said bluntly.
For the first time, Tristan realized just how foul he smelled. Without a word, he stepped toward the bathroom, peeling away his soiled clothes before slipping into the shower. Warm water cascaded over him, washing away the filth, soothing his aching body.
'What the hell is going on?'
The events of the evening replayed in his mind like fragments of a dream—waking in the alley, the strange familiarity of this body, the man who claimed to have been expecting him. And then, a flicker of memory—
A woman's voice.
Instructions.
Go to the Middle District. Find Albert Kenway.
Was this place truly the Middle District? Was the man downstairs truly the one he was meant to meet?
A thousand questions swirled in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last.
Why had he woken in that alley?
Why had he been lying in manure?
And why did it feel as if he had been led to this very moment?
A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Are you all right in there?" The voice was laced with concern.
Tristan exhaled, composing himself before answering in a steady tone, "I'm fine."
He emerged from the bathroom, the tension in his shoulders slightly eased. Waiting for him outside were fresh clothes—a simple black shirt and white sweatpants, comfortable yet clean.
As he dressed, an unexpected warmth spread through him, his chest tightening with unfamiliar emotion. His vision blurred slightly as moisture pricked at the corners of his eyes.
"It's… been a while since someone treated me with such kindness," he admitted softly to himself.
Before he could dwell on the feeling, the scent of something rich and savory filled the air. His stomach clenched in response.
The man—his host—stood in the kitchen, setting down a plate of steaming pasta, the vibrant red of the tomato sauce glistening under the light.
"Eat," he instructed simply.
Tristan hesitated for only a moment before murmuring, "Thank you."
Without another word, he reached for the fork, twirling it through the pasta before lifting it to his lips. The moment it touched his tongue, a burst of flavor unraveled, overwhelming his senses. It was warm. Comforting.
A taste of home he had never known.
As he ate, a thought crossed his mind.
He still didn't know the name of the man who had welcomed him so openly.
"My mother never told me your name," Tristan said between bites.
The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
"Albert Kenway," he said simply, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
And just like that, a new chapter had begun.