I sat up again, slower this time. My muscles felt like warm rubber bands—sore, but functional. The silk sheets slid off my body, revealing the ridiculous sleepwear someone must've changed me into: a robe that probably cost more than my entire rent back home.
I slid off the bed. Took a step. Wobbled. Balanced. Okay. Walking was still in the skillset.
A glint in the far corner of the room caught my eye.
A full-length mirror.
I walked over—and paused.
That… wasn't my face.
The reflection looking back at me was both unfamiliar and absurdly flawless. My hair—his hair—was pale blond, almost white under the soft lighting, the kind of tone people paid way too much money for at a salon. My eyes were a startling, clear blue, the color of summer skies and magazine covers. Skin smooth, pale, and without so much as a blemish. Tall, lean frame. Almost model-like, except there was something colder in the posture. Sharper.
This didn't scream "average Japanese high schooler." He screamed imported bloodline.
Tatsuya's memories offered a partial explanation. His mother was foreign, European.
That's why I looked like this. Blue eyes. Blond hair. The kind of foreign features that turned heads in Tokyo.
I turned away from the mirror, trying not to think too hard about the identity crisis quietly waiting to ambush me. Instead, I focused on the itch. Not physical, but mental. Like a tickle in the back of my skull, just behind the thoughts. A sense of wrongness.
No… not wrongness.
Potential.
There was something else inside me. Something quiet. Dormant. But awake now.
I sat on the bed again, closed my eyes, and let myself drift.
And then—
I saw it.
A door. Floating in the darkness of my mind, surrounded by stars.
No key. No knob. Just a glowing outline, pulsing softly like it was alive. My breath caught. Some part of me knew this wasn't normal. Knew I was about to step into something that couldn't be undone.
I reached for it anyway.
And the moment my fingers touched that glowing edge—
The door opened.
And I was no longer in my body.
I was inside something.
A workshop.
Massive. Beautiful. Impossible.
It stretched out infinitely in every direction, filled with strange tools and floating workbenches that hummed like tuning forks. Racks of materials shimmered in mid-air—steel, wood, glass, stone, and others I couldn't even name. Overhead, luminous blueprints flickered like constellations. Diagrams. Schematics. Ideas.
And in the center of it all—
A worktable.
I approached it slowly, reverently. As my fingers brushed its surface, a warm current buzzed up my arm. Something inside me clicked.
This place… was mine.
Not just the table—the whole thing.
The Celestial Workshop.
A thought surfaced in my mind, crisp and purposeful:
"Create something simple."
"Like what?" I muttered aloud.
No voice answered.
But my hands moved anyway. Guided by instinct—or maybe knowledge that hadn't been there before.
I imagined a sword.
Nothing enchanted. No lightning runes or demonic seals. Just a clean, functional blade. A solid, dependable weapon that could hold its own. A real sword.
The moment I pictured it clearly, the materials appeared. Steel. Leather. A forge that radiated heatless fire. Tools I couldn't name but somehow knew how to use.
I got to work.
Time moved differently here. I didn't rush. Didn't second-guess. Every action felt natural. Every piece fell into place. I folded metal, hammered edges, shaped a grip, etched a simple pattern along the fuller. No fancy insignias. Just purpose. Functionality. Clean lines.
When it was finished, the sword hovered in the air above the table—sleek, sharp, balanced. Beautiful, in a brutalist way.
My breath hitched.
I didn't know how I knew that, but I knew. This wasn't imagination. It was real. Real as the blood in my veins or the silk under my hands.
Then I felt something stir inside me—a pull, a current, like pressure behind my ribs rising and waiting to be released.
Another instinctual thought bubbled to the surface:
Manifest.
I opened my eyes.
Back in the bedroom.
Still breathing.
Still me.
Except… the sword was in my hand.
Cold steel. Perfect balance. It gleamed under the chandelier light like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.
I stared at it.
I laughed.
Just once.
"I actually made this."
This was a game changer!