I awoke in an unfamiliar place.
How this all came to be, I have only the vaguest of impressions. I recall that just this morning, I was still in my room, savoring the last vestiges of my summer vacation. As a high school shut-in, one of my favorite pastimes is the mobile game FGO. I vaguely remember pulling an exceptionally rare SSR, and leaping up from the sofa in excitement.
The British philosopher Francis Bacon once said: 'If you share happiness with a friend, you will receive double the happiness in return.' Filled with excitement, I rushed out of my house, eager to share this good news with a classmate who lived nearby.
The events that followed are shrouded in a fog, yet I persevered in my efforts to recollect them. No matter how hard I tried to remember, the veil shrouding my memories would not lift. I was nearly ready to give up. Suddenly, a vivid scene flashed in my mind: a speeding truck, its red front growing larger and larger, the terrifying blare of its horn making the earth tremble!
I had been struck by the truck! This realization filled me with dread. I immediately sprang up from the ground and began to examine my body, only to find... that I was unharmed! Yet, something still felt off. As I raised my arm, I gazed incomprehensibly at the intricate stitching on the sleeve. The uniform I was wearing was unfamiliar, unlike anything I had worn before.
It was then that I realized I was standing on a sun-drenched meadow. A warm breeze, scented with the aroma of pine needles, swept across the land, causing the drooping willow branches to sway gently from side to side. The cloudless sky was a pristine blue, with the occasional bird darting between the sparse, wispy clouds.
Marcus.' A deep, impassive voice called out. Somehow, I knew it was me they were addressing. I turned around to find a bald man scrutinizing me with a furrowed brow. He was tall and lean, his features harsh and his gloomy eyes gleaming beneath heavy eyebrows. Though he wore the same uniform as I, there was an unmistakable aura of cold lethality about him.
'Do you feel any better?' He spoke again, though his tone betrayed no trace of concern. 'No, I feel... quite terrible,' I replied, somewhat perplexed. The bald man glared at me, his neck veins bulging with rage. He was clearly incensed, and I could sense it. But what was worse was that I had no idea what I had done to provoke his ire. Inadvertently, my gaze drifted past the bald man's shoulder, where I noticed dozens of boys in uniform, standing in neat rows and watching the scene unfold, as if eagerly awaiting the spectacle.
"You will be excused from today's training," the bald man said through gritted teeth. "Go back to your dormitory and rest." I stiffly nodded and hurriedly turned to leave. Before I could go, I overheard the bald man muttering under his breath, "Damn that young master." I couldn't tell if I had gone mad or if I was dreaming, as I pondered this after leaving the sight of the others. Suddenly, an unprecedented and indescribable feeling welled up within me. Countless unfamiliar images began flashing rapidly through my mind. If I had to put this sensation into words, it was as if two fragmented selves were starting to accept each other, seeking to reintegrate into a whole.
I came to a halt and found myself in a large training field. The training field was surrounded on three sides by tall gray walls, and on one side there was an iron fence that ran across it. Through the fence, I could see a vast lawn with several towering buildings situated on it. A young boy was leaning against the central banyan tree on the training field, reading a book.
"Good afternoon, little brother," I said with a smile as I approached the boy. But he was far less friendly than I, giving me a cold glance before returning his gaze to the book. This boy was slender in build, with a handsome face and short, dark hair topped by a military cap. His uniform sleeves showed signs of wear. I sat down beside him and glanced at the book he was reading.
"Ah, you're reading 'The Sorrows of Young Werther', I see," I said. "It's a wonderful book, though the protagonist's suicide is so tragic." The boy slowly closed his eyes and replied curtly, "Get out." I didn't heed his words, but instead shifted closer to him. "Where are we exactly? I've had a high fever and my memory is a bit hazy." "This is my territory," the boy snapped. "Fuck off!" I struggled to contain my irritation. "What's your problem?"
The guy punched me with surprising speed. By the time I realized what had happened, I was already lying on the ground. I must be in the midst of a strange dream, with not a single normal person around. I was about to get up and reprimand the boy, when suddenly I heard someone calling my name - it wasn't my name, but I knew they were calling me.
A handsome, golden-haired boy, around 13 or 14 years old, came running over to me. He stood over me, looking down with crystal blue eyes. "I told you not to go bother him, but you just had to go and get yourself in trouble."
"What in the world is going on?" I grabbed the boy's hand and stood up, noticing that the boy who had punched me earlier had already walked away. From behind, his slim waist gave him a rather androgynous appearance. "Are you alright, Markus?" the golden-haired boy asked me.
"I think I got knocked around a bit." I rubbed my temples dramatically, feigning pain. "Who are you again? And where are we exactly?" Upon hearing my words, the color drained from the golden-haired boy's face. "You're not joking, are you? I'm Leon!" He grabbed my wrist. "I'll take you to the infirmary."
"Where are we?" "Brienna Military Academy," the boy named Leon replied. The name Brienna Military Academy sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place where I had heard it before. Leon was leading me briskly towards the infirmary, the grass crunching under his military boots.
"Leon, do me a favor," I said as we passed by what looked like a school building. "I think I'm having a strange dream. Can you wake me up?" Leon looked at me with a hint of anxiety. "Napoleon actually knocked the headmaster's son unconscious. I sure hope Dr. Charel can heal you." The guy who punched me was named Napoleon? Could it be.
I quickly reached out and pinched Leon's waist. He yelped in pain and angrily demanded to know why I had done that. "I was just trying to confirm that I'm not dreaming," I replied. As Sherlock Holmes once said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
The truth was incredible, yet undeniable. I had been hit by a car, but here I was, unharmed, having somehow traveled back in time to 18th century France and encountered Napoleon. It was all so utterly absurd. The doctor in the infirmary was a kindly old man with neatly trimmed white hair and a beard. He quickly determined that I was in good health.
Just as Leon was telling the doctor about my strange behavior, I found myself blurting out the question that had been swirling in my mind. "What happens to us after we die, doctor?" The words hung in the air of the infirmary, creating a palpable sense of unease. The doctor's expression was peculiar. "I'll prescribe you some medication for anxiety, Marcus."
"You didn't answer my question," I pressed. Dr. Charel looked at me thoughtfully. "Some say we are reborn into a new life after death, while others believe we enter into heaven. There are also those who claim that death is merely an endless slumber until the end of time. For centuries, mankind has speculated about the nature of what lies beyond the veil of death."
"And what do you believe lies beyond that veil?" I pressed further. "Is it heaven, Valhalla, or the mysterious realms of reincarnation that Eastern faiths profess?" "I do not know," the doctor replied. "I once held a strong belief in God, but the power of that faith has waned over time. I have saved many lives on the brink of death, and yet have been powerless to prevent others from succumbing. Each time I fail, my faith in God diminishes. I wonder, how can a benevolent God allow his children to suffer so?"
"My child," the doctor concluded, "I have kept company with death for many years. In my view, death is not the antithesis of life, but rather an integral part of it. Without death, life would not be complete."
There was a note of sadness in his voice that struck a chord within me. I sensed the answer he was reluctant to explicitly state - that God and all other deities were non-existent, and that upon death, all returns to nothingness.
"Perhaps there is another life that awaits us after death," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. The doctor simply shook his head with a wry smile. After that, the three of us lapsed into silence. I took the medication the doctor had prescribed and then Leon and I exited the infirmary together.
The sun had begun to peek out, shimmering in the azure sky and gilding the surrounding white clouds. The gray stone walls cast jagged shadows across the lush, verdant lawn. Leon informed me that today was September 27, 1783. I quietly noted the date in my mind - the last day of a high school student named Leebin, before he would be reborn as Marcus.