The Protagonist

— Sometimes we're born for a purpose we've always underestimated. — K.K.

Darkness.

Once again, that darkness.

Kairo was there, suspended.

In the middle of a liquid abyss.

A black, viscous sea, as if the night itself had turned to water.

His body floated weightlessly, and his voice... made no sound.

Each breath released tiny bubbles of air.

— Fwooob. Fwooob.

Again and again, like the silent echo of his existence.

> "Again… the same dream. No. It's different."

"It's like I'm submerged in a sea of shadows…"

Kairo's thoughts floated with him, confused and fractured.

> "Where am I?"

"Before, it was Shibuya… then I fainted."

"I met that girl… Lethe. In this… this dimension. If it can be called that."

Time seemed to have shattered.

Reality, a frayed memory.

And deep within that black sea… something was watching him.

— Fwooob, Fwooob

Bubbles of air kept escaping from his mouth and nose.

"I have to move. I can't stay here. Master needs me."

He checked if he could move.

He slowly opened and closed his hand.

He tried to shift from a horizontal position to a vertical one.

"Yes… very good… I can move."

Suddenly, the back of his right hand started to throb with pain.

The pain was unbearable.

It felt like it was burning.

"Tsk, ow... What the hell is causing this pain?"

On the back of his hand, a faint light began to shine.

It was his rune.

A treble clef entwined with a sword.

"Where did this come from? It wasn't there before…" he thought.

> "Or maybe you just didn't notice you awakened it."

A male voice echoed in that black ocean, resonating like a melancholic melody.

Kairo turned around in circles, trying to find the source, but saw only endless darkness.

He tried to speak, but the black water wouldn't let him.

> "Calm down, Kairos. I'm not here to hurt you."

That name again. That same feeling.

> "My name is Kairo. I'm 18 years old, and I live in Tokyo," he thought, reciting his mantra.

— Fwooob. Fwooob.

Kairo's agitated breathing stirred the liquid darkness even more.

A light chuckle echoed around him, almost amused.

> "Still rejecting your role, Kairos. Why resist your destiny?"

From the endless dark ahead, a small light began to pulse.

First a dot.

Then a beam.

Finally... a blinding glow.

Kairo raised his arm to shield himself.

He closed his eyes.

Silence.

Then… stillness.

When he opened them again, everything had changed.

The darkness had vanished.

As if sucked into itself.

Now he was in a white room.

Silent. Suspended.

As if the world itself had stopped breathing.

He looked around.

No walls.

No ceiling.

No sound.

Just absolute white.

> "Where the hell am I now?"

> "You're in my personal dimension, Kairos… or would you rather I call you Kairo?" whispered a voice behind him.

Kairo jumped, falling hard to the ground, spinning around.

In front of him stood a tall man, dressed in a flawless black suit.

Burgundy tie, white shirt.

He wore cufflinks shaped like fountain pens.

Black leather gloves on his hands. One held a cane reminiscent of the Victorian era, the other clutched a thick book.

The book's cover was sky-blue with golden streaks.

Shiny black loafers on his feet.

He wore round, black glasses that hid his eyes.

Slicked-back raven-black hair.

He looked like a businessman, but his presence felt terribly out of place.

As if he belonged to another, forgotten era.

> "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Forgive me."

He leaned his cane on something invisible—

as if it floated—

And offered Kairo his hand, with overwhelming courtesy.

Kairo took it without hesitation.

> "What? I took it without thinking… why?" he wondered as he stood up with the man's help.

The man reclaimed his cane and began walking ahead.

Kairo stared at his own hand in disbelief.

He followed him.

Once again, without hesitation.

> "That same feeling again. Who is this man?"

The more he walked, the more questions crowded his mind.

Kairo glanced at the mysterious book tucked under the man's arm.

The sound of their footsteps echoed.

— Tamp, Tamp

The sound expanded in that dimension and dissolved into its cosmic void.

— Tack, Tack

The tapping of the cane kept them company.

After a while, they reached a spot.

All around was white. Pure, infinite.

> "Mmh, yes, this spot will do," said the man in a calm, measured tone.

— Tap, Tap.

He tapped the floor twice.

Kairo didn't move, as if he already knew what would happen, though he had no idea why.

Five long seconds.

Endlessly long.

Then something shifted.

From where the cane had struck, a wooden table emerged from the pristine floor, deforming and twisting until it took shape—

as if the ground were made of clay.

Two chairs also took form.

The man, as if in a job interview, theatrically gestured for him to sit.

> "Please, after you," he said with a disturbingly natural smile.

Kairo didn't hesitate, though still wary, and took his seat.

So did the man.

He placed the cane on the table.

Set the book beside him.

From his pocket, he pulled out a cigar.

He cut the end with a cigar cutter that had somehow appeared on the table.

> "That wasn't there before…" Kairo thought.

He then pulled a matchbox from another pocket.

— Stack, fwiwooom

A sharp flick. The match lit. He brought it to the cigar and lit it.

The man raised his gaze toward Kairo.

He pulled the cigar from his mouth and offered it.

> "Want a puff?"

Kairo was about to refuse, but the man withdrew his hand without needing a reply.

> "No, that's right. You don't smoke. Because of kendo. An interesting martial art, by the way."

---

> "How does he know that?"

"How can he know about kendo?"

Kairo stared at him, his breath slightly altered.

> "Who are you?" he finally asked, uncertain but firm.

The man slowly inhaled his cigar.

A trail of smoke dispersed in the still air of the white room.

Then he sighed. Not out of fatigue…

But as if calibrating the right way to answer.

> "I'm called many things," he said at last.

"Some… more artistic.

Others, a little more disturbing. Ahaha."

He chuckled.

An elegant, dissonant sound.

Almost theatrical.

> "A choreographer.

An architect.

A restorer of fragments."

"But you, Kairos… you can simply call me Mr. Ink."

Kairo jumped to his feet, visibly irritated.

> "The Ink Man? Look, I've had enough of people appearing in my dreams during private moments or right in the middle of battle against—"

But Mr. Ink cut him off, finishing his sentence:

> "Against Azrael, the Custodian of Oblivion."

Kairo froze.

> "How do you know that?"

The man remained composed.

> "I see you've met that spoiled little girl from the upper plane's gazebo."

A chill ran down Kairo's spine.

> "Lethe?! How do you even know what I'm doing?"

> "Oh, it's quite simple," he said, tapping the book beside him.

> "Your entire existence… I wrote it."

He said it with terrifying calm.

> "Who the hell are you, Mr. Ink?!"

> "Sit down, my dear protagonist," his lips curved into a serene yet disturbing smile, making young Kaiaba swallow hard.

> "We have much to discuss."

Kairo sat down again, knowing he was facing someone—

or something—

immensely powerful.

Mr. Ink crossed his legs, puffing his cigar calmly.

> "What does it mean, my whole existence was written by him?

What does it mean I'm the protagonist?

Who the hell is this guy?"

Kairo kept thinking, overwhelmed.

> "If you keep that up, your head might explode. I can feel your thoughts flying by," the man sighed.

> "Listen, Kairos. I know you have a thousand questions, and I'll grant you the answer to one of them.

Let's say it's a gift, to make up for dragging you here."

His tone was masterfully calm. But before Kairo could speak, the man raised a finger.

> "Think carefully before asking. I said one for now.

And I'll explain everything…

but only the one you choose will be free."

Kairo paused.

There were a thousand questions in his head:

Oblivion.

The Glitches.

The Memory Drift.

His father's disappearance.

Why Remembrances exist.

What the name Kairos truly means.

Who Mr. Ink and Lethe really are…

But there was one that suffocated him more than any other.

> "Who is Azrael—the masked man—the Custodian of Oblivion?"

Mr. Ink paused.

As if that question shouldn't have been possible—

and yet it existed.

Finally, he smiled bitterly.

> "This… I didn't expect.

You've always been an interesting one, my dear protagonist.

But that question… was unexpected."

> "So, will you answer me?"

Kairo's voice grew more serious, almost threatening, as hatred briefly washed over him.

> "Mr. Ink?"

Mr. Ink stared at him, extinguished the cigar, placed it on the table, and finally smiled.

He rested his hand on his book… and opened it.

The book began flipping through its pages by itself.

The room started changing.

The background grew darker.

Everything trembled—

except for the table and the two of them.

It twisted.

It transformed.

Mr. Ink smiled with anticipation.

> "My dear protagonist…

this will be a tragic tale,

and I'll tell it to you with great pleasure."

The room's background transformed into that ocean of darkness once more.

> "This, Kairos, is the story…

of my most tragic protagonist."

The table now floated in that sea of shadow.

> "This is the story of Azrael… the Custodian of Oblivion."

---

— Sometimes we're born for a purpose we've always underestimated…

I still don't know why this fate was given to me.

But one thing is certain:

I will save them all.

And I will find you, Dad. — Kairo Kaiaba