Chapter 1: The Echo of a Dull Life

Ichika Hatoma, a soul adrift from the mundane shores of Tara, found himself cast upon the shores of "New Life." His previous existence had been… unremarkable. A life painted in shades of gray, shared with a partner chosen not for the fiery passion of youth, but for the pragmatic desire of shared progeny. Their bond, forged in the crucible of practicality rather than the forge of romance, was a quiet agreement. Neither possessed striking beauty, and the word "married" felt somewhat ill-fitting, yet they embraced its formality for the sake of their unborn child. It was, in its own way, a quiet victory.

His demise, a gentle surrender to the inevitable tide of time, was shared with his wife. A peaceful end, one might concede. While some might have labeled his life as dull, Ichika found a certain comfort in its predictability. Life, in his estimation, was fundamentally dull, and therein lay its peculiar charm. Of course, moments of shared joy punctuated the monotony – family outings, shared laughter, the simple contentment of companionship.

Upon his arrival in New Life, Ichika was afflicted with a peculiar amnesia – a "Jamais Vu." He lacked concrete memories, yet a strange, unsettling familiarity clung to him, an echo of his past life that he couldn't quite grasp. Perhaps, he mused, this mirrored the elusive nature of his previous existence.

His first year was spent confined, unable to explore the enigmatic landscape of this new world. At two, he finally gained the mobility to run. His "old" mentality, the accumulated weight of his previous life's experiences, granted him a degree of influence over his infant body, yet it still felt foreign, an ill-fitting vessel. Within this "old" mentality resided his will – the will of the dull, the quiet acceptance of the ordinary.

Ichika was raised by his older sister, a mere thirteen years old at the time of his birth. He never beheld his new mother; his infant eyes were veiled in a blurry haze. By the time his vision cleared, around three months, she, along with his father, had vanished, leaving behind only the echoing silence of their absence.

His sister, with a quiet strength that belied her youth, stepped into the role of mother, even offering him sustenance. Yet, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Ichika, driven by an instinct for survival, knew that his infant body required milk, and his sister, despite her tender years, provided. Those three months solidified her position as his practical mother.

As he grew, Ichika addressed his sister as "mother," a title reserved in the chambers of his heart for the woman who birthed him. He knew, though unspoken, that his parents resided in a "better place," a gentle euphemism for death that his sister offered. He feigned ignorance, accepting the reality of his new familial structure.

When he turned four, his sister gently suggested he call her "sister" or "big sister." But Ichika, attuned to the subtle currents of emotion, sensed the undercurrent of sadness in her voice, a weariness beneath her gentle words. He was no ordinary child; the weight of his past life granted him an unusual perception. He recognized the sacrifice she had made, the burden of motherhood she had carried in her teenage years. She had been his mother for nearly three years, a role she embraced with both love and hesitation. His quiet refusal, a silent acknowledgment of her sacrifice, brought a flicker of joy to her eyes, though she tried to conceal it with a practiced nonchalance.

They lived in the countryside, in a village known as Kohuna, a word his sister explained meant "all expertise." She lamented the loss of nearly 98% of the village's accumulated knowledge, a casualty of time and circumstance. Despite this devastating loss, the villagers clung to the fragments of wisdom passed down from their ancestors, whispers of a richer past. The village, however, was in a state of economic decline, a subtle decay that Ichika, in his childlike innocence, never questioned.

This was Ichika's life until his fifth birthday, a day marked by "The God Blessing," a ritual where children receive their "skills." No grand ceremony was required; the manifestation occurred within the private realm of dreams.

"Ichika, you will be okay. Mommy will be with you," his sister-mother reassured him, sitting beside his bed, her hand resting gently on his forehead. She, too, had undergone this rite of passage. "Don't worry, it won't be painful," she offered, though a sliver of uncertainty lingered in her heart, a shadow of the unknown.

"Okay, goodnight," Ichika replied, his mind a whirlwind of anticipation and apprehension. He felt an inexplicable shift, a sense of something momentous about to happen, a turning point in his young life.

"Good night," she whispered, remaining by his side, a silent vigil against the unknown. She knew the potential complications of the God Blessing, the unpredictable nature of the skills it bestowed. Even a seemingly common skill could hold hidden depths, a truth she understood all too well.

As Ichika drifted to sleep, his consciousness entered a liminal state, a space between dreaming and waking. He was aware of being in a dream, yet it felt more real, more tangible than any dream he had experienced before. Before his consciousness finally succumbed to the pull of sleep, a single, potent image dominated his mind: a "city," a place of stark clarity, devoid of color, perhaps a projection of his own subconscious, a landscape of the mind.