Niche doesn't stop walking. His body has forgotten how to stop.

  "You actually made it." The robed man sounds more surprised than impressed. "Sit down before you collapse."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're bleeding from eleven different places and you can't see. Sit down."

  Niche sits, not because he wanted to, but because he finally allowed his legs to give out. The grass is cool, wet maybe, though he can't tell if that's dew or his own blood soaking into it.

  "How did you know I'd come this way?" Niche asks.

  "I didn't."

  Niche waits for more, but nothing comes.

  "Then why are you here?"

  "Because this is where I am." The robed man's voice is plain. "You chose to come. That's the part that matters."

  "I didn't choose shit, everything else just failed."

  "That's still a choice."

  Niche wants to argue but doesn't have the energy. His hands are sticky with blood and he can feel it drying on his face, pulling at his skin when he moves his jaw.

  "The palace doesn't let people reach it," the robed man says. "The angels don't have answers. You figured that out and came here anyway, and no one made you."

  "Great, so I passed some kind of test." Niche shifts on the grass, trying to find a position that doesn't press on one of his cuts. "Can I have my perception back now?"

  "No."

  "Can I heal?"

  "No."

  "Then what was the point of this stupid test?"

  The robed man is quiet, and Niche can hear him breathing, slow and even, the opposite of Niche's own ragged inhales.

  "You're here. That's the point."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only one I have." Grass shifts as the robed man stands. "We're not done, there's more path ahead."

  "Of course there is."

  "You can stay here if you want. Rest, bleed, whatever. No one's going to force you forward."

  Niche sits in the dark while his wounds throb in different rhythms, some sharp, some dull, all constant. His body aches in places he didn't know could ache, and the thought of standing up again makes him want to scream.

  "What's ahead?" Niche asks.

  "Same path, same direction."

  "Same cat?"

  "Probably."

  "And I still can't heal."

  "You'll heal."

  Niche waits for more explanation, but the robed man offers nothing, just standing there like silence is a complete answer.

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "It will."

  Footsteps move through the grass, fading with each step, putting more distance between Niche and the only person in this place who's talked to him like a human being.

  He could stay. He could sit in the dark and wait for something to change, wait for his perception to come back on its own, wait for someone else to fix this.

  He stands up.

  His legs almost buckle and he catches himself, one hand pressing into the grass. He takes a step, then another.

  The footsteps ahead of him keep going. He follows the sound.

  The second path feels the same under his feet. Grass. Dirt. Nothing special.

  He continues to follow the sound of the footsteps. That's all he has. Sound and forward motion.

  Something moves to his left. The same soft displacement of air. The cat.

  He braces for the scratch.

  It doesn't come.

  He hears claws scratch and hit nothing. A sound like tearing, but distant. Like the cat has swiped at where he is and found empty space instead.

  He keeps walking.

  What the hell?

  The cat tries again. He feels the air shift, feels the attack coming. His body tenses.

  Nothing.

  It's missing.

  He doesn't understand. The cat has hit him every time before. Eleven wounds that are still bleeding, still open, still hurting.

  But now it can't touch him.

  "Don't think about it too hard," the robed man says from ahead.

  "I'm not thinking about anything."

  "Good."

  The cat circles. He can hear it in the grass. Frustrated, maybe – if cats

  be frustrated. It lunges again.

  Misses.

  Niche keeps walking.

  His ankle throbs. The one the cat has gotten twice on the first path. He reaches down without thinking and touches the wound.

  Closed.

  Not healed. Not the warm knitting of regeneration he's used to. Just...closed. Like it has decided to stop bleeding on its own.

  He checks his forearm. Same thing. The skin is still torn, but the blood has stopped. The edges are pulling together slowly.

  I'm healing.

  Not fast. Not like before. But healing.

  "You said I'd heal," Niche realizes.

  "I did."

  "How?"

  "You're not alone anymore."

  I don't know what that means. The robed man is just a guy walking ahead of me. That doesn't explain why the cat can't hit me or why my wounds are closing. But I'm too tired to ask more questions.

  Niche just walks. The cat keeps trying and keeps missing, but after a while he stops noticing.

  They walk in silence for a while. Just footsteps ahead of him and ground beneath him.

  "So," Niche asks, breaking the silence. "Who's gonna be there? At the palace, I mean. What should I be ready for?"

  "Nothing too bad. You'll meet...Era." The robed man sounds almost amused. "I think you’ll like him."

  What does that mean? Is that a warning or a joke? I can't tell with this guy.

  "That doesn't sound reassuring."

  The robed man chuckles. "You'll be fine. Theres not much to worry about, over there. You should find your stay there quite nice, actually."

  "My stay?"

  "He'll take care of you. That's what he does."

  That's what he does. What does that mean? Is Era like him? Some kind of caretaker?

  "Who is he to you?"

  “My father. But also my equal, in a way.” The robed man keeps walking. “Don't think about it too hard. We’re almost there.”

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  They keep walking. Niche doesn't ask any more questions. The robed man doesn't offer anything else.

  Almost there. And I haven't done anything to prepare.

  The thought hits him suddenly. He's been walking, just walking, following footsteps without planning, without scheming, without thinking about what comes next. When was the last time he did that? Just trusted something without a backup plan?

  Stupid. That was stupid.

  Niche pulls out his knife and drives it into his palm. Deep. The pain is sharp and immediate, and he feels the warmth of the robed man's energy move toward it, starting to close the wound.

  This will take a while to regenerate.

  …Just in case.

  He does the other palm too. Same depth. Same pain.

  They keep walking. The grass under Niche’s feet changes to dirt, and the dirt changes to stone.

  "We're here," the robed man says.

  Niche stops. He can hear something ahead of them, something large, something that hums with warmth he can feel on his skin even from a distance. Stone walls, maybe. A gate. He can't see any of it but he knows it's there.

  My element perception still hasn't come back. I'm still blind. But it doesn't bother me the way it did before. I made it. That's enough.

  "So what now? Do I just—"

  He turns to face the robed man.

  Gone.

  Niche stands there for a moment. The space where the man was is just empty air.

  Is that his thing? Just disappearing mid-sentence?

  He files it away with everything else that doesn't make sense about this place.

  The palace is in front of me now. Actually in front of me. Not on a hill in the distance, not unreachable, not looping away every time I get close. Just here.

  He walks toward the gate. It's ornate, gold, the kind of gate that should have guards, barriers, something to keep people out.

  Nothing.

  He pushes tentatively and it swings open.

  What? For a castle, the security here is light. No guards, no alarms, just open space beyond. This feels like a trap.

  He steps through anyway. What choice does he have?

  He walks forward, following the path by feel. The stone is smooth under his feet, the air warm and still. Everything about this place feels deliberate, designed, like someone built it knowing exactly who would walk through it. And familiar. That's the wrong word. He's never been here, can't have been here, but his body knows this place even if his mind doesn't.

  Why does this feel like coming home?

  He reaches doors. Heavy, solid under his hands. They open at his touch.

  The space beyond feels massive. His footsteps echo off distant walls. And something ahead of him, at the far end, pulling at him. He can't see it but he can feel it.

  This is the palace. And that's the throne. It has to be. And it's calling to me. Like it's been waiting. Like it recognizes me. Like it longs for me the same way I suddenly, inexplicably, long for it.

  I could just sit down. Just for a second. No one's here. No one would know.

  He takes a step forward.

  The pressure hits. Absolute. Crushing. He's on his knees before he realizes it.

  "Boy, I don't know who you are, but you must go back to where you came from." The voice comes from everywhere. "You are too weak; this is no place for you. You are not from this time; go back to your own time, I command you."

  "…Can't," Niche manages to say through gritted teeth. "Even if I wanted to..."

  The pressure eases. Not gone, but lighter. Enough that he can breathe.

  Footsteps approach. Slow and deliberate, each one echoing through the massive space.

  He's coming toward me. Whoever this is, whatever this is, he's coming to look at me.

  The footsteps stop, right in front of him.

  "You cannot return to your own time." Era’s voice is closer now, no longer everywhere, just above him. "Why?"

  Silence.

  The robed man. When I was walking next to him, my wounds were healing. Fast. Faster than anything I've felt before. But at some point I got curious. I slowed down. Let the distance between us grow, just a little. And the healing slowed with it.

  So I tested it. Walked closer, healing sped up. Backed off, healing slowed. Like he has some kind of field around him. The closer you are, the stronger the effect.

  But here's the thing. The wounds that were already healing didn't slow down. The energy that was already inside me, already working, it stayed at the same rate. It was only new wounds that healed slower when I backed off. My left palm was healing faster than my right because I cut my left first, when I was closer. By the time I cut my right, I'd fallen back a step.

  So the energy, once it's in you, it stays. It doesn't leave until the job is done. It doesn't care how far away you are after. It's already committed.

  Which means the energy from my palms is still inside me right now. Still working. Still trying to finish what it started.

  So if I give it something else to heal. Something worse. Something that takes priority. It should redirect. It should keep me alive.

  And if I'm wrong…the robed man couldn’t

  have gone far. He doesn't have teleportation, not that I saw. And he knew exactly where this place was, which means he's connected to whoever's standing in front of me. He's probably nearby. Close enough that even if my theory is wrong, I'm still inside his field.

  Either way, I don't die.

  Probably.

  Niche pulls out his knife and drives it into his chest. Then his throat. Then his heart. He falls forward.

  Blood pools beneath him. His heart stops.

  Silence.

  Era crouches beside him. Fingers press against Niche’s neck.

  "He is dead,” Era declares.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  His heart restarts. The wounds seal. Niche pushes himself up, bloody but whole.

  “That's why,” Niche affirms. “I can't go back to my time, and I can't die. I'm stuck in this time forever. If you don't help me, it's inevitable that I will change the past sometime during my immortal life here, which could cause significant unintended consequences. Please, help me. For the future’s sake.”

  Era thinks, Where did this kid come from? He's asking me to send him back, but I can't. I won’t. Not now. Not after watching him do that. I need to take him in. I can't just raise him like one of my people though.

  He’s too dangerous for basic rehabilitation. I need to actually contain whatever this is. Because he can't see it. He has no idea how he's acting. He's standing in front of me, knows how powerful I am, and he just cut himself open like he was bored. If he's like this with me, what's he like with everyone else? He's going to explode. He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to explode.

  A long silence stretches over the room. Era studies him.

  Niche stares at the ground, hesitant.

  I…I lied to him. I told him I was immortal when I'm not. I mean, I am most of the time, but not right now. I exploited the robed man's energy and gambled that it would work. And it did. But I didn't have to do that. I could have just explained. Asked for help normally. Why did I default to deception? Why is that always my first instinct? Maybe I should tell him the truth. Apologize. Explain what I actually did. Tell him the truth–

  “You…” Era starts, “…have no survival instinct.”

  What?

  "Why would I?” Niche responds. “I can't die. What use is there in worrying about death if it’s not an option?”

  Era considers this. "Hm. Tell me, what do torture and life have in common?"

  Niche thinks for a moment. "I’m not sure. What is it?"

  "They're the same thing in different packaging. Both break you down with pain and struggle. The difference? In torture, you grow numb to survive. In life, you're supposed to grow wise."

  Era pauses. “Either way, if you make it through, it makes for a good story.”

  "Is that supposed to be profound?"

  “Not necessarily. However, I have found – in my many years – it holds to be true.” Era's voice doesn't change. "Your torture is over now."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning you've grown numb enough. All living things, no matter what they are, strive to live and adapt. However, you don't seem desperate for life at all. You look like you don't care if you live or not, directly contradicting your instincts." Era circles him slowly. "You've been through quite a lot, haven't you, Nishihara?"

  Niche's blood runs cold. He never said his name.

  "How do you—"

  "I know many things." Era's tone doesn't invite more questions. "And I know I can't send you back. Not yet."

  That's not entirely true, Era thinks. I could send him back right now if I wanted. But I won't. Not until I know what I'm dealing with. Not until I know if this can be contained.

  Era continues. “However, I can offer you something else. If you wish to join my family, you will train under me. The process will be harder for you than the others, but by the end, you will be completely cleansed. Then, you will be able to return to your world.”

  Era extends a hand.

  Niche doesn’t hesitate. “I accept.”

  He takes Era’s hand.

  Era's Domain, Garden, Next Day

  Era is already waiting when Niche arrives at the garden.

  “Do the clothes fit?” Era asks, glancing him over.

  Niche runs his hands over the fabric. The white robe Era left for him hangs loose, the cord tied at the waist. Light. Clean. Feels like something a priest would wear.

  “I didn’t change,” Niche says. “I kept my old clothes on. Just put this over them.”

  Era is quiet for a moment. “You prefer your old clothes.”

  “They’re more comfortable.”

  "Mm." Era nods, like he expected that answer.

  Niche hears Era move to a spot in the garden and follows the sound.

  “We start here.” Era instructs. “Cup your hands.”

  Niche cups them. Era places his own hands over Niche's, pressing until the seal is tight.

  “Listen carefully, Niche. Something important is in your hands now. When it falls out, that important thing will be gone forever.”

  Era removes his hands.

  A feeling of weight settles into Niche's palms. Heavy. Fine. Shifting. It feels like a pile of sand.

  The grain starts slipping between the cracks of his fingers. He closes them tighter. It finds gaps anyway, trickling down his wrists. He adjusts, tries to form a seal with his palms.

  When he thinks the grain is contained, a hole opens in his hand. A hole opens where his bone should be. It pours through, hitting the floor with a sound similar to that of sand.

  Niche covers the hole. Another hole opens. Then another. His hands are perforating, skin splitting into gaps. The grain falls through every one.

  Eventually his hands are empty. The sand-like substance is piled on his feet. The holes close slowly, his flesh knitting back.

  "What was the point of that?" Niche sounds distraught. "I failed."

  "What was in your hands?" Era asks.

  "I don't know."

  "You are upset even though you don’t know what you lost. It was the barrier. Your mental barrier. Everything preventing you from remembering. Gone now."

  "Remembering what?"

  "Think."

  Niche closes his eyes. Not that it makes a difference.

  At first, nothing happens.

  I was Roy. I was a prince. My parents went to sign a peace treaty with the rebel nation and never came back. Assassinated. I had to step up. I became king because there was no one else.

  Ryota was there. Asha. Simon. Maruka. Usui. We were children together. We played in the gardens of the palace. We grew up together.

  And then my brother, Riku. He wanted a world of his own. A playground. So I made one for him. And then he died. I couldn't accept it. So I recreated the world into something else. A memorial. A place where his memory would live on.

  But then I was forced into it too. All of us were. And our memories were rewritten. New names. New lives. We forgot who we were.

  I'm Roy. I've always been Roy. Niche was just the version of me that didn't remember.

  "What do you remember?" Era asks.

  "I was Roy. A prince. My parents were assassinated and I became king. My friends were there with me, but they don't remember any of it. I built the memorial world for my brother after he died, and then we were all sent into it. Our memories were changed."

  Niche doesn't say anything for a minute. Era stays quiet.

  Finally, Niche speaks. "Do the others remember? Were any of their barriers removed?"

  "No."

  "So they still don't know who they are. Who they were."

  "And you didn't either. Until now." Era pauses. "There's still something missing. Something deeper. You'll find it later."

  Something deeper? What's deeper than this?

  "We'll see if it changes anything," Era says, and starts walking.

  Niche takes a breath and follows.