Koshikawa Masafumi blinked against the sudden wash of sunlight pouring through a towering wall of glass. The room stretched endlessly, its open floor plan divided not by stone walls but by sleek, polished furniture. A low, kidney-shaped coffee table sat at the room's center with its surface glossy enough to reflect the stark white ceiling above. Colors struck him like a painter's palette as the mustard-yellow cushions lined a teakwood sofa while a burnt orange rug with geometric patterns stretched beneath the feet of a figure's silhouette. The air was crisp and clean, yet carried a faint scent of something metallic. The figure was tall, broad-shouldered and radiated no mild form of authority. He was clad in a tailored, slim-fit blazer of pristine white cotton of which its edges were embroidered with intricate gold patterns. A gleaming star-shaped lapel pin rested near his heart and half-palm gloves veiled his hands, leaving his melanated skin exposed only on his strikingly handsome face – hidden behind a veiled memory. The man was no stranger to Koshikawa – not at first. Beyond the glass the world unfolded in neat, horizontal lines. A manicured lawn bordered by a concrete patio, and in the distance, hills that rolled like ocean waves. Koshikawa Masafumi remembered he reached toward a rectangular device perched on the sofa of which its surface was as smooth as polished marble. A glowing dial caught his eye, the numbers shifting mechanically as he toiled to turn it. A nostalgic voice crackled through the air, disembodied and melodic, singing words in a familiar language. A soft and feminine voice hummed in peaceful synchronisation with the rhythmic tune of the song. It came from a yet another figure, feminine and beside him on the sofa, warm and gentle like a mother with its young. Nearby, a metallic arm extended from a wall-mounted contraption holding a lightbulb that glowed with steady, unnatural brightness, thus bringing a soft glow to the space. Everywhere there was a kind of symmetry, a balance that felt deliberate. Even the manly figure was dressed in crisp, tailored garments that clung to clean lines and subtle patterns. It felt like stepping into a dream, no– it was a memory. Not one of fantasy, but of possibility. Of alternative. Of actuality. A memory of Koshikawa Masafumi.
His eyes opened to the sight of a vast room filled with the rough-hewn imperfections of stone on which the candle-casted firelight danced on uneven walls. An ache throbbed violently in his chest, like a rampant beast in a perpetual frenzy, ravaging a small cell that barely contained it. A distant voice cried out in bitter panic – "Nils! Nils!"
A hole in his buttoned waistcoat, nearly four inches in diameter, exposed his pale skin to the blood that lay spilled on the floor - mimicking the unpleasant sensation of melted sugar glued to the skin.
"Nils...are you in good health..?" the voice beckoned for a response with a saddened tone, frail and shaken, as if on the verge of crying. In grief the voice continued, "I've healed you...please wake up... don't die...
The name "Nils" was foreign to Koshikawa Masafumi. He had no clue why this unfamiliar voice called out to him with that moniker — Nils Fehrenbach, an adolescent art student from the 'Reverend Garden' institution. That name had both familiarity and novelty to its character, like a paradoxical theorem – and Koshikawa Masafumi could not understand why he knew that information.
*plop*
What touched Koshikawa's face was a droplet and in its presence followed several more. Those were tears that gently cascaded onto his face like a nervous rain leaking the least bit of moisture from the clouds. The voice, clearly distinguishable as that of a young woman, broke - shuddering as she trembled over the words, "..I am at fault for this.., I never should have taught you spellcraft!"
Somehow those words reached Koshikawa with more context than even he could explain. Almost as if the knowledge was pre-prepared in his mind. He indeed had some memory of this. He was a young boy.. nineteen years of age..his name..Nils Fehrenbach...he was an addict of information, regarding knowledge superior to intelligence because he firmly believed that the access of information was knowledge itself. Koshikawa didn't understand how he could recall those past experiences, those fragmented memories. They were not his. He was in Japan what felt only like an instant prior, in a haste - crossing the roade and..—
Those bizarre memories were a vivid collection, but when puzzled together formed an incomplete set of a sharded memory. Nils Fehrenbach was murdered, the reasoning behind his death was... Opening his eyes, Koshikawa Masafumi was in a vast room, the walls decorated with floral motifs, celestine depictions of cherubic figures in angelic flight and western grandeur. Towering shelfs stood beside one another like mountains, hoarding hundreds of books stored in between the embrace of wooden planks. No more than five steps to his left stood a table in royal solitude, accompanied only by a seat of intricate serpentine carvings and velvet upholstery. A puddle of crimson-scarlet blood glimmered with a starry shine under the casted lamplight and released like a plague the smell of iron in which could be spotted by a keen nose the faint scent of tempura paint.
Gertrude Aurora Océane wept and her sobs broke the heavy silence of the grand library. Her legs curled back as she knelt to the polished floor, a bloodstained body she cradled in her gentle embrace. The room, with its towering shelves and gilded arches, exuded an almost poetic melancholy, as if depicted in a mournful painting. Her face was pale and her golden-blonde hair curled like wildvines in repetitive coils. Her golden-blonde hair cascaded in wild spirals that framed her pale face, which was streaked with tears. Each glistening trail betrayed her grief and her red-rimmed eyes she fixated on the figure in her embrace.
Koshikawa Masafumi's eyes fluttered open, his blurred gaze struggled to focus on the face before him as recognition flickered like a dim candlelight, revealing hidden knowledge from Nils' memories.
"...Ger...trude..?" His voice was fragile, a strained whisper.
Her breath hitched for but a brief moment. "Nils... forgive me," she murmured, her voice breaking under the weight of guilt. "Had I not taught you the arts of spellcraft…" The rest of her words faltered, retreating back into her throat where shame choked them to a steady halt.
Koshikawa furrowed his brows faintly. "...What... happened?"
"I found you here", Gertrude cried with a trembling voice. "A massive shard of spellglass was impaled through you. You were so cold, like a corpse... I thought I'd lost you." Her fingers clutched tightly onto his bloodstained cloak, as though anchoring herself to him.
"...Right... Wait, how did you know—"
"I found the letters," Gertrude cut in sharply. Her grief momentarily gave way to desperation. "Fourteen letters, Nils... Fourteen death threats! Why didn't you tell me?"
"...Letters?" The words swirled in his mind, stirring fragmented memories like fallen leaves in a storm. Images of ink-stained parchment and ominous warnings flashed vividly, reminding Koshikawa Masafumi of the choice Nils Fehrenbach, the true Nils Fehrenbach had made.
Without the intervention of the memories that ravaged through his mind Koshikawa Masafumi would not have had the slightest clue to whatsoever it were that his half-sister was referring to. But as it was, she referenced a sum of letters that Nils Fehrenbach anonymously received in which he was promised a certain death had he not immediately ceased all efforts to learn spellcraft. The novelty that however, was that Nils attended the esteemed institute of artistry, referenced by the moniker of Reverend Garden – whereas his half-sister Gertrude Aurora Océane attended the far more prestiged institution of spellcraft, Void Palace. The letters warned a member of the Fehrenbach lineage, via reference of the Fehrenbach name, to halt their pursuit in the arts of spellcraft hence they face death – which Nils recognized as a threat to his sister, the only member of the Fehrenbach lineage that preformed spellcraft. As his half-sister, conceived outside the vows of wedlock, she did not carry the Fehrenbach name — yet was referred to as such in the letter, confirming a growing suspicion in the true Nils Fehrenbach whom realized the enemy's ignorance — that the threat came from an individual that was unaware of his true target. He had bought a cheap wand, clumsy in his untrained hands and faked an interest in spellcraft. He had begged Gertrude for lessons, clinging to her reluctant instructions until he could mimic enough of her skill to draw the attention away from her.
Gertrude's voice rose in a mild anger, each word brimming with anguish. "You knew they were after me, didn't you? They called me by the Fehrenbach name, even though I never used it. They didn't know I existed....at least, not properly. And yet, you made yourself the target...
He swallowed hard with the truth pressing down on him like the weight of the heavens. "I couldn't let them hurt you," he rasped, his words faint but resolute. "You... you're the one who matters." Koshikawa felt as if those exact choice of words did the character of Nils Fehrenbach justice, whom had lovingly risked his life for his younger sister.
Her grip on him tightened. "Nils, no... You shouldn't have done this." Her voice cracked, heavy with both love and fury. "You're my brother—my only brother. How could you risk everything for me?"
A weak smile tugged at his lips, though a mild pain etched every feature of his face. "It's alright... you've saved me, I am in far greater conditions now"
Her tears fell anew, each contained her genuine sorrow and gratitude. The grandeur of the library stood witness to their shared pain, the tragedy of love expressed in sacrifice. And the envious Koshikawa could only wish that someone loved him in such a manner...