A flash of light flickered.

The darkness was not total. Thin, flickering rays, torn by smoke, licked the uneven floor tiles. The air was damp, laden with a rancid smell, a mixture of sweat, mould and old dried blood. In this acrid atmosphere floated a heavy silence, barely disturbed by a distant metallic clatter.

Aranobu opened his eyes, but what he saw did not correspond to any coherent memory. A dull pain invaded his skull. He tried to move, and the cold sensation that gripped his wrists was the first thing he clearly understood: shackles. Heavy irons tightened around his bones. He tried to speak, but his throat made a hoarse, foreign sound, as if his own voice had broken during a long absence.

What... where am I?' he thought, his mind still numb. His calloused fingers, thicker than before, brushed the ground. He realised he was lying on his side, in a worn canvas shirt, barefoot, at the back of a cell. To his right, a stone wall oozed icy water; to his left, a wall of rusty bars, a dark corridor and beyond that... nothingness.

He was emerging from a nightmare. But it wasn't the first time he'd woken up confused. Yet on this day, something was different, fundamentally different. This body, it's not... mine. His hands, larger, rougher. His legs, shorter, more muscular, riddled with scars he didn't recognise. He ran his tongue over his teeth and found that they were misaligned, thicker, and that his jaw was more angular. A feeling of terror washed over him, like an icy wave.

He thought of his name: Aranobu. He tried to remember his face, the delicate features inherited from his noble mother. But when he felt his chin, he found a thick, irregular beard and parchment-like skin. This provoked a silent panic in him. Had he been drugged? Had he suddenly aged? No, it made no sense. His memories, though hazy, spoke of a noble youth, of elegance, of learning martial arts in a spacious home. He was a young man with a bright future, not... not this condemned man.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor snapped him out of his confusion. There was a clatter of keys, then a brighter flash of light as a torch appeared between the bars. A massive figure in reinforced leather armour leaned over, his face eaten away by the shadows:

'Get up, you carrion. Time for your ration.'

Aranobu tried to speak, but only managed a grunt. The guard chuckled, a hoarse sound that echoed against the stone walls. His face was revealed briefly: a man with a broken nose, a scarred cheekbone, a blindfold over his left eye, holding a sharp pike in his hand.

'You seem to have hit your head harder than usual, Senzaki. Too bad, you're going to give us a hard time again, aren't you? Never mind, you're sentenced to death anyway.'

Senzaki? The name resonated in Aranobu's head. It wasn't his. Still, that was what the guard called him. As if he were that Senzaki. The irony struck Aranobu like an invisible punch: The criminal Senzaki, this trafficker they were talking about? The one who had been sentenced to death not long ago... How did he know this? Snatches of rumors, confused memories, mingled with his own memories.

The guard slipped a bowl of grayish oatmeal between the bars, his eyes filled with contempt. "Eat or die, it's the same. You still have a few days before the execution. Then he left, his boots clattering on the stone, leaving Aranobu alone with the bowl and the silence.

The revelation sent shivers down his spine: "Am I in the body of Senzaki, this criminal?" How is that possible? He tried to straighten up, on one elbow, and then to sit down, despite his irons. The cell was tiny, a real stone tomb. The water was oozing, forming a muddy puddle under his feet. The walls seemed to close in on him, like the jaws of a hungry animal.

Remember, Aranobu, remember... Confused images came back to him: a night before, a face – his own, but with a cruel smile. A transaction, a strange haze, hallucinogenic herbs. Senzaki... This trafficker was known for his methods, his drug potions, and his involvement in macabre rites. The protagonist gagged. He stole my life. He didn't know how, or why, but the intuition was too strong. Senzaki had taken his body, and left him, Aranobu, in that coarse body, that doomed body.

His eyes mist. The injustice was unheard of. He still held vaguely to honor, to decency, to the order of the world. But this world had collapsed. He had become a nameless prisoner, the bearer of an identity he hated. If I don't do anything, I'm going to die in his place. The idea of execution froze him. Should he cry out the truth? No one would believe it. One would take him for a madman, for a liar seeking to escape the gallows.

His stomach contracted, and he swallowed a spoonful of cold, tasteless porridge. The taste was bitter, earthy, like the ground under his knees. A noise in the corridor caught his attention again. A faint moan, then the faint rattle of a chain. He approached the bars to try to see something. The guard's torch had gone out, or he was gone, only the murky darkness remained.

Suddenly, a faintly audible voice in the next cell on the left: "Hey... Senzaki, right? Aranobu remained silent. The voice insisted, a hoarse whisper: "You don't answer? You're too proud, right? The interlocutor had a deep, broken voice, as if he had smoked ten pipes too many. The protagonist hesitated. Should he answer, play the role of Senzaki, or try to deny it? What would be the point of talking about it?

Finally, he made a hoarse sound: "Who..." is there? »

The neighbor let out a sinister little laugh: "Why this strange voice? Have you been beaten up or what? It's not in your habits. Aranobu felt his heart beating faster. So Senzaki had a well-established reputation here. It was better to feign confusion.

"I hit my head. Leave me. He tried to give his words a gruff tone. Fear was mixed with the need to adapt.

The neighbor left a moment of silence, then continued: "Hit your head all you want, you're done. The Director has planned to put you through the blade in a few days, it's on everyone's lips. A squeaky laugh rose from the cell, followed by a coughing fit. "But until then, have fun with the clandestine fights. Without your usual agility, you're going to get eaten. »

Clandestine fighting? Aranobu gritted his teeth. He had to understand the organization of this prison. Obviously, some inmates were forced to confront each other, for the sadistic pleasure of the guards, or the director. So that's how they have fun here. A macabre thought: if he were forced to fight, in this unknown body, with reflexes that were not his own, he could lose his skin even before the execution.

"Calm down," he said to himself. Don't panic. Observe, listen, learn. There was no obvious escape, no ally, no plan. But he had to design one. If he wanted to survive, proving his identity might not have been the priority. First of all, it was necessary to avoid dying, to understand the weaknesses of this jail, and to try to escape. Once outside, he could hunt down Senzaki and get his real body back.

The neighbor continued, his voice lower, like a sneaky snake: "You know, Senzaki, I didn't like your face, but I have to admit that you surprised us all with your little tricks. No one knows how you escaped the guards last time. Too bad they caught you. You look more lost than a rat in an oil bath. He began to sneer, a sound that sent a shiver down Aranobu's spine.

Last time? So Senzaki had already tried to escape, failed, and then been brought back here. Things were getting more complex. The protagonist tried to pick up more information, but a thud rang out. A guard returned, slow steps echoing on the pavement. The neighbor was immediately silent, fear or prudence having reduced him to silence.

Aranobu cowered by the bars, hesitating between hiding in the shadows and feigning indifference. The guard appeared, this time holding a lantern, more stable than the torch. He glanced briefly, his eyes shining with a sparkle of mischief.

"Senzaki, are you awake now? Good thing, the Director wants to make sure you'll be fit for the show. Tomorrow, you enter the arena. The arena? The mere mention of this made Aranobu's stomach twist. He clenched his fists. The guard continued, "Try not to die first. We want to see you bleed on the sand, not here, like a dog. »

Without waiting for an answer, the man left, his lantern arcing in the darkness.

A long silence followed. I have to organize my thoughts. He closed his eyes, took a long breath, trying to ignore the swarming of insects that glided on the stone. He tried to gather his memories from before this nightmare: his name was Aranobu, he came from a noble family in a distant province. He had been educated in the art of the sword, not for war, but for discipline and honor. He had a thin face, silky hair, delicate hands. He was appreciated and respected, at least in his circle. Then came the time to go to the big city, to distinguish himself. He remembered a festival night, colorful lanterns on a bridge, meeting a stranger with a troubled smile, Senzaki. Then, a black hole, a malaise, a poisoning perhaps. And the revival here.

He stole my body. He must take advantage of my privileges, my position, perhaps approach influential people, while I languish in his skin, dirty and worn. No, I can't accept that. A dull rage simmered in him.

Aranobu examined his bonds. Steel bracelets connected to a chain attached to the wall. There was a bit of play. But probably not enough to get rid of it easily. His cell was closed by a barred door and a strong bolt. He had no weapon, only an empty bowl now. Fatigue overcame him, despite the tension. He leaned against the wall, feeling the wetness penetrate his back.

How long did he stay like this, in the half-light, half awake, haunted by the situation? He did not know it. The sounds of the prison were repetitive: sometimes a distant scream, sometimes a rattling chain, sometimes someone's snoring. The place seemed vast, filled with tormented souls, but he only had one piece of this puzzle. He didn't dare call for help. No one would come. In addition, the neighbor no longer expressed himself, cautious.

When at last the fatigue gave way a little, he noticed a faint gray glow piercing somewhere in the distance, perhaps daylight. Further down the hall, there was an opening to an inner courtyard, he suspected. If there was a courtyard, there was perhaps an opportunity to observe the place, to understand its layout.

He waited, patiently, looking for a plan, even a fragmentary one. First, play the game, survive the arena. Then, gaining someone's trust, finding weaknesses in this prison. Finally, to escape, and to hunt down this monster that struts around in my body. Just imagining Senzaki playing the role of Aranobu, smiling at people he knew, made him nauseous. He gritted his teeth.

Time passed. A dull noise may have signaled the arrival of morning. A guard banged on a distant gong, or on a pot, a hollow, metallic sound that vibrated for a long time in the corridors. This was undoubtedly the signal for a general awakening. The prisoners had to get up, prepare for some kind of chore.

A voice mocked in the distance: "Stand up, vermin! We don't lazy here! The sound echoed, accompanied by grunts and resigned sighs. Soon Aranobu heard more footsteps, chains drawn, bolts operated. Groups of prisoners, no doubt, came out of their cells for forced labor or the distribution of meagre rations.

The guard with the blindfold over his eye passed Aranobu's cell, a key in his hand, a smirk: "Come on, stand up, Senzaki. The Director wants to make sure you're still good for the arena. Get out, slowly, no bad moves. He opened the door with a squeak that pinched Aranobu's nerves. Two other guards appeared behind him, spears in hand. The protagonist stood up, slowly, his wrists still tied, forced to follow the movement.

He walked down the corridor, barefoot on the icy stone. To the right and to the left, similar cells, exhausted silhouettes, empty or hateful looks. The neighbor of the night was not visible, hidden by the darkness. Aranobu was pushed into a large, damp room, where a line of prisoners was waiting, obediently or not, to receive a piece of bread or a cold soup.

Aranobu realized that he had to observe, to learn. The prisoners bore distinctive marks, some a tattoo, others the scars of beatings. The guards were armed, equipped with leather and iron, and seemed organized. The Director, as the name often came up in whispers, was probably an important, cruel figure. If he ran this place, he must have been formidable.

The protagonist noticed a woman with short black hair and an emaciated face distributing a few leaves of medicinal herbs to a wounded prisoner, under the suspicious eye of a guard. Should he speak to her? Later, perhaps, when the opportunity arises. For now, if he dares to open his mouth, he could attract the attention of an evil eye.

The line was moving forward. Aranobu was handed a bowl of murky water and a piece of stale bread. He accepted it without a word, trying to give the impression of being Senzaki, a shameless criminal. But how did Senzaki usually behave? He didn't know it. One wrong word, one unusual behavior, and he'd be unmasked — or at least, the guards would be suspicious. They wouldn't believe in the exchange of bodies, but they could think of a frame-up, a madness. That would be enough to put him in an even worse situation.

In the hubbub of the room, Aranobu heard a few snippets of conversation:

« … The arena is going to be bloody today, there is a new batch of victims... »« … the Director wants to impress a visitor, it seems... »« … Your as vu Senzaki? Il a l'air bizarre ce matin... »

He pretended not to have heard anything, but squeezed the piece of bread until it broke into crumbs in his hand. Thus, he was already being observed. It was better to feign a headache or an injury.

The guards then pushed the prisoners to an inner courtyard, an open space surrounded by high walls. The sky was grey, hopeless, and cold air was blowing. Here and there, empty barrels, tools, a dirty water point. Groups of prisoners carried out chores: digging earth, moving stones, cleaning the edges of a stagnant basin. Everything was designed to humiliate, to break the spirit.

Aranobu could feel the guard's gaze on him. The latter seemed amused, curious about the change in "Senzaki's" attitude. The protagonist remained silent, trying to appear weary, indifferent. This could save him time.

He then noticed, near a pile of stones, a tattooed colossus: a massive, muscular, square-faced man, busy lifting a block of rock. His eyes met Aranobu's for a moment. A sort of sadness, or infinite resignation, passed through his eyes before he turned his head away. Ishimura Daigo, no doubt, whose name had been whispered. A pillar of this prison, it is said, a man who had tried to rebel in the past. He was said to be incorruptible, but that did not prevent his fall.

Aranobu told himself that he should learn who is who, make connections, but discreetly. He could not afford to act impatiently. Time was a double-edged sword: did it bring execution closer, or did it offer an opportunity?

A sudden cry interrupted his thoughts. A puny prisoner had just slipped while carrying a bucket of water, spilling its contents on a guard's boots. The guard, furious, struck him violently with the handle of his spear. The unfortunate man collapsed, moaning, while other prisoners looked away. Humanity was dead here, or at least reduced to nothing. Aranobu felt his anger rise, but he swallowed it. To protest would be to be noticed, and he had neither the strength nor the plan to survive a direct confrontation.

The sky remained grey and silent. The walls of the prison were high, of stone, without embellishments, impregnable at first glance. Guards patrolled a walkway at the top of the wall. No easy escape. He imagined a network of underground passages, or a fault somewhere, but it was only conjecture. He should gain the trust of someone who knew the place, or find clues.

The morning passed like this, punctuated by barking orders, blows, sighs. Aranobu was sweating profusely, handling rocks and dirty water, feeling every muscle of the body he inhabited protest. This body was solid, but clumsy, it did not respond like his own. He needs training, to relearn his movements. If I'm going to fight tomorrow in the arena, I have to at least know how to use my arms and legs. A new tension set in.

At midday, a second frugal meal was served. Aranobu ate silently, surveying the surroundings. He spotted the healer (Shinoda Akemi, he thought), kneeling next to a wounded prisoner, pretending to clean a wound with a handful of leaves. The guard let it happen, distracted, perhaps because she was known to soothe pain, thus avoiding riots. It could be an asset. But how can we approach it without arousing suspicion?

Later, some of the prisoners, including Aranobu, were rounded up and taken back through the maze of corridors to their cells. The protagonist felt an infinite weariness weigh on him. The day was not over, but already there was a lack of air.

At the bend of a corridor, another group of prisoners came out, some with empty eyes, others with evasive eyes. One of them, a young man barely out of his teens, with a gentle face, stared at him for a moment. Aranobu read in those eyes an extinct innocence, a bottomless despair. What does a kid do here?

At that moment, the blindfolded guard stopped, and looked at Aranobu, "Tonight, the Director wants to review the fighters in the arena. Don't be late, Senzaki. »

The threat was clear. Aranobu nodded with a grunt. One more step in the spiral of destiny. Now he knew the name of the chapter that was opening before his eyes. The arena would be a cruel test, a staging of his suffering. But if he survived, perhaps he would gain a reprieve, a chance to discover a flaw.

He was taken back to his cell, the door was closed. Evening was approaching. Aranobu examined his ties once more, weighed his chances. The day had allowed him to understand the rigour of the system. He had to be patient, play the game of silence and adaptation, until the right time.

Night fell, without mercy, enveloping the prison in its mute darkness. Aranobu closed his eyes, his back against the cold wall, questions in his head, a new determination in his heart. I will survive, I will find my body, and I will make Senzaki pay. He didn't steal my life with impunity.