The void stretched endlessly, consuming every particle of light. Ya Shun stood suspended in the abyss, his body weightless and his mind a battlefield of existential dread. Spirals of shimmering symbols encircled him, their meanings tantalizingly just out of reach.
A booming voice shattered the silence:
"What are you, mortal? A fragment? A shadow? Or merely a fleeting whisper in the grand void?"
The spirals twisted violently, forming an enormous hand made of infinite zeros, each digit pulsating with terrifying energy.
"What if your God is nothing more than a traveler of dimensions, a scientist dispassionately documenting experiments?"
The hand shot forward, gripping Shun by the chest. His screams echoed as his form dissolved into countless fragments. With each disintegration and reformation, he felt the crushing weight of mortality, divinity, and infinite time.
Shun jolted awake, drenched in sweat. His heart thudded painfully as he gasped for air, clutching his chest. The sunlight streaming through the window felt harsh, unnatural.
He muttered bitterly, "These damn dreams again. God this, God that… why can't I just dream of a cute girl like a normal guy?"
Rolling out of bed, he glanced at the calendar on his desk. The date stood out like a warning: the first day of his transfer to a new high school.
"Great," he grumbled, dragging himself to the mirror. As he buttoned his uniform, he sighed at his reflection. "Dear God—or whoever's out there—if You're listening, how about cutting me some slack? Maybe throw a girlfriend my way? My little brother already has one, and I've got nothing."
His plea hung unanswered in the silence.
On the way to school, Shun's attention was drawn to an unusual commotion near the town square. A crowd had gathered, their hushed whispers creating an undercurrent of unease.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed his way through the throng. At the center of the square was a group of dancers, their movements slow and hypnotic. They wore terrifying masks: grotesque faces with sharp teeth, hollow eyes, and twisted expressions that seemed to shift when not being watched.
An old man standing beside Shun leaned in, his voice grave. "This is the Festival of the Ten Masks. You're lucky—or cursed—to witness it. It hasn't been performed in over a hundred years."
Shun raised an eyebrow. "What's so special about it?"
The old man pointed at the dancers. "Each mask represents a karmic force—betrayal, greed, vengeance, redemption. They say the masks choose a soul every century, binding it to its unresolved debts."
Shun scoffed. "Sounds like some fairy tale. What's next, they chase people down?"
The old man's expression darkened. "Never mock the masks, boy. Pointing at one invites it into your soul."
With a smirk, Shun stretched out his hand and pointed at the red-eyed mask.
"What's the worst that could happen?" he said mockingly.
The old man gasped, grabbing his arm. "You fool! Do you know what you've done? The Red Eye is the Mask of Retribution!"
Before Shun could respond, a sudden ringing filled his ears. His vision blurred, the world spinning violently as the sound of bells grew louder and louder.
When Shun regained consciousness, he found himself hanging from a tree by a noose. The rope dug painfully into his neck, and he kicked desperately, the branches creaking under his weight.
With a surge of adrenaline, he managed to claw at the noose, loosening it enough to fall to the ground with a heavy thud. He gasped for air, coughing violently as he tried to comprehend what had happened.
The forest around him was dark and oppressive, the gnarled trees casting shadows that seemed to move on their own. Stumbling to a nearby stream, he knelt to splash water on his face.
That's when he saw it.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his own. Instead, it was the face of a rugged man in his late twenties, with a scruffy beard and hollow eyes.
"What the hell?" Shun whispered, touching his face in disbelief.
As panic set in, a flood of memories surged into his mind—memories that weren't his. He saw flashes of a quiet village, a humble woodcutter's life, and the betrayal of a man he thought was a friend.
The memories belonged to Zhong Zhiqiang, a woodcutter who lived on the outskirts of a remote village. His life had been simple, his only joy his wife, Mei. They had been married for six years and lived a modest but content life.
But everything unraveled when Mei began a secret relationship with a traveling priest from a powerful religious sect. The priest, a man of influence and charm, had taken advantage of Mei's loneliness and Zhong's long absences due to his work in the forest.
When Zhong discovered the affair, he confronted the priest. The priest, fearing exposure, drugged Zhong and hung him from a tree in the forest, framing it as a suicide.
Zhong's final memories were filled with despair, betrayal, and anger—not only toward the priest but also toward Mei. And now, Shun found himself in his body, reliving the pain of that betrayal.
"That bastard priest… and his wife," Shun muttered, his fists clenching. "They killed him. They betrayed him."
When Shun stumbled into the village, the reaction was immediate. People froze in shock, their faces pale with fear.
"It's him!" someone whispered. "Zhong Zhiqiang… he's alive!"
The crowd parted as the village elder, an imposing woman with a staff of carved bone, approached. Her sharp eyes bore into Shun, scrutinizing every inch of him.
"Zhong Zhiqiang," she said, her voice steady but cold. "We saw your body hanging in the forest three days ago. How do you stand before us now?"
Shun hesitated, unsure of what to say. "I… I don't know," he stammered. "I just woke up. That's all I remember."
The elder studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Your body was dead, but your soul has returned. This is no ordinary resurrection. The Mark of the Masks is upon you."
That night, the elder summoned Shun to her hut. The air was thick with incense, the walls lined with strange talismans and relics.
She placed a cloth-wrapped object before him and unwrapped it to reveal the red-eyed mask. Its glowing gaze seemed to pierce through his very soul.
"This mask has claimed you," she said. "It is the Mask of Retribution, the most fearsome of the ten. It binds you to the karmic debts of your past lives—and the betrayal that ended Zhong's life."
Shun recoiled. "I don't want it. Take it back."
"You have no choice," the elder said firmly. "The mask is both your curse and your weapon. If you wish to survive and uncover the truth, you must accept it."
Reluctantly, Shun reached out and took the mask. The moment his fingers touched it, a searing pain shot through his mind.
Visions of other lives flooded his consciousness—lives filled with betrayal, greed, and vengeance. He saw himself as a soldier, a thief, a noble, and a beggar, each meeting a tragic end.
When the pain subsided, Shun was left trembling.
"What was that?" he asked weakly.
"The weight of your karma," the elder replied. "To free yourself, you must confront the sins of your past lives and the treachery of the priest who ended Zhong's."
As Shun sat alone in the forest that night, the red-eyed mask resting in his lap, he felt a storm of emotions—anger, fear, and determination.
"If this is my punishment, then so be it," he muttered. "But I'm not going to just sit here and take it. That priest… he's going to pay for what he did. And so will Mei."
With trembling hands, he placed the mask over his face. The world around him shifted, the air growing heavy with an otherworldly presence.
The sound of bells echoed once more, and a voice—deep and menacing—whispered in his mind:
"The path to redemption is paved with blood and truth. Do you have the strength to walk it?"
Shun's eyes burned with resolve. "I'll do whatever it takes."
And so, his journey began—a journey to uncover the truth, confront the priest who betrayed Zhong, and unravel the mysteries of the masks that now governed his fate.