Siberia, Soviet Union – 1952
The wind howled like a starving wolf, tearing through the tattered coats of the men shuffling through the snow. Kaito Shirogane—no, here, he was "Prisoner 4419"—breathed in the frozen air, his lungs burning with every gasp. His hands, wrapped in rags, clutched a rusted pickaxe as he chipped away at the permafrost. The guards called this place "The White Hell."
And it was.
Three years.
Three years since they dragged him from his home in Vladivostok, accused of being a "capitalist spy" simply because his father had once traded with the Japanese. Three years of starvation, of watching men collapse in the snow and never rise again. Three years of learning that in the Gulag, a man was worth less than the bullets it would take to kill him.
Kaito's breath fogged in the air as he swung the pickaxe again. His muscles screamed, but he didn't stop. Stopping meant the guards would notice. Noticing meant punishment.
And punishment here was worse than death.
The Betrayal
"Shirogane."
The voice was a low growl, barely audible over the wind. Kaito turned, squinting through the snow. Ivan Petrov, a hulking Siberian with a face like a brick wall, stood behind him. Ivan was a blatny—a criminal who ruled the prisoners through fear.
"You're slow today," Ivan said, his yellowed teeth bared in something that wasn't a smile.
Kaito swallowed. "The ground is frozen."
Ivan's fist crashed into his ribs. Kaito crumpled, gasping, the taste of blood filling his mouth.
"Excuses are for weak men," Ivan spat. Then, louder, so the guards could hear:Â "This one is sabotaging the work!"
Kaito's blood turned to ice.
The Accusation
The guards came quickly, their boots crunching in the snow. Sergeant Vasily, a man with dead eyes and a mouth that never smiled, grabbed Kaito by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
"Sabotage?" Vasily repeated, his voice flat.
Ivan grinned. "He was talking about Japan. Said he missed it."
A lie. A death sentence.
Kaito opened his mouth to deny it—but Vasily's pistol was already against his temple.
The First Death
The gunshot was deafening.
For a single, infinite moment, Kaito felt the bullet tear through his skull. He saw flashes—his mother's face, the streets of Vladivostok, the sea he would never sail again.
Then—darkness.
The Aftermath
Kaito expected oblivion.
Instead, he woke up screaming.
Cold air rushed into his lungs. His hands flew to his head—no wound, no blood. He was alive.
But where?
The world around him was different. No snow. No Gulag. Just an endless field of gray mist, stretching into eternity.
And then—a voice.
"Kaito Shirogane."
The words slithered into his mind, ancient and cruel.
"You have been chosen. To return home, you must die 10,000 times."
Kaito's breath came in ragged gasps. "What…?"
"Each death will make you stronger. Each resurrection will bring you closer to the truth."
A laugh echoed around him—his own, hysterical.
"Then my first death was—"
"A bullet to the brain. A good start."
The mist swirled, forming shapes—a thousand different landscapes, a thousand different ways to die.
"Let us begin."
And then the world dissolved—and Kaito fell into his second life.
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The Second Death – "The Scandal of Buckingham Palace"
London, England – 1897
Kaito Shirogane's second life began with a scream—but not his own.
A shrill, aristocratic shriek split the air as he tumbled out of a linen closet, his arms tangled in something lacy, delicate, and very much not his.
"Oh, you bloody fiend!"
Kaito blinked. A red-faced maid stood before him, her fists clenched, her eyes wide with outrage. In his hands—a pair of frilly, silk undergarments, monogrammed with a regal "V.R."
Victoria Regina.
Queen Victoria's panties.
How Did This Happen?
Memories flooded Kaito's mind—this body's memories.
He was Reginald P. Winthrope III, a disgraced nobleman turned thief, hired by an anonymous collector to retrieve "a royal souvenir." But the moment he'd snatched the undergarments from the queen's private chambers, the palace guards had been alerted.
And now—
"THIEF!"Â the maid bellowed.
Boots thundered down the hall.
The Chase
Kaito bolted.
He sprinted through gilded corridors, past oil paintings of frowning monarchs, his heart pounding as shouts echoed behind him.
"Stop that man!"
"He's got Her Majesty's unmentionables!"
He vaulted over a startled footman, crashed through a servant's entrance, and burst into the courtyard—only to skid to a halt.
A dozen rifles pointed at his chest.
The Royal Guard had him surrounded.
The Trial (If You Could Call It That)
Kaito stood before a magistrate, still clutching the evidence of his crime. The courtroom was packed with scandalized nobles, all whispering behind their gloves.
"The audacity!"
"Hang the blackguard!"
The judge, a man with a wig so large it could house a family of squirrels, glared down at him.
"Reginald Winthrope, you stand accused of high treason, theft of royal property, and—most grievously—an affront to the dignity of the Crown."
Kaito opened his mouth to protest—
"The sentence is death by hanging."
The Execution
Dawn broke over Tyburn Gallows, where a jeering crowd had gathered to watch the "underwear bandit" meet his end.
Kaito's hands were bound as the noose settled around his neck. The executioner leaned in, his breath reeking of gin.
"Any last words, mate?"
Kaito sighed.
"I really wish I'd stolen a teacup instead."
The trapdoor opened.
Second Death: Hanged for Royal Larceny.
The Aftermath
Darkness. Then—
The void twisted, that same mocking voice slithering into his skull.
"A slight improvement. At least this time, you died for something memorable."
Kaito groaned. "You call this an improvement?!"
"Oh, absolutely. The first death was tragic. This one? Comedic. Variety is key."
The mist swirled again, forming new shapes—new worlds, new deaths.
"Shall we see what's next?"
Kaito barely had time to scream before he was ripped into his third life.