A small barbershop tucked in a quiet alley of the inner city.
There were no neon signs, no special promotions—just an old mirror, mismatched combs, and a creaky chair that groaned when leaned back on.
Yet the place was full every evening.
Not because of the skill.
But because of the barber—"Yao."
A thin young man who spoke little and asked even less.
Those who sat in his chair often felt like they'd laid something down without realizing it.
Sometimes it was a question.
Sometimes, it was the chaos in their hearts.
That evening was no different.
He swept hair in silence, eyes on the rain that had just stopped.
The air was damp. The scent of soil drifted into the shop.
It was the same scent he used to smell behind the library in the old part of town—back when he had the luxury of reading six hours a day.
He once wrote in his journal:
"Humans should live just enough that they can accept their death."
He wasn't sure if he'd done that yet.
But he didn't feel any regret.
A sharp scream rang out from the alley beside the shop.
He paused and turned slowly.
No one else in the shop looked up—no one stood.
Everyone was still buried in their phones.
Yao set the broom in a corner and walked out without a word.
Rain still clung to the tiles.
The narrow alley had no light.
Just two shadows—a man, and a schoolgirl being shoved against the wall.
"Don't hurt her,"
His voice was soft. Calm. Like someone giving directions.
The man turned to look at him.
There was something in his eyes—hesitation, fear, or maybe just confusion.
Then he lunged at Yao.
Yao didn't dodge.
Maybe because he thought he would.
Or maybe… he didn't see the point.
The knife stabbed straight into his left chest.
Deep enough to close the chapter of that day.
His body slumped against the wall.
The hand that once held a comb was now drenched in his own blood.
He was still breathing, but each breath grew shorter.
Yet his thoughts became clearer—as if a fogged glass had just been wiped clean.
"Death means nothing… unless we give meaning to what we do before it comes."
He didn't remember who wrote that.
But he read it on a day when the world felt unbearably heavy.
And now it felt so light, it might float away.
He saw the girl escaping into the darkness.
Her small figure ran from the shadows.
He didn't know her. She didn't know him.
But in that moment…
He was someone who "acted," instead of merely "existed."
No applause.
No spotlight.
Just the rain falling again.
And the void about to swallow him in silence.
---
"In the end… humans are but tiny dots in the tide of history."
His final thought echoed, even as his last breath faded in the old world—a world full of civilization, beliefs, and the endless pursuit of gain.
Yao… a man who never wished to stand above anyone, never desired power, never dreamt of being a hero. He only wished to understand the world and survive in his own way.
He passed quietly, just like the millions who die from ordinary accidents each day. No goodbyes. No heroics. Just gone.
But that peaceful silence after death didn't last long.
...
"Ugh…"
Pain… cold…
His body felt heavy as stone.
The faint scent of blood touched his nose.
As his eyes slowly opened, they revealed towering treetops above. The soft rustle of leaves in the wind told him he was in a forest.
He'd awakened in someone else's body… lying still on damp earth. Moonlight filtered through the foliage, falling upon a bruised, wounded chest.
"This is…" Yao murmured, his voice raspy—as if it wasn't his own.
His heart beat slowly, but steadily. Even in a body that had nearly died.
Then… images began to flood into his mind.
A hand offering a handkerchief to a golden-haired girl in a grand hall.
Her sad smile when he gave her sweets.
The laughter of a younger brother in the garden.
Practicing aim with a wooden dummy in the training yard.
And his last words—"You must escape. Don't worry about me."
"…Ethan."
A name that wasn't his—yet echoed in his soul.
He didn't know how he ended up in this body.
Only that the young man named Ethan must have willingly died to protect someone… especially her—Amalia Thorn.
…
Yao forced his wounded body through the underbrush, until he came upon a small stream in the forest.
He collapsed by its bank, slowly drinking the ice-cold water and washing the dried blood from his lips.
A young man's face—around seventeen—reflected in the water under the moonlight.
He was no longer Yao. Not fully Ethan either… but something in between.
Footsteps… from the north.
"This way! Hurry!" A girl's voice—Amalia's voice.
"My lady, watch out!" a servant shouted, as shadows darted past trees.
Yao furrowed his brows. His sharp eyes scanned through the leaves, spotting a group running in fear.
He recognized them.
The people Ethan had once protected.
"How ironic…" he muttered in the dark.
"…this world wakes me in the body of someone who died for them?"
He lightly touched his face.
"So what now? Pretend to be Ethan? Risk my life for people I don't know?"
He squinted toward Amalia—the girl crying beside the stream.
Dirty, injured, yet still trying to smile for others.
"If I help them… what do I get?
They'll probably just run and drag me down with them… or betray me."
Yao had been just a simple barber in his old world.
But in his free time, he was far from ordinary—books on human psychology, warfare tactics, persuasion, deception, and undetectable killing had all passed before his eyes…
His gaze hardened.
Even if he couldn't recall every page, the essence was engraved in him.
He had never wanted to use that knowledge.
But if this world insisted on dragging him into someone else's war...
He would not die a second time without understanding why.
The wind stirred.
The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder.
Yao took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs, and slowly rose to his feet.
The pain flared in his chest—but he endured it.
Somewhere between a dead barber and a fallen soldier, something new had awakened.
He stepped out from the bushes—into the moonlight, into the eyes of the girl who had once been saved.
Amalia's eyes widened.
"…Ethan…?"
Yao didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he simply said,
"We don't have much time. If you want to live—follow me."
No longer just a shadow.
No longer just a memory.
But a man reborn—in a world that wasn't his.