Chapter 2: Fragments of a Forgotten Life

Tenseigan had drained him more than he expected.

His head was clouded, a thick fog settling over his thoughts, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead. Each step was a struggle, his body moving with an unnatural heaviness as if the weight of his own flesh was too much to bear. He'd overexerted himself, and now the consequences were catching up to him.

I need to rest... The thought barely registered before his body demanded it. He swayed slightly as he made his way toward the bed, the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Before he could even manage to pull the covers over himself, his eyes fluttered shut, and the darkness claimed him, pulling him under with a sense of inevitability.

---

The room was pervaded by an almost uncanny chill, incongruent with the luminous day visible beyond the window. A man sat motionless on a well-worn wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the email glaring back at him. The words, though sparse and clinically formal, reverberated with profound finality:

"With great regret, we must terminate your employment contract effective immediately."

He had anticipated this. The signs had been unmistakable—years of economic strain exacerbated by the pandemic, punctuated by salary reductions, project stagnation, and an inevitable tide of layoffs. Still, the confirmation struck with an intensity for which no foresight could fully prepare him.

It wasn't merely the loss of his job that unsettled him but the weight of looming uncertainty. How will I survive? he wondered, the sharp bite of his teeth against his lower lip grounding him momentarily.

He closed his laptop with deliberate slowness and leaned back into his chair, his gaze drifting toward the narrow window of his cramped apartment. From his vantage point on the second floor, the street below appeared deceptively vibrant. People moved with purpose, their lives seemingly untouched by upheaval, as though the world had retained its equilibrium.

But he knew better. The pandemic had fractured the world's foundations, leaving deep, enduring fissures. Life had become a precarious balancing act, with fortune favoring an increasingly select few.

Fortune... The word lingered in his thoughts. He had ruminated on it often, particularly in recent weeks. The capriciousness of life seemed governed less by merit than by the arbitrary roll of fate's dice.

He recalled a conversation with a friend—a highly educated man whose credentials should have guaranteed professional success. Instead, he had resorted to working as a food delivery driver to make ends meet. "Life is a dice roll," his friend had remarked over lukewarm coffee in a modest café. "Some people are born rolling a six, while others keep rolling ones and falling deeper."

He had no grounds to disagree. To him, life's inherent inequities were self-evident. One's birth—its location, circumstances, and attendant privileges—seemed to determine the contours of one's existence. These immutable factors dictated who would thrive and who would struggle merely to persist.

Though he was not born into destitution, he was no stranger to hardship. His childhood in a modest household had been defined by relentless striving. Education, though ostensibly his ticket out, had demanded sacrifices few around him could comprehend. Even now, with a degree in hand, he found himself on unsteady ground.

He murmured aloud, "At least I'm healthy and whole." It was his mother's voice he channeled—her enduring mantra of gratitude. Despite life's hardships, she had insisted on appreciating its smallest mercies. Yet even her wisdom felt insufficient. Gratitude, however noble, could not pay the rent or fill an empty stomach.

His eyes landed on a dusty stack of books in the corner. Reading had once been his refuge, but now his mind was too clouded with anxieties to find solace in their pages. He looked out again, this time noticing a child darting down the sidewalk, laughter trailing behind as a red balloon bobbed in the air. The simplicity of their joy was both poignant and alien.

"If only life could be that simple," he muttered, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. Yet he knew such freedom was illusory. For most, life was a series of unrelenting hardships, made only more acute in the pandemic's aftermath.

The child's laughter triggered a cascade of memories. He thought of his mother, a devout Christian who spent countless hours in prayer before a corner altar adorned with crosses and the faint glow of candlelight. Her faith was unwavering, her conviction that "God always has a plan" immutable.

As a child, he had grappled with her teachings, struggling to reconcile the notion of divine love with the stark realities of suffering. If God's justice was perfect, why were some born to privilege while others endured destitution? Why did illness ravage the innocent?

His questioning reached a crescendo during adolescence, when he confronted a church pastor after a sermon extolling divine justice. "If God is just," he asked, "why are some born rich and others poor? Why are some healthy and others sick? Is that justice?"

The pastor's response, though delivered with patience, offered no satisfaction: "God works in mysterious ways, child. His wisdom is beyond our understanding."

The answer solidified his skepticism. To him, these platitudes masked a deeper inability—or unwillingness—to confront the contradictions within faith. Disillusioned, he drifted from organized religion, not out of hostility but from an intellectual impasse.

His doubts deepened as he delved into religious history. The Crusades, the Inquisition, the sale of indulgences—all revealed the ways faith had been manipulated to consolidate power and perpetuate inequality. Even the concept of redemption troubled him. If salvation was accessible to the repentant sinner, what solace existed for the victims left behind?

The world's injustices pressed upon him relentlessly. He thought of the countless atrocities he had read about—children scarred by war, women brutalized, families torn apart by famine or displacement. If divine forgiveness absolved perpetrators, where was the justice for those who suffered?

Despite his doubts, he could not entirely discard the idea of a higher power. To him, some force beyond human comprehension likely governed existence. Yet religion, with its rituals and dogmas, no longer provided comfort.

Instead, he clung to the possibility of justice in a realm beyond this one. Perhaps fairness was not of this world, but of another—a domain where each soul received its due. Without such hope, life seemed little more than a Sisyphean trial, devoid of ultimate meaning.

And so, he concluded that justice, in its truest form, might lie beyond the mortal plane. Here, on Earth, life remained an uneven game of chance—a merciless crucible for the less fortunate. For them, existence often resembled a kind of purgatory, a struggle without clear resolution.

---

"Hey!"

He turned, squinting against the harsh sunlight. A little girl stood in front of him, no more than five or six. Her cherubic face glowed in the warmth of the afternoon, soft and innocent.

She was small—probably just three feet tall—and her delicate frame made her look fragile, like a flower still learning to bloom. Her hair was a soft brown, unevenly cut with bangs that framed her round face, stray locks falling around her ears. She wore a simple yellow dress with tiny pink flowers on the hem and oversized sandals that tripped her up as she took an unsteady step.

Her energy was contagious, as if she'd never known stillness. She was a burst of life, untainted by the weight of the world.

"Hi! You look like you're thinking real hard!"

Her voice had a cheerful, innocent lilt to it, the kind that made you forget everything else. Her curiosity was so pure, so unguarded, and for a moment, he forgot about the world around him.

He blinked, unsure how to answer. Her presence, so small and carefree, caught him off guard. 

"Ah... just thinking about life," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if speaking to her was some sort of release.

She tilted her head, a curious frown crossing her face.

"Life? What's that? Can you eat it?"

Her laughter bubbled up, light and carefree, making something in his chest tighten. It was the kind of innocent joy that made him feel like he was hearing something he hadn't heard in years. Something simple, pure.

"No, no. You can't eat it," he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"But you can enjoy it, if you're lucky."

She didn't seem to fully understand, but it didn't matter. Her eyes sparkled with something deeper—a sense of wonder, as if everything in the world was new and full of possibility.

"Yeah," he added with a gentle grin,

"You can play with it. And sometimes... sometimes life plays with you."

Her smile grew wider, as bright and wide as the sun, and it hit him like a wave. For a second, everything felt right in the world again.

"I like life," she said, her face lighting up.

"And I like my mommy too! She's the best!"

The certainty in her voice, the unshakable belief that the world was full of goodness, made his chest ache in a way he couldn't explain. The pure joy radiating from her was enough to make him forget, if only for a moment, how heavy the world had become.

She looked over her shoulder, her face lighting up even more.

"There's my mommy!" she shouted, as though she hadn't seen her in days, even though the woman was standing just a few feet away.

The woman, standing a few feet away, returned the wave with a warm smile.

"She's the best mommy ever," the girl declared. "She always reads me stories before bed—two stories! Isn't that great?"

He chuckled. "She sounds pretty awesome."

"She is," the girl said with conviction. "But she's scared of spiders, so I'm the boss when those show up."

"I'm sure you are," he replied, his heart unexpectedly lighter.

"Bye, bye...mister! I'll see you again!"

He smiled back, warmth spreading through his chest as he watched her go. There was something about her innocence, her hope, that soothed a deep ache he hadn't known was there.

But just as she spun to run, something in the air shifted. A shrill, high-pitched screech cut through the moment—tires screeching, metal scraping against asphalt.

His heart stopped.

A truck—out of control—was heading straight for her. Too fast, too close. His mind barely had time to register it.

Instinct took over. He ran, his legs burning with effort as his body moved before his mind could catch up.

"Move!" he shouted, but it was already too late.

With all his strength, he shoved her away, his hands colliding with her small frame. She tumbled onto the grass, rolling out of the truck's path. Everything slowed, and he could see it all unfold in agonizing detail.

The truck kept coming. It was too fast, too close.

The impact came with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded through his body—blinding, searing pain that felt like every bone in his body shattered at once. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The world around him spun into darkness.

And then, nothing. 

---

In that darkness, he felt something—a presence, not quite a voice but a vibration, a force that hummed with an energy so powerful it made his very soul shudder. It was not empty. It was a deep, suffocating *presence*, heavy with weight and meaning.

A figure appeared before him. Not a human figure, but something so vast, so full of light, he couldn't comprehend it. The light was so intense it threatened to consume him, and yet he couldn't look away, even as it seared his senses.

The figure radiated a brilliance like the sun itself. Each contour of its being blazed with an unearthly glow. It was taller than any man he had ever seen. A presence so overwhelming it felt like the very fabric of reality bent around it.

He tried to make sense of it, but his mind faltered. His eyes burned from the light, unable to fully meet the figure's form. It was as if the figure was beyond his perception—*too pure* to be understood by human senses.

And then, the voice.

It wasn't a voice at all. It was more like the very essence of sound, vibrating in his chest, filling the space around him. It hummed with a power that shook him to the core. It was ancient, timeless, and yet somehow filled with compassion.

He wanted to ask who it was, to beg for answers. But no words came. Only the weight of the presence pressed upon him. For a moment, he understood—understood that this was beyond him, beyond anything he could control.

The figure spoke, but the words were lost. They slipped through his mind like water through his fingers, just out of reach. He could feel the intent, the weight of what was being said, but the meaning was just beyond his grasp.

It was too much.

The pain in his head returned—sharp and agonizing. Each attempt to remember only caused more disarray. His thoughts were torn apart. He tried so desperately to hold on, but the more he reached, the more it all slipped away.

The radiance dimmed. The figure faded. The pain worsened. He reached out, but there was nothing to grasp.

And then, the light, the figure, the voice—it vanished, and with it, a piece of himself.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

---

He jerked awake with a violent gasp, trembling as if he had been holding his breath too long. His skin was cold, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he felt suspended between two worlds.

What had just happened?

Images—a flash of light, the overwhelming figure, the power—flashed through his mind. But like smoke, it all slipped away. He tried to hold on, but the memory was fading too quickly.

His forehead was slick with sweat, his breathing shallow as he tried to steady himself. His hands pressed against the cold surface beneath him, grounding himself in the here and now.

*Who was that?* The figure. The being. The *god*?

It felt like a dream, just out of reach. A memory half-remembered. A dream that lingered at the edges of his mind.

The pain in his head throbbed—a dull ache that gnawed at him. Every attempt to understand made it worse. It was like trying to catch a fleeting shadow.

*What was I supposed to remember?*

His hand went instinctively to his right eye—the one that felt *different*. Tenseigan. That was it. The figure had given him Tenseigan.

But why?

Why had he been chosen? What was he supposed to do with it?

The headache intensified as he pressed his fingers to his temple. The answers,

 like the figure, were slipping away.

For now, there was only one thing he was certain of:

The figure had given him Tenseigan.

But *why*? And more importantly—*what now?*