Some weeks ago, just a few days before Nyrebo unfortunately dealt with the intruders, Shotaro found himself within the grand throne room of the royal palace, engaged in yet another of his peculiar discussions with the queen. The chamber, adorned with golden chandeliers and towering marble pillars, radiated an air of majesty fitting for the ruler of the greater elvish kingdom. Yet, at this moment, the queen herself looked anything but composed.
Her usually calm and dignified expression twisted into one of pure disbelief as she stared at Shotaro, struggling to process the absurdity of what she had just heard.
"So, in your world," she said slowly, her voice laced with equal parts horror and fascination, "your people willingly empty their pockets… for drawings?"
"It's called Gacha," Shotaro corrected her with a tired sigh. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed over his chest as if he had given this explanation a hundred times before. Then, with a sharp exhale, he added in a tone laced with unmistakable bitterness, "And don't worry, I'm pretty sure those sweaty, no-shower-for-weeks neckbeards—who have practically fused with their gaming chairs—deserve to lose their money."
There was something deeply personal in the way he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of past grievances. The queen, ever observant, raised an eyebrow at his intensity.
"You sound... rather passionate about this," she noted, reclining on her throne as she continued to scrutinize him.
Shotaro's eye twitched. "Passionate? Yeah, you could say that," he muttered, rubbing his temples as memories of past financial mistakes flooded his mind. He had been there once—entranced by the flashing lights, the seductive rates, the illusion of being one pull away from victory. The pain was still fresh.
The queen remained silent for a moment before speaking again.
"I see… so your people engage in this madness of their own free will?"
"More like addiction," Shotaro grumbled. "The game companies dangle their waifus and husbandos in front of you, and before you know it, your wallet's been bled dry. No one wins in Gacha, aunty. You either get lucky, or you suffer."
The queen tapped a manicured finger against the armrest of her throne, her expression unreadable.
"How curious," she mused. "I had thought no kingdom could exploit its subjects more ruthlessly than the tax collectors of the men's world. And yet, your world has achieved it under the guise of mere entertainment."
Shotaro let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, well… Welcome to my world."
For a brief moment, the throne room was silent—save for the distant murmuring of palace attendants outside. Then, as if reaching a decision, the queen leaned forward, her regal presence looming over Shotaro.
"Tell me more about this… Gacha. If your world could create such an empire on mere desires, I wonder what lessons could be learned."
Shotaro blinked. "...I once fucked up."
And so, without realizing it, he muttered, "It's about 2018..."
The queen's sharp golden eyes narrowed as she tilted her head ever so slightly. "What was 2015?" she asked, her voice carrying genuine curiosity beneath a veil of royal authority.
Shotaro blinked, realizing his slip-up. "Ah… right," he said, scratching the back of his head. "It's not a thing exactly. It's a year—part of the calendar we use in my world."
The queen leaned back into her throne, resting her chin against her fingers as she absorbed his words. "A year… Your world follows a structured system for tracking time?"
"Yeah," Shotaro said, "In my world, everyone uses one calendar, unlike here but that's another story." He got serious.
"You were saying something about Gacha, I presume." The queen said, very intrigued at why he hates Gacha games that much.
Shotaro let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples like he was about to relive a goddamn trauma. "Alright, you want to know why I fucking hate Gacha? Fine. It all started back in 2018…"
The queen leaned forward slightly, emerald eyes locked onto him, clearly intrigued by whatever nonsense he was about to unload.
"There was this shitty-ass game," Shotaro began, his voice already dripping with venom. "At first, it looked good. The art was clean, the world had potential… but then the cracks started showing. And holy fuck, did they show fast. The story? Absolute dogshit. I mean, I've seen drunk hobos rant about conspiracies that made more sense than that writing. One chapter would build up some grand, epic moment, and the next? Boom—completely forgotten, like the writers were all suffering from collective amnesia."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "And the characters? Jesus fucking Christ. Bland, soulless cardboard cutouts with the depth of a fucking puddle. And don't even get me started on the dialogue. I swear, reading that shit made me physically ill. Like, you ever see writing so bad it makes you question if literacy was a mistake? Yeah, that level of garbage."
The queen arched an eyebrow. "And yet… you still played it?"
Shotaro let out a bitter laugh. "Of course I fucking played it. By the time I realized it was hot garbage, I had already invested too much time. I kept telling myself, 'Maybe it'll get better. Maybe the next update will fix things.'" His expression darkened. "Spoiler alert: it fucking didn't."
The queen said nothing, just watching him unravel.
"And then there was the Gacha system," Shotaro continued, his voice thick with barely contained rage. "These greedy bastards would drop these insane limited-time characters, right? Like, ones that were borderline required for future events. But the drop rates? Absolute fucking trash. You'd save up for weeks, hoarding in-game currency like some stingy old bastard, only to get completely fucked over. And then some asshole on Twitter would post a screenshot like, 'OMG got her in one pull lol!' Meanwhile, I'm sitting there with my dick in my hands, watching my pity counter crawl up like a crippled snail."
The queen frowned slightly. "So, this game promised great rewards but only led to suffering?"
"Exactly!" Shotaro threw up his hands. "And just when you thought it couldn't get worse, they pulled their real cash grab bullshit. 'Oh, this new event? You need this one character to clear it without wanting to bash your skull into a wall! Oh, don't have them? Too bad! But hey, look! A conveniently timed paid banner with slightly better odds! Just hand over your wallet and maybe—just maybe—you won't get fucked sideways!'"
His fists clenched. "And like a fucking moron, I fell for it. I told myself, 'Just a few paid pulls, that's it.' But that was a fucking lie. I kept thinking, 'I've already spent this much; might as well go a little more, right?' Before I knew it…" He trailed off, looking away in shame.
The queen studied him with amusement before speaking. "...How much?"
Shotaro groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't want to fucking talk about it."
The queen smirked. "So, a great deal then."
"Too fucking much."
She chuckled softly. "I see now why you speak with such passion. You were deceived and betrayed by this… 'Gacha.'"
"I betrayed myself," Shotaro muttered bitterly. "That game drained my soul, wrecked my sanity, and spit me out like a two-bit whore. And the worst part? After all that? The devs shut the game down two years later." He leaned forward, staring dead into the Queen's eyes. "Everything—all the money, all the time, all the goddamn suffering—just fucking gone."
The queen tapped her fingers on the armrest, as if thinking about something. "So… your world has perfected the art of making people willingly throw away their wealth, all under the illusion of chance?"
Shotaro blinked. Something about the way she said that sent a chill down his spine. "...Why the fuck do you sound interested?"
The queen's smirk deepened. "No reason in particular," she said smoothly. "I merely find it… fascinating. If such methods could be applied elsewhere, one could amass great riches without the need for war or taxation."
Shotaro's stomach dropped. "Oh, fuck no."
"Hypothetically speaking," she continued, ignoring him, "if one were to introduce a system where my subjects could offer their wealth in exchange for something rare… a chance to obtain something extraordinary…"
"HELL NO. ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT." Shotaro shot up from his seat. "Do not start a fucking Gacha economy in this world! I refuse to be responsible for the birth of Fantasy Gacha Hell!"
The queen simply chuckled, clearly entertained by his absolute despair.
"Fear not, Shotaro," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "After all, I would need a consultant to ensure its success… and who better than someone with firsthand experience?"
Shotaro groaned, collapsing into his seat, utterly defeated. "I should've just kept my fucking mouth shut...".
"Anyways, what's KKK?" She asked, "We don't talk about KKK." Shotaro straightened up.
The Queen tilted her head, her emerald eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Anyway, what is this… KKK?"
Shotaro's entire body tensed up. His casual slouch disappeared as he sat up straight, his expression instantly dead serious.
"We don't talk about the KKK," he said flatly, his tone leaving zero room for discussion.
The Queen blinked, momentarily thrown off by his sudden shift in demeanor. "But—"
"We don't talk about the KKK."
For a moment, silence filled the grand throne room. The Queen studied his face, noticing the way his jaw tightened, the way his gaze darkened. Shotaro wasn't joking. This wasn't just some passing topic for him—this was a hard no.
She narrowed her eyes slightly but chose not to press further. "Very well," she said, leaning back into her throne. "Consider it forgotten."
Shotaro exhaled through his nose, muttering under his breath, "Good."
"Where did you even heard that" He asked her, "You were drunk rambling about them last night, You said the church's nuns look like KKK in their attire".
Shotaro felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. "Fuck." He knew he had a bad habit of running his mouth when he was drunk, but of all the things to blurt out…
The Queen, still lounging on her throne, gave him an expectant look. "Well? You said they wear similar attire to our nuns. What exactly is the KKK?"
Thinking fast, Shotaro forced out a laugh—one that sounded way too nervous to be natural. "Oh, uh… yeah, KKK! It's, uh… one of those music bands we have in my world!" He waved his hand like it was the most normal thing ever. "You know, like… dramatic robes, probably some creepy chanting—super underground shit."
The Queen narrowed her emerald eyes. "A band, you say?"
"Yup! Totally just a weird, edgy band!" Shotaro nodded way too fast, his brain scrambling for damage control. "You know how it is—some bands have a cult aesthetic and try to be all mysterious. Real cringe, honestly. No need to waste your time thinking about them!"
The Queen studied him, tapping a finger against the armrest. "...Strange. If it is merely a band, why did you react with such intensity before?"
"Because they suck!" Shotaro blurted out. "Awful music! Garbage lyrics! Like, imagine a bunch of tone-deaf assholes pretending to be deep when they're really just racist—uhhh I mean lazy! Lazy songwriting. Total hack frauds!"
The Queen's expression remained unreadable. For a long moment, she simply stared at him.
Then, she smirked. "I see. A band that enrages you so much that you refuse to speak of them?"
"EXACTLY." Shotaro pointed at her as if she finally got it. "They're just that bad."
She let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. "Very well, then. I shall not concern myself with this… KKK band."
"Great!" Shotaro exhaled, trying not to look too relieved.
But as the Queen rested her chin on her hand, her smirk lingered. "...Though, I must admit, I am curious. Perhaps one day, you shall play me one of their songs."
Shotaro went pale. "Oh, fuck me…".
"Anyways," the Queen continued, tilting her head slightly, emerald eyes gleaming with curiosity. "What's Two Girls, One Cu—"
"NOPE."
Shotaro cut her off so fast it was almost supernatural. His entire body tensed like a man facing his imminent execution. "I did NOT say anything about that while I was drunk." His voice was sharp, final—like a man desperately trying to erase the last ten seconds of reality.
The Queen raised an eyebrow. "So you do know what it is."
Shotaro's face twisted in pure horror. "We are NOT having this conversation." Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched straight for the exit.
"Shotaro."
"NOPE."
"You are walking away."
"I AM ABSOLUTELY WALKING AWAY."
"You forget that I am the Queen. You cannot simply—"
"Oh, please, put that crown up your ass and shit on that throne," he snapped without looking back, striding toward the doors like his very soul depended on it.
The Queen sat back, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across her lips. "Fascinating…" she murmured, making a mental note to absolutely investigate this later.
Shotaro stormed out of the throne room, still fuming. But just as he turned the corner—
WHAM.
He walked straight into Granny P., nearly knocking the old woman over. She barely budged, though, too busy taking a deep hit from the fresh cannabis she had just cultivated. Thick, pungent smoke filled the air around her like a damn weather phenomenon.
Shotaro coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. "Jesus fucking Christ, Granny! How much are you gonna smoke, you old hag? One day, instead of exhaling, your goddamn soul is gonna escape through your nose!"
Granny P. exhaled a long, slow cloud of smoke, looking at him with half-lidded, high as hell eyes. "...You say something, boy?"
Shotaro just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Never mind."
"KAZAAM!!" Shotaro bellowed, dramatically throwing his hand into the air.
With a shimmer of light and a faint whoosh, his femboy elf squire materialized out of thin air, landing lightly on his feet. The slender elf had delicate features, long silver hair, and an air of timid obedience. His emerald eyes darted up at Shotaro, voice soft and meek. "Y-Yes, my lord?"
Shotaro jerked a thumb at Granny P., who was still lost in her cannabis-induced haze. "*Go throw this old lady back onto her bed.**"
The elf hesitated. "A-Are you sure that is proper, my lord?"
"DO IT." Shotaro snapped.
The squire immediately scurried over, gently lifting Granny P. with surprising ease. She barely reacted, still in her own world, mumbling something about "the good old days" as she was carried off.
Just as the elf turned to leave, Shotaro leaned in closer. "And while you're at it, locate and bring me her stash. But don't tell her I have it," he added, voice low and conspiratorial. "I think I need to… take care of her little habit."
The elf's pointed ears twitched nervously. "Y-You mean dispose of it, my lord?"
Shotaro grinned. "Something like that."
The elf gulped. "...V-Very well, my lord." Then, without another word, he vanished into the shadows with Granny P. in tow.
Shotaro stretched, cracking his neck. "Man, I love having squires."
But as he stood there, watching his elf squire disappear into the distance with Granny P. in tow, a strange feeling crept over him. Nostalgia. A deep, unsettling déjà vu that clawed at the edges of his mind, like a long-forgotten melody trying to be remembered.
He furrowed his brows, staring absently at his hands.
Ordering people around… relying on a team… telling others what to do…
It felt too natural. Like he'd done it before. A lot.
Then, like a whisper from the past, the words tumbled from his lips before he even realized it.
"Red... Eye... Ronin..."
The name sent a chill down his spine. It was familiar—achingly familiar. But no matter how hard he tried to grasp at the memory, it slipped through his fingers like sand.
His jaw clenched. "When the hell will I remember those days again…?"
For a moment, the world around him felt distant, blurred, like he was standing between two realities. His past and his present.
Then, with a deep breath, he shook it off.
"Tch. Whatever." He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking. He might not remember now… but sooner or later, the past would come knocking.
Shotaro damn near jumped out of his skin as a voice came from right behind him.
"Boo."
"FUCK—!" Without thinking, he swung—his fist coming down hard on the elven princess's head with a solid THWACK.
"Owwww!" she yelped, clutching her head as she stumbled back. "What the hell, you brute?!"
Shotaro scowled, rubbing his temple. "That's what you get for sneaking up on me, you long-eared jumpscare!"
The princess hissed through her teeth, glaring up at him as she massaged the sore spot. "You hit royalty!"
"Fuck your royality" Shotaro shot back. "Be glad I didn't break your nose on reflex."
She groaned dramatically before straightening up, flipping her hair back as if to reclaim some dignity. "Tch. Whatever." She sighed, still rubbing her head. "I actually came to tell you something important, you oaf. I spoke with the royal medics—or whatever we call them in this whole royalty nonsense.*"
Shotaro's annoyance faded slightly. "And?"
Her expression grew serious. "They say you have three years. That's how long until your amnesia fully recovers.*"
Silence.
Shotaro stared at her, his mind processing the words. Three years…?
His fist clenched slightly. He didn't even realize he was holding his breath until he exhaled through his nose. "So that's the countdown, huh?" His voice was quieter now, with a sharp edge underneath.
The princess, still rubbing the top of her head where a goose egg was formed, eyed him carefully. "Do you… want to remember?"
Shotaro looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The faintest sense of déjà vu crept into his bones. A life he had forgotten. A name he barely remembered. Red Eye Ronins.
Shotaro hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for an answer among the cracks in the pavement. Then, with a quiet sigh, he lifted his head and met their eyes, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through his usual composure.
"I do, actually," he admitted, his voice softer than usual, as if confessing something he had only just begun to understand himself. "I want to know… who I really am. Not as the messiah, not as the one everyone expects me to be, but just—me. Whoever that is."
A faint breeze stirred his hair, carrying with it the weight of unspoken questions. For so long, he had been defined by the title given to him, by the responsibilities thrust upon him. But beneath all of that, there was a person—someone he had yet to fully grasp. And perhaps, just this once, he wanted to find that person before anyone else defined him again.
Shotaro blinked as Paliv, the tiny troublemaker that she was, stepped forward and held out a feather. At first, he thought it was just an ordinary quill, something she'd picked up off the ground. But as the light caught it, he realized it shimmered—not with the softness of a bird's plume, but with the unmistakable glow of gold. Tiny ruby inlays ran along the spine, gleaming like crystallized fire. This wasn't just a feather. This was something precious.
Paliv grinned, a smug little look on her face that only a kid who knew they had done something reckless could pull off. "Take this," she said, wiggling the feather impatiently in front of him. "I managed to sneak it out of my mother's room. It'll help you find Lattrem. He's the only one who can fix that scrambled brain of yours."
"Mugiwara Shotaro," she began, her voice laced with amusement as she leaned in ever so slightly, her emerald-green eyes gleaming with mischief. A slow, knowing smirk curved her lips, the kind that belonged to someone who thrived in the shadows, someone who had seen and done far more than they cared to admit.
"My family has done a lot for you—long before you even set foot here." She let the weight of her words settle in the air between them, as though reminding him of debts unpaid, of unseen hands pulling strings from the darkness. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she extended an offering—one more favor in a long list of unspoken transactions.
"Consider this just another helping hand to the so-called 'hero of saving,'" she continued, the title rolling off her tongue with a mix of mockery and intrigue. Her smirk widened, the expression of someone who found entertainment in the grand stage of life, where saints and sinners often danced together in ways neither could predict.
He was the man her father bet it all to, it's only natural she save him who saved her mother.
Shotaro found himself alone once more, the weight of solitude pressing upon his shoulders like an unseen force. The feather—his only clue, his only companion—rested in his grasp, its soft barbs shifting slightly with the breeze, as if whispering secrets only it could understand. With a determined breath, he tightened his grip and set forth, his path uncertain but guided by fate.
His journey was slow, calculated. He moved like a shadow, avoiding unnecessary attention as he weaved through the dense woodland. The trees loomed high, their twisted branches forming a canopy that shrouded the sky, allowing only slivers of moonlight to pierce through. The forest air carried an almost mystical weight, thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Every step he took felt like walking between realms—one foot in the mundane, the other treading into something far more arcane.
Then, finally, he found it.
A small hut stood before him, its aged wooden frame nestled between gnarled roots and creeping vines. It looked ancient yet well-maintained, as though time had little influence here. His heart pounded as he approached, each step measured, his pulse ringing in his ears. Raising his fist, he rapped against the door.
A moment of silence.
Then, a sound—soft, deliberate footfalls from within. The wooden door creaked open, and there she stood.
The feather had not deceived him.
The woman before him was striking, a vision unlike any he had ever encountered. The dim lantern light cast a golden glow upon her, accentuating the delicate contours of her fair skin—flawless, like untouched porcelain. Her ears, ever so slightly pointed, peeked through strands of her deep purplish hair, a color that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural luster, shifting between shades of violet and amethyst as she moved. It was shorter than he remembered, brushing just past her shoulders, framing her elegant face in a way that only amplified her mysterious allure.
But it was her eyes that truly ensnared him. Behind bold, pink-framed glasses, they gleamed with an almost hypnotic intensity—piercing, intelligent, and carrying the weight of untold years. They weren't just eyes; they were gateways, deep pools of wisdom and mischief interwoven.
Her lips—full, moist, and perfectly curved—parted slightly as she regarded him with mild amusement. It was a subtle smirk, the kind that hinted at secrets far beyond his comprehension.
Despite her sheer presence, her attire was…unexpectedly modest. A long black skirt draped over her form, its fabric flowing with each movement, reaching all the way down to her ankles. There were no extravagant embellishments, no daring slits or revealing cuts, yet that only made her presence more compelling. Her sheer size—taller than most women, not as tall as him, she was-6'8 probably—But it still made her commanding, and though her outfit gave nothing away, it could not hide the undeniable allure of her figure. Her curves, restrained yet impossible to ignore, carried a natural temptation that no mere cloth could conceal.
Her hips, in particular, were mesmerizing—dangerously so. Even beneath the fabric, there was a tantalizing fullness, a shape that could steal the breath of any man who dared to look too long.
Shotaro swallowed, struggling to regain his composure.
The woman, still leaning against the doorway, tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over him in appraisal. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips, as though she already understood everything about him—why he was here, what he sought, and perhaps even the thoughts racing through his mind.
"Hmm…" she mused, her voice smooth, carrying a velvety timbre. "You took your time, didn't you?"
Shotaro stiffened. Her tone was playful, teasing, yet there was something else beneath it—something unreadable.
The air between them thickened, anticipation hanging in the silence.
And for the first time in his life, Shotaro found himself unsure whether he had walked into a fated meeting…or a beautifully woven trap.
Shotaro's expression remained unreadable—calm, composed, almost indifferent. Yet the words that left his mouth starkly contradicted the stoic mask he wore.
"I'm actually so hard right now."
A heavy silence followed.
The woman blinked. Once. Twice. A mix of confusion and disbelief flashed across her sharp, intelligent eyes.
"…Huh?!"
Her voice carried genuine surprise, her brow arching as she stared at him, as if trying to determine whether he was being serious or simply testing her reaction. A breath of laughter escaped her lips, not quite amused, but not offended either.
"You sure are an honest stranger for someone meeting me for the first time," she mused, adjusting the position of her glasses with a single finger, the gesture effortless, practiced.
Shotaro's lips curled into a smirk—sharp, playful, and just the right amount of cocky. His crimson eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint, the kind that hinted at a mind far sharper than his easygoing demeanor suggested.
"I've never been the type to hide my feelings," he quipped smoothly, his voice laced with a quiet confidence.
His nonchalant charm lingered in the air for a beat, but before he could continue, before he could get to the real reason he was here—
"I know."
The woman's voice cut through his words, firm yet effortless, as if she had long anticipated his next sentence.
"You want your memories back."
Shotaro stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn't expected her to be so direct.
The woman—no, the witch—tilted her head slightly, watching him with the amused patience of someone who held all the answers. Her lips parted once more, delivering the next revelation with casual ease.
"I am Lattrem, by the way. One of the Golden Witches."
Her introduction was simple, yet it carried weight, the kind that could silence a room.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and stepped back inside, leaving the door open.
An unspoken invitation.
"Well?" she called over her shoulder, not bothering to glance back. "Are you coming in, or do you plan on standing there all night?"
Shotaro exhaled sharply, his smirk lingering as he took the first step forward.
Something told him he was in for a long night.
Inside, the air was warm, carrying the faint scent of herbs and aged parchment. The flickering glow of a single lantern bathed the room in golden light, casting long shadows across the wooden walls lined with shelves of peculiar trinkets and ancient tomes.
Lattrem moved with an effortless grace, retrieving a small ceramic teapot from a low wooden table. The fragrant steam curled into the air as she poured the amber liquid into a delicate cup, her lips curving into a knowing smile as she slid it toward him.
"Here. Tea."
Shotaro barely spared it a glance.
"No thanks." His tone was flat, dismissive.
Lattrem pouted playfully, leaning in slightly. "Aww, come on, sweetheart. You don't like tea?"
Shotaro exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "I do. But only the ones with milk, ginger, and masala." His golden eyes flicked toward the steaming cup, his expression unimpressed. "That pot, however, contains your urine."
A beat of silence.
Then, Lattrem laughed—soft, sultry, and entirely unbothered. "Oh? You got me."
Shotaro's smirk didn't waver. "No, actually, I have superhuman senses. I could literally smell your vagina from this tea."
Lattrem raised a brow, pushing up her glasses with the tip of her finger. "Well, aren't you perceptive." A slow smile spread across her lips, teasing yet laced with something deeper—something unreadable. "Let's just say… you need to drink my pee to activate the spell that will reclaim your past."
Shotaro didn't hesitate.
Before she could say another word, he grabbed the teapot in one swift motion and tipped it back, downing the entire contents in a single gulp.
The taste was… indescribable. Bitter, earthy, strangely warm—but that was hardly his concern.
The moment the liquid hit his stomach, his body convulsed. His vision blurred, colors melting into one another as a searing heat surged through his veins. It was as if something ancient, something buried deep within his soul, had been violently unearthed.
His breath hitched. His fingers twitched. The room spun.
Lattrem watched him with mild amusement, resting her chin on her palm. "Well, that was fast."
Shotaro barely heard her. His mind was unraveling—fractured pieces of forgotten memories rushing back, flashing before his eyes like a broken film reel.
And then—darkness.