“Which is strongest?” I asked.
Kenji made a face. “Never ask that in a waiting room.”
“Why?”
Before he could answer, three benches away someone shouted, “Nen is the best written power system and I will die again on this hill!”
Another voice snapped back, “Bro, Haki literally lets you punch logia users and see the future.”
“Chakra has the highest versatility!”
“Cursed energy has domain expansion.”
“Alchemy has rules, which makes it better.”
“Rules? Nen has vows.”
“Stands are better than all of them.”
“Stands are nonsense.”
“You’re nonsense.”
Kenji pointed with his thumb. “That’s why.”
The argument grew louder.
Two guards looked over.
Everyone quieted at once.
I stared at the group. They were souls from Kenji’s kind of world, or worlds close to it. Some wore shirts painted with faces or symbols. One had a bag full of small figures clutched protectively to his chest. Another was drawing circles in the air with his fingers while explaining something called equivalent exchange.
They spoke like drunk soldiers around a campfire arguing over generals they had never met.
Yet hidden in their nonsense were names of powers, dangers, worlds, people.
I rose from the bench.
Kenji looked up. “Where are you going?”
“To listen.”
He grinned. “Smart.”
I did not join their argument. That would have been useless. I sat close enough to hear and far enough that no one expected me to speak.
For hours, or days, or whatever counted as time in that place, I listened.
I listened to souls talk about a boy named Gon who was kind and frightening in the same breath. A boy named Killua born into assassins. A clown named Hisoka who made even the loudest souls lower their voices in disgust or fascination. A license called Hunter that could open almost any door. A power called Nen that came from life energy and will.
I listened to arguments about a world called Remnant, where monsters named Grimm were drawn to negative emotion, and warriors used Aura, Dust, and weapons that changed shape. They spoke of a girl in a red hood with silver eyes. Someone called her Ruby. Another called her a cinnamon roll. I did not understand why food was involved.
I listened to talk of demon slayers.
That caught me.
A man with round glasses said, “Demon Slayer is rough if you’re born pre-canon. Muzan will ruin your life.”
Someone else groaned. “If you don’t have breathing, you’re dead.”
“Unless you’re a demon.”
“Who wants to be a demon? Sunlight kills you.”
“What about the Hashira? They’re the strongest, right?”
“Yeah, but becoming one is basically a death sentence if you’re not insanely talented.”
“Still better than being a random civilian,” someone muttered.
Half the group laughed.
I did not.
Hashira.
Strength.
Breathing.
Death sentence.
I took those words and stored them with the others.
Some souls spoke of gods living among mortals in a city above a dungeon. Danmachi, they called it. A world where adventurers received Falna from gods, where growth became status written on the back. I leaned closer at that. Written growth again. A different kind of system.
“Careful with gods,” a woman said. “They can smell lies.”
“Some of them are chill.”
“Some of them are horny disasters.”
“Still better than picking a xianxia world and getting killed because you looked at a young master’s teacup.”
Laughter.
I memorized what I could.
One Piece was a sea world. Freedom. Pirates. A rubber boy. Dreams. Tyrants. Haki. Fruit that gave powers and stole the sea from you.
Naruto had child soldiers and chakra. That word sat poorly in me. Child soldiers. They said it as if it were a setting detail. My hands curled.
Jujutsu Kaisen had curses born from human fear and hatred.
Fullmetal Alchemist had alchemy, knowledge, circles, and a law called equivalent exchange.
Fate had heroes used as summoned weapons.
Bleach had souls, hollows, blades, and death gods.
Hell’s Paradise had Tao, an island, immortality, flowers, monsters, and beauty that killed.
I did not know how much was true.
Some souls contradicted each other constantly. They argued over timelines, versions, translations, endings, favorites. One insisted a world was safe if you knew the plot. Another told him he would die before breakfast. Someone said a character was useless. Someone else nearly started a fight over it.
I learned anyway.
A starving man did not throw away bread because it had dirt on it.
Between arguments, I asked questions.
Careful ones.
“What is a main character?”
“What does overpowered mean?”
“Why is a clown dangerous?”
“What is a waifu?”
That last one made three people laugh so hard a clerk threatened to send them to Goat Realm Processing.
Kenji found me again later at one of the machines. I had been watching a woman use it to request tea. When she left, I touched the screen.
Words appeared.
Please select refreshment.
I could read them.
My finger hovered.
There were too many choices.
Water. Tea. Coffee. Juice. Milk. Broth. Nutrient gel. Spiritual electrolyte blend. Memory-safe alcohol substitute.
I chose water.
A cup dropped into the slot, filled itself, and steamed faintly though the water was cold when I drank.
I stared at the cup.
Kenji leaned beside the machine. “You look like it just performed a miracle.”
“It made water.”
“Yeah.”
“Clean water.”
His smile faded. “Right.”
I drank all of it.
Then I requested another.
The machine gave it without complaint.
I drank that too.
No one hit me for taking more.
No one counted the cups.
No one said I should leave some for the others.
My hands shook around the third cup.
Kenji pretended not to notice.
That was kind of him.
I began to explore the office in patterns.
Counter to counter. Hall to hall. Sign to sign. Some doors were locked. Others required appointment tokens. A few opened into rooms that made no sense. One contained a field of stars under glass. Another held shelves of glowing orbs, each with a name attached. A third was full of cats watching a clerk fill forms.
No one stopped me if I looked like I belonged.
That, too, had survived death.
I learned that souls with special circumstances could sometimes make requests. Those with heroic merit received blessings. Those with divine sponsors received negotiations. Those with high karmic debt received restrictions. Those from certain worlds were recycled through fixed cycles. Those with unclaimed status waited.
I had no heroic merit.
No sponsor.
No wealth.
No family name.
No god waiting with open arms.
I had a ticket and old habits.
So I collected knowledge.
I listened near the complaint desk and learned which phrases annoyed clerks.
I watched intake officers and learned that polite souls received longer explanations.
I watched arrogant souls demand perfect lives and get sent to places with high mortality rates and educational value.
I learned that asking for immortality made workers suspicious.
I learned that asking for power without context often triggered psychological screening.
I learned that “I want to be free” made some clerks sad.
I learned that “I want to become a god” made guards step closer.
At night, if night existed there, the lights dimmed to a soft blue. Souls slept on benches or floated above them. Others did not sleep at all. I found a quiet corner beneath a sign for Deferred Rebirth Appeals and sat with my back to a pillar.
I tried to remember the sister’s face.
It frightened me how difficult it had become.
I remembered pieces. Her hands. The red around her eyes. The shape of her veil. Her voice saying Noir. Her tears in the market. But her whole face slipped whenever I reached for it.
I pressed my fists against my eyes until light sparked.
“You okay?”
I lowered my hands.
A girl stood nearby, perhaps sixteen, perhaps younger. It was difficult to tell with souls. She wore a school uniform of some kind, dark skirt, white shirt, ribbon at the neck. Her hair was cut bluntly at her chin.
I had seen her around the argument benches. She spoke less than the others, but when she did, people listened.
“I am fine,” I said.
She sat beside me without asking. I shifted, leaving space.
“I’m Mina.”
“Noir.”
“I know. Kenji mentioned you.”
Of course he had.
My first instinct was annoyance. My second was caution. My third, quieter than the others, was gratitude that someone had remembered my name.
Mina tucked her knees under her chin. “He said you’re trying to learn everything before your number gets called.”
“Can a person learn everything?”
“No.”
I nodded. That answer felt honest.
“Then I will learn what I can.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s probably healthier.”
We sat in silence for a while.
She had a ticket too. I saw it between her fingers. The number was lower than mine by several million.
“You are from Kenji’s world?” I asked.
“Close enough.”
“You all know many stories.”
“Too many, maybe.”
“Stories about real worlds?”
Her expression changed.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
I waited.
She looked toward the far counters, where souls vanished one by one through doors that opened for them alone.
“Where I came from, we thought they were fiction. Manga, anime, games, novels. Things people made. Here, everyone keeps saying worlds are infinite, and some match stories, or stories match worlds, or creators are hearing echoes without knowing it. Clerks won’t explain it clearly.”
“Why?”
“Bureaucracy.”
I knew that word from soldiers. It meant men with ink making hunger worse.
Mina glanced at me. “If you go to one of those worlds, don’t treat people like characters.”
“I do not know what that means.”
“It means...” She rubbed her thumb over the edge of her ticket. “People in the waiting room talk casually. They joke about who dies, who suffers, who’s best girl, who’s weak, who should have ended up with who. It’s easy because they saw it on a screen or page. If you meet those people, it won’t feel like that.”
“I know people are people.”
“You’d be surprised how many forget.”
There was bitterness in her voice.
I thought of officers moving wooden markers across maps. Infantry. Cavalry. Archers. Scouts.
People became symbols easily when watched from far enough away.
“I will remember,” I said.
Mina studied me.
Then she nodded, as if she believed me enough for the moment.
She taught me better than Kenji.
Not more, perhaps. Better.
Kenji gave me excitement. Mina gave me warnings.
She explained that a gamer system sounded powerful, but depending on its rules, it could twist how I thought. If people became quests, I might start measuring them by rewards. If pain became numbers, I might ignore wounds that still mattered. If growth became visible, I might chase progress until I forgot why I wanted it.
I listened closely.
A tool could save a man and still cut his hand.
She explained world travel with more caution. Random travel could kill me. A world might have poison air, hostile gods, monsters, impossible laws, time differences, languages, diseases, or powers I could not sense. Even arriving in a safe world could be dangerous if I appeared in the wrong place.
“Like where?” I asked.
“A battlefield. The ocean. A dungeon. A volcano. A villain’s laboratory. Space.”
“Space?”
She pointed upward.
“Past the sky.”
I went quiet.
Past the sky.
The words were too large to touch.
Mina seemed to understand that and let the silence sit.
Later, she asked, “If you get choices, what will you choose?”
I had thought about little else.
“Noble birth,” I said.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at my hands.
“There are doors that open for nobles.”
“That’s true.”
“Books. Tutors. Food. Names. Time.” I swallowed. “A child born low spends his life paying for the right to breathe. A noble child may still suffer, but he begins closer to the shelves.”
Mina did not argue.
“What else?”
“Memory.”
“Good.”
“Health. A strong body. I do not want to die of fever before learning anything.”
“Very reasonable.”
“A system. Gamer system.”
Her mouth twitched. “Kenji got to you.”
“He said it was overpowered.”
“He would.”
“Is he wrong?”
“No,” she admitted. “Just annoying.”
I almost smiled.
“And world travel,” I said.
Mina’s humor faded.
“That’s dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want it?”
The answer should have been simple. Power. Knowledge. Survival. A chance to gather every tool I had been denied.
Yet when I opened my mouth, what came out was smaller.
“I want to see.”
She waited.
I looked toward the ceiling of white light.
“I spent my life looking at pieces of sky. Between roofs. Above walls. Through smoke. Then I died under all of it and realized I had never reached anything.” My voice sounded rough to my own ears. “People here speak of worlds like they are taverns on the same road. Worlds with seas bigger than kingdoms. Schools for powers I cannot imagine. Libraries. Monsters. Gods. Suns and moons, maybe, in colors I have never seen.”
My fingers curled.
“If I am reborn and do not choose the widest road I can, then I learned nothing from dying.”
Mina said nothing for a long time.
When she spoke, her voice was gentle.
“Then choose it carefully.”
That night, or what passed for night, I dreamed of a gold coin floating in a black sky.
The waiting continued.