I once believed that I lived in this world to atone for the sins I owed in my previous life, and that death was rebirth in another sense.
Amidst the flames of war and gunpowder, all those with extraordinary power emerged here. Screaming, fighting, all mortals blinded by the surface are being burned. Corpses, souls, trampled by ignorance refuse to be reincarnated. Who I am? Am I a despised alien, or a fragile mortal? Who am I?
"Get out of here."
Leave? Why?
"This city doesn't need you."
I've been numbed by these words. They don't hurt or itch, and they can't stir up any emotion in my heart.
Oh, I remember, I died.
Those amber eyes, the hands that pushed me into reincarnation, and the warm chest.