Blood Tears,

Chapter One:

Reborn

Disclaimer: I don't own Shaman King, but I do own Nekros. Nyah.

Note: I'm sorry in advance, this chapter is lacking in any Shaman King characters whatsoever. But it's necessary for the plot…

A dark figure walked through the graveyard, speaking not a word, making not a sound. An air of almost pure malice seemed to emanate from them. But the figure kept walking. It was midnight. No one would be there besides him. And if there was…they would be taken care of.

The figure came to a stop before one particular grave. It was very old and worn, and the name was almost impossible to read. They smiled.

His eyes shot open.

Darkness. Everything was dark. Why? His room was never this dark… He tried to sit up, his movements immediately halted by the hard walls all around him. He started to go into a panic. What is this? He started to realize an overpowering smell, not unlike moist earth. His breath caught in his throat. Or was he not breathing? At once, everything came back. The disease, the pain, then…nothing. It came to his mind with an irrefutable certainty. I'm dead. His struggles started up again. The closed space was driving him insane! He suddenly stopped. Wait a minute… he realized what he had said before. I'm dead! Is this what the afterlife is? He shivered. Or is this Hell? He tried harder than ever to free himself from his confines. At last he succeeded, the hard wall giving in, instantly showering him with cold dirt. He pushed upwards, his hand eventually resting on some kind of plant. He heaved his body from the ground, his panic momentarily dissipated. He shook the dirt from his body, and then took in his surroundings.

It was obviously nighttime, but it wasn't a total darkness, for the moon was full. He looked around. He was definitely in a cemetery, but it didn't seem familiar to him. He looked behind him. There sat an old gravestone, but it was covered in moss, and therefore illegible. He peered at it curiously. How long have I been buried? He reached forward to brush some of the debris off. Why is this so uncared for? Doesn't anyone in my family remember me? When he finally cleared enough away, he read the inscription out loud.

"HERE LIES

Nicholas Marlo Valon

Born: April 16th 1823

Died: June 25th 1857"

Up to this point he had forgotten his name. Nicholas frowned. How strange…I never noticed. Then, suddenly, all of his memories surged back in a rush. The places he had been, the people he had seen, loved; all came back, flashing before his eyes. He remembered his mother and father…and his sister. He looked next to him. Her grave lied there, as well as his mother's and father's. Now he was confused. I've been here before… My sister's grave is where it was, so why does none of this look the same? He curled into himself, covering his face with his hands. How long have I been dead? He was lost, utterly lost, and there was no one to help him. But… Maybe there could be. He stood up uncertainly, his steps coming jerkily at first, soon regaining their usual behavior.

"Is anyone there?" He called, his voice hoarse from what he supposed were years of disuse. "Can anyone hear me?" His cries echoed throughout the stillness that surrounded him. He finally received an answer.

'Hello.'

It was spoken not out loud, and he realized with a start that it was being spoken directly into his head.

"Who are you?"

'The one who brought you back.' If voices could sneer, this one would have.

"But what is your name? And why did you bring me back?"

'That is none of your concern. But I can tell you what year it is, I know you're just dying to know that…'

Nicholas frowned, his distaste for the voice growing with each passing minute.

'It is the year 1999, it the month of August. One hundred and forty-two years have passed since your… Untimely demise…'

"And what do you know about it?" he demanded, still uncertain if he should trust whoever was speaking to him.

'Oh… nothing… But what do you know about this time? Many things have changed since you were alive.' There was a cold laugh, one that sent shivers down Nicholas's spine. 'A great many things. I can help you.' The voices tone changed abruptly, losing its mysterious quality. 'What do you say?'

Nicholas thought about it. What could he possibly lose?

Over the next week or so, the voice, who still hadn't given its name or showed its face, taught Nicholas everything he needed to know. There was clearly much technological advancement, all of which were explained to him in great detail. However, now that he was caught up, Nicholas wondered what he would do next. The voice, who told him that he would 'find out soon enough', wasn't much of a help anymore. But they did give him enough money for the things he needed, like clothes. Nicholas had discovered that he liked the things people wore these days better than his old clothes.

Now he was wearing a black trench coat, under which he wore a dark red shirt and black pants. Quite stylish, really. But over the past few days Nicholas noticed that he had changed physically as well. His once tanned face was extremely pale, and every day the rest of his body seemed to be slowly losing color too, save for his dark black hair. He was forced to wear a pair of gloves because his fingernails had turned a sickly blue color. It was as if he really wasn't as alive as he was previously told. But he didn't care.

He didn't know that would soon change.