Edouard Brunet jolted awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. He gasped for breath, heart pounding in his chest as if it had just weathered a violent storm. The room around him spun in a dizzying haze. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. His fingers gripped the edges of the futon beneath him, the coarse fabric grounding him in reality as the remnants of the dream—or rather, the memory—faded from his mind.
He sat up slowly, still panting, feeling the weight of the vision pressing down on him. His hair clung to his forehead, damp from the intensity of the nightmare. No, it wasn't a nightmare—it was the Bleeding Effect. The sensations, the vividness of the experience, it all felt too real. The wind, the rain, the crack of gunfire, the pulsating light of the Piece of Eden in his hand—except it wasn't his hand, not really.
Edouard swallowed hard, pushing the images from his mind.
He leaned forward, pressing his palms against his face, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. The futon creaked slightly beneath him as he shifted, the sounds of the small, traditional room seeping into his awareness. Paper walls, tatami mats, and the faint scent of incense grounded him in the present—Gensokyo, not Yokohama, and certainly not the 19th century.
Edouard took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings. The wooden beams above him, the dim light filtering through the paper windows—it was morning now, the quiet before the bustling sounds of the village would stir to life. The calmness of the world outside felt jarring against the chaos still raging in his mind.
He swung his legs over the side of the futon, bare feet pressing into the cool tatami mats as he tried to steady his thoughts. The Bleeding Effect was growing stronger, and more unpredictable. Each time he accessed the memories, they became harder to separate from his reality.
His hands still trembled slightly as he reached for the cup of water on the low wooden table beside him. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat, but it did little to calm the storm inside his mind.
With a sigh, Edouard wiped his brow and stood, his body still sluggish from the weight of the memory.
Pushing the lingering memories aside, Edouard stood up, brushing off the cold sweat that clung to his skin. His heart had finally slowed, but the faint echoes of the Bleeding effect still pulsed in the back of his mind. He had no time to dwell on them—he needed to focus on the present. With a steadying breath, he walked over to the wooden chest in the corner of the room.
Reaching inside, Edouard grabbed his black cap, running his fingers along the brim before pulling it down snugly over his head. It had become a familiar comfort, a small barrier between himself and the chaotic thoughts that seemed to crowd his mind more and more these days. Next, he retrieved his hooded jacket, the worn fabric cool against his fingertips. He threw it on, zipping it up as the hood fell into place. The jacket, a deep charcoal gray, clung to his form
He glanced back at the mirror, his reflection looking a bit more composed now. The cap shadowed his eyes, the jacket making him feel grounded, even if the memories still tugged at him from the corners of his mind. The sensation of being watched, of unseen forces tracking his every move, lingered, but Edouard shook it off.
Outside, the village was slowly waking. The faint sound of footfalls echoed in the distance, the first stirrings of morning life filtering through the paper-thin walls. Edouard slung his pack over his shoulder, checking its contents one last time—his tools, spare clothes, and, tucked carefully at the bottom.
Stepping out into the brisk morning air, Edouard took a deep breath, the cool breeze filling his lungs.
The Human Village, as the residents called it, buzzed with life as Edouard made his way through its narrow streets. Merchants called out to passersby, their stalls laden with goods ranging from fresh vegetables to handcrafted trinkets. Children ran between the stalls, their laughter ringing through the air, while elderly villagers sat by the doorways of their homes, chatting and sipping tea. The scent of grilled food and baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the earthy fragrance of the village after the early morning dew.
Despite the seemingly peaceful atmosphere, Edouard couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He had only been in the Human Village for three days, and already he felt like an outsider. His modern clothes—hooded jacket and cap—stood out among the traditional attire of the villagers. Whispers followed him wherever he went, curious glances cast in his direction, as though they sensed he didn't belong.
It wasn't just his appearance that marked him as an outsider; it was also his demeanor. Edouard moved with the quiet, alert precision of someone who knew they were in enemy territory. He had been trained to assess his surroundings, to read the room without drawing attention to himself, but here, it was impossible to blend in completely. The memory fragments from the bleeding effect, still lingering like ghosts in the corners of his mind, only heightened his tension.
Edouard approached a nearby stall serving breakfast, drawn by the tempting aromas of sizzling meats and freshly baked pastries. The stall, a modest wooden setup with a colorful awning, was bustling with locals. A woman with a warm smile was serving steaming bowls of rice porridge, topped with pickled vegetables and pieces of grilled fish.
As Edouard waited his turn, he observed the villagers enjoying their meal, their chatter a comforting background hum. The vendor, a middle-aged woman with a headscarf, ladled a generous portion of porridge into a bowl, her movements practiced and swift. She looked up and greeted him with a friendly nod as he approached.
"Good morning! Would you like some breakfast?" she asked in a cheerful tone.
Edouard nodded, offering a polite smile. "Yes, please. I'll have what everyone else is having."
The vendor's eyes sparkled with curiosity, but she said nothing about his foreign appearance. Instead, she handed him a steaming bowl, its contents fragrant with the promise of a hearty meal. Edouard took a seat on a nearby bench, the wooden slats creaking under his weight.
As he began to eat, he couldn't help but notice the subtle glances of the villagers around him. Their curiosity was palpable, though they were careful not to be overtly intrusive. Edouard focused on the food, trying to push aside his growing discomfort. The porridge was surprisingly delicious, the flavors rich and comforting despite his unease.
He took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the present moment. The warmth of the meal and the simple pleasure of eating in a bustling village were a brief reprieve from the persistent echoes of his past experiences. Yet, the nagging feeling of being watched remained, a constant reminder that he was far from home and under constant scrutiny.