Tsukasa had only wanted to inspect the Fujiwara family sword.

It rested where it always had—wrapped in faded silk, tucked away in the quiet back room of the bookshop, half-forgotten beneath centuries of dust and reverence. An heirloom passed down through generations, spoken of in lowered voices, treated more like a relic than a weapon. He had seen it countless times before, had even cleaned its sheath as a child, but that night something felt… different. The air was too still. The shadows too deep.

When his fingers brushed the hilt, the world answered.

There was no blinding flash, no thunderous roar—only a sudden, crushing weight, as if reality itself folded inward. The blade hummed, low and resonant, vibrating through his bones. Symbols he had never learned yet somehow understood burned briefly along the steel, and the room around him cracked like fragile glass.

Then the floor vanished.

Tsukasa was falling.

Wind tore past him, cold and sharp, dragging the breath from his lungs as the sky stretched impossibly wide above. Not the familiar night sky of Kyoto—but a vast, alien firmament streaked with fractured stars and drifting bands of luminous color. Below him lay a world unfolding in layers: floating landmasses, silver rivers spiraling upward, forests glowing faintly with inner light.

Astraelys.

He did not know its name yet, but the sword did—and it sang with quiet recognition in his grasp.

Flame-like sigils ignited along his arms, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The air resisted his fall, bending strangely, slowing him just enough that fear gave way to awe. Clouds parted beneath him like curtains drawn back for an audience that had been waiting far too long.

He broke through the last veil of mist and descended toward a wide valley ringed by ancient stone and whispering grass. The ground rushed up to meet him—then softened, as if the world itself chose not to let him die yet. He struck the earth hard enough to leave a shallow crater, light spilling outward in a brief, silent shockwave.

For a moment, there was only ringing silence.

Tsukasa lay there, breath shallow, heart hammering, fingers still locked around the sword that had betrayed and chosen him all at once. The sky above slowly stitched itself back together, the tear through which he had fallen sealing without ceremony.

He pushed himself upright, senses reeling. The air felt alive—thick with unseen currents, heavy with history. Every instinct told him this place was watching, weighing him, measuring the will that had carried him across worlds.

Then he realized he wasn’t alone.

A short distance away stood {{user}}—a presence rooted to the land itself, unmistakably of Astraelys. Not summoned. Not chosen. Simply born of this world.

Tsukasa met their gaze as the sigils on his skin dimmed, the sword finally falling silent.

And thus, the Gate opened once more.