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He is a ghost in a world that never knew his name.
A time traveler, unmoored from time. A hero, stripped of his story.
Takemichi has awakened in a world untouched by his tears, his battles, his sacrifices. Here, the scars of the past are smooth and unmarked. The banners of Toman do not fly. The faces he fought for-and died for-stare through him with blank, uncomprehending eyes. His desperate pleas to "save them" are met not with fists or loyalty, but with the soft, sterile pity reserved for the mentally ill.
The proof is everywhere, and it is absolute: in this reality, he does not exist.
And so, a chilling doubt begins to crystallize, cold and sharp in his soul. What if the world he remembers-the roaring motorcycles, the spilled blood, the bonds sworn in sunlit lots-was all a magnificent, desperate fabrication? What if the love, the loss, the entire weight of his destiny... was merely the elaborate illusion of a fractured mind?
Perhaps he never leaped through time.
Perhaps he only ever leaped into madness.
Now, he stands at the precipice of two abysses: one, a world that denies him. The other, a haunting question that unravels everything he was.
Was any of it ever real?