Kazuki Tanaka had never known peace unless it smelled faintly of antiseptic.
At 23, he had long abandoned any hope of fitting in with Tokyo's fast-paced crowd. While others raced to work or scrolled through their phones on packed trains, Kazuki walked with surgical gloves in his pocket and a portable UV wand clipped to his belt. Every morning, he scrubbed his one-bedroom apartment twice—once with alcohol and once with vinegar—and ended his day disinfecting his shoes with a homemade solution he called "sanity in a spray bottle."
His job as a night janitor at Shinagawa's busiest office tower was not glamorous, but it was perfect. No humans, no small talk, just the sweet hum of vacuum motors and the satisfaction of purging dirt from forgotten crevices. He often spoke to the mop like a trusted comrade. "We're the last defense against the chaos, my friend," he would whisper, scrubbing a suspicious stain on a bathroom tile. He saw himself not as a cleaner, but a *Cleanliness Apostle*—a self-appointed prophet of order in a world of grime.
But everything changed on a Wednesday night. The sky had looked angry when he clocked in—bloated gray clouds threatening to burst—but Kazuki paid them no mind. He had floors to polish.
He was halfway through buffing the 42nd floor when it happened.
A flicker. A hum. The overhead lights danced, and then a thunderous crack shook the building. Instinctively, Kazuki ducked—but not before the mop's metal pole acted as a perfect conduit.
There was a jolt—hot, sharp, eternal.
Then, darkness.
Kazuki awoke to the smell of something foul.
A combination of wet dog, unwashed feet, and sour meat assaulted his senses. His stomach lurched. He sat up—slowly—and found himself lying in what looked like a pile of straw, the kind you'd find in a poorly kept stable.
His head pounded. His clothes were different. Gone was his blue janitor's uniform. In its place was a tattered tunic that reeked of mold. Dirt clung to his skin. His hands—unwashed! Un-gloved! *Unholy!*—were caked in dried mud.
He screamed.
Birds scattered from the nearby rafters. A goat bleated in protest.
Kazuki scrambled to his feet, spinning in frantic circles. He was in a wooden shack, its planks warped and blackened with filth. The air buzzed with flies. Cobwebs drooped from the corners like forgotten laundry.
"What *is* this place?!" he gasped, backing away from the manure-smeared walls. "What kind of barbaric... plague-ridden barn of horrors—?!"
The door creaked open. A boy no older than twelve peeked inside, his cheeks smeared with soot and his nose crusted with something unspeakable.
"Ey, you're awake!" the boy said cheerfully. "Th' healer said ye might not survive the witchlight."
"Witch—what?" Kazuki blinked.
"Witchlight! That sky-blast that hit you near the grave hill. Thought you was proper cursed. We almost burned ya, but Mama said to wait 'til the flies left."
Kazuki staggered outside, ignoring the boy. The world beyond the shack was worse.
A village—if it could be called that—sprawled before him in filthy chaos. Muddy streets were filled with barefoot peasants, livestock wandered freely, and children rolled in puddles that looked suspiciously like open sewage. Smoky fires burned in metal drums. The stench was indescribable.
A cart rolled by, its wooden wheels squealing, leaving behind a trail of slop and excrement. No one seemed bothered.
Kazuki stood frozen, his eye twitching.
"Where… am I?"
A woman in rags pointed at him from a distance. "Look! The sky-touched one rises!"
A crowd began to gather, whispering in awe.
Kazuki turned back toward the shack and mumbled, "This… this is a nightmare."
But it wasn't.
As the villagers surrounded him, some bowing, some whispering of prophecies and omens, Kazuki's mind struggled to make sense of the situation.
Then, just beyond the crowd, a figure appeared. A robed man with golden tattoos glowing on his arms. He carried a staff and moved with authority.
"You survived the Skyfire," the man said. "You are not of this realm. That makes you valuable. Dangerous… but valuable."
Kazuki looked down at his grime-covered hands, then up at the robed man. "I don't care who you think I am. Just get me a shower. And hand sanitizer. And a quarantine suit."
The robed man stared at him. "...You will do well here, Clean One."
Kazuki's eye twitched again.
"I will die here," he muttered.
But even as he spoke, something inside him—an itch behind the eyes, a tingle in his fingertips—began to stir. Unseen to others, faint glowing patterns formed beneath his skin, swirling with energy.
A new world. A filthy world.
And whether he liked it or not, Kazuki Tanaka, Apostle of Cleanliness, had been reborn in it.