Harry August was not a man— or, to be more precise, not the kind of person everyone else imagines him to be. He was born in 1918 as a bastard into an English aristocratic family and was given to be raised by a gardener. Pressed down by the weight of his social position, he strove for small things and achieved little. Being born a second time, in the same time and place, he went mad from hopelessness and killed himself. Being born a third time, he understood that it was time to extract certain benefits from his position.
At the end of the eleventh incarnation, a little girl appeared to him to deliver a brief but terrifying message. Is it true that every being of August’s kind moves at the same pace as all the others— nailed to the wheel of reincarnations— or does the wheel turn faster for some? And if so, how many turns remain for his Ouroboros to devour its own tail?