The sun rose that morning
casting golden threads of light through the windows of the opulent student residence. Here, the students lived in a world that seemed perfect at first glance, yet concealed intricate complexities and untold stories beneath its surface.
Histori heaved himself out of bed, his body weighed down as if carrying the world's burdens on his shoulders. He glanced at his digital clock: 6:55 AM, just like every other day. With a cold, sardonic sigh, he muttered to himself, "Will my body ever break this habit?" (The "habit" being his tendency to wake up five minutes before his alarm, thanks to his overly sensitive physique.)
After a tedious routine of washing his face, brushing his teeth, and drinking his usual black coffee, he found himself staring into emptiness. It was the first day of the weekend, and he had nothing to occupy him except reading and the flexibility drills he used to maintain his physique.
But when it came to social interaction, Histori was utterly alone. He had no close friends—only fleeting exchanges with classmates like Sisica and Ryota.
Scratching his head, he pondered how to fill his time. He had already completed his usual morning workout: 99 handstand push-ups and back-targeting exercises. He avoided overexertion, wary of bulking up—a stark contrast to his childhood training regimen. His father had drilled him in white muscle fiber development, aiming for a lean, powerful frame without the bulk of heavy muscles.
Having finished both his exercises and all the books he'd brought with him, Histori eyed his messy bed. The idea of crawling back under the covers was tempting, but he refused, not wanting to disrupt his sleep schedule.
He decided to leave his small apartment—Room 123 in the school's lavish residential complex. Dressed simply, he stepped into the wide, empty hallway. "Who'd wake up this early on a weekend?" he wondered.
As he entered the elevator, he was startled to find Sisica already inside. She stood in the corner, preoccupied. Histori kept his distance, leaning against the wall with closed eyes and folded arms. Silence hung thickly until Sisica, curiosity etched on her face, hesitantly broke the ice: "Good morning."
Histori replied with a curt greeting, avoiding eye contact. When he asked why she was up so early, she smiled shyly: "I have errands." Tilting her head, she added, "Your name's Histori, right? Can you… smile?"
He met her gaze neutrally. "Why ask?"
"I've never seen you smile. You barely react to anything," she pressed.
"Does that bother you?" he retorted coldly.
Flustered, Sisica gathered her courage. "Do people hassle you for being this way? Everyone in class thinks you've got some supernatural ability. It makes you… suspicious."
Histori remained unfazed. *As long as I don't give anyone extra information, speculation dies. Humans won't harm what they don't understand—at least not without trying to figure it out first.* But his real concern was: *How do I get rid of her?*
As they exited the elevator, Sisica walked beside him, sparking both curiosity and irritation. Before he could ask why, she teased, "Thinking, 'Why's this pest following me?' Right?"
Without looking at her, he replied flatly, "No need to ask. You're heading to the pharmacy."
Sisica froze. "How'd you know?!"
He pointed to the half-visible prescription peeking from her pocket. "Sharp eyesight. You've noticed that before."
She nodded, recalling how he'd once read her name from a distant list. But how had he guessed the pharmacy?
He explained coolly, "The paper's shape resembles medical prescriptions—small, rectangular. The handwriting's likely a doctor's. Their bad penmanship kills 600,000 people yearly."
Sisica shivered at his clinical tone. "Aren't you exaggerating?"
"No." *If anything, the real number's higher*, he thought but kept it to himself.
At the pharmacy—a gleaming space where medicines sat behind glass like luxury gadgets—Sisica gaped in awe. Histori paused abruptly, causing her to bump into his concrete-like back. "Ouch! Histori, what's wrong?!" she yelped, clutching her nose.
He stared coldly at a medicine shelf, then slid open a glass panel (noting the 46 surveillance cameras). Holding a vial, he muttered, "This school… never ceases to surprise me."
Sisica squinted at the label. "Zolgensma? Never heard of it."
Histori recited flawlessly: "A $2 million treatment for spinal muscular atrophy."
"What?! That's impossible!" she gasped.
He pointed to another vial. "Luxturna—$850k for restoring vision. Only sold in upscale pharmacies like this."
Sisica swallowed hard, imagining the zeros in Korean won.
Histori gestured to an oxygen mask resembling a diver's gear. "Hyper-concentrated oxygen—100% purity. For elite clinics only."
His crimson eyes chilled as he picked up another drug. *Even Father would hesitate to buy this.*
"Iclusomab," he said, replacing it carefully. "One of the world's priciest drugs. Unlabeled because no one here can afford it. Boosts immunity—useless against AIDS."
Footsteps interrupted them. A cheerful middle-aged pharmacist greeted Histori like an old acquaintance. "Impressive knowledge for your age. Are your parents doctors?"
Histori nodded. Sisica watched, fascinated, as the pharmacist handed him three boxes. "The usual?"
"Yes."
The pharmacist grinned. "You two seem close."
Histori finally looked at Sisica, making her blush. "We're just classmates."
"First time you've brought someone," the pharmacist noted, sweating under Histori's icy glare.
After purchasing his items, Histori left Sisica behind, relieved yet oddly intrigued. *Is there someone worth letting into my world? Honestly, I don't want more people to greet.*
But the questions lingered, as enigmatic as Histori himself.
Histori was walking around the school and entered the private structure, which was a commercial complex.
He planned to buy a book to read during the long winter nights.
It seemed as though he would take a reading hibernation instead of sleeping.
He could have gone to the library, but he knew that most of the hustle and bustle here often contained rare items that couldn't be found in modern stores.
This place resembled the traditional market in the capital square.
He began walking through a sea of people, his shoulder bumping into everyone walking beside him.
The crowd was truly chaotic, something Histori detested the most, but he had no choice but to endure it. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.
The place was bustling with students, perhaps because this market had extremely cheap goods. Histori could only hear the shouts of vendors and the chaotic calls of prices for their goods here and there.
The smell of sweat, especially under the sun, was enough to irritate even the calmest of people.
Then, his feet stopped at a shop that was completely empty of people. It seemed like a remote island amidst this annoying flood.
An old man was deeply asleep on a tilted beach chair, with a book left on his face like a forgotten tombstone.
With steady steps, Histori approached the shop and glanced at the piled-up books. They were in poor condition, dusty, and their covers were cracked like the skin of dead snakes.
He began wiping the dust off one of the books. The first book he found was *"The Sad Spirits"* by the writer Plato.
Histori let out a cold scoff, with no humor in his tone. It was clear that the book was a fake.
"What nonsense! Who would lie with such a poor fabrication?… I don't want the ramblings of philosophers. Isn't there some kind of novel here?"
He started searching through the books on the shelf. All of them were dusty, ruining any sense of passion. He couldn't even make out their titles. Histori realized that the shop owner was certain no one would buy from him, so he didn't even bother to clean his merchandise or…
Perhaps he didn't want to sell them at all. But why?
As Histori searched, he thought to himself, "What's the one percent chance that something valuable could be found in this dump?"
His eyes narrowed briefly when he saw a black book with some kind of triangle on it.
He didn't fully understand it… There was no title on the book, just a triangle with thin lines, as if it had been stitched.
Histori opened the book. Its pages were worn and yellowed, but the text was clear.
There was no introduction or author's name. What was written was: *"No one reads introductions. Turn the page."*
Histori remained puzzled, but he couldn't deny his attraction to the writer's mindset, which seemed to challenge him.
At that moment, he realized that he might be the only reader who enjoyed reading introductions because they gave him a glimpse into the writer's mind. But this book was different, perhaps because the writer seemed brutally honest.
He found himself flipping the page, only to find another page. The content of the book hadn't started yet, but the words Histori read made him realize that what he held in his hands might not be a book intended for the general public.
What was written was: *"No one deserves to read this book."*
Histori's eyes narrowed in focus, and he said to himself, "Is the writer mocking me?"
He turned the page and found another phrase: *"This is the first copy, and there is a final one. Since you've dusted off the neglect and it's still in your hands, you must be desperate. So take the book at any cost. Run away with it if you're smart."*
Histori began to think:
"Is this a trick to manipulate me into buying the book?
Is this some kind of marketing gimmick?
But the book is in a pitiful state. The author mentioned that there is a first and a final copy.
His phrasing might be clumsy, but the meaning is clear.
He printed two copies. I would have been suspicious if he hadn't written the author's name or even a title for the book.
I must get it."
Just as he was about to turn the page, the screech of the beach chair interrupted him. He looked up from the book. The shop owner had woken up and lifted his heavy eyelids. He was an old man with a sour temperament and a grumpy expression.
In a voice full of annoyance, the old man furrowed his brows and said, "Hey, kid, what are you doing?"
Histori deliberately picked up another book and said, "Sir, how much is this one?"
The old man glanced at the tattered book and, while settling back into his chair, pointed lazily to the payment device. "The scanner is on your right. Pay and get out."
As soon as the old man heard the notification of the payment, he opened his eyes and found that Histori was no longer in front of him.
The old man stood up and said with a smile, "That red-eyed boy is the first customer I've had in months."
He began searching through the books and found the one the boy had picked up to ask about the price. The old man scratched his gray head and muttered, "I didn't even know I had a second copy."
Then, his eyes widened as he noticed that *that* book was missing. "No, no, no! Where is that damned book?!!"
He found himself rushing out of the shop, looking around for any trace of the boy, but he found nothing. The old man realized that Histori had figured out his game—that he was essentially forced to sell these books and didn't actually want to.
The old man lowered his head and went to check the payment device. It turned out that Histori had paid more than double the amount—150 credits. This made the old man cry.
At that moment, Histori was carrying that black book.
For some reason, he felt that the shop owner might not have sold it to him if he had asked about it directly from the start. Everything seemed clear to him now.
Histori's mind was working to decipher the mysteries of this scene:
The dusty books.
The dirty shop.
The arrogant and rude way of dealing with customers.
Everything indicated that the shop owner might be in debt or something similar, searching for a desperate excuse through an even more desperate attempt to hold onto those books.
That's why Histori pretended to take the most seemingly worthless book—the fake one, *"The Sad Spirits"* by that cursed philosopher, who, by nature, wasn't even the author. How could a Greek philosopher write that? Unless we assume there was a foolish enough father to name his son Plato.
After entering the student dormitory, Histori was walking toward the elevator when he heard a feminine voice calling him from above the stairs. It was a sweet voice, like a piece of sugar melting in a cup of tea.
"Hmm, Histori Martinez, is that you?"
Histori stopped and slowly turned to see who was speaking. He found a beautiful girl sitting on the stairs, wearing a school uniform. Her purple hair flowed from beneath her headphones, which were the same color, and her wide yellow eyes were striking.
Her eyes spoke before her lips did.
Histori stared at her for a while as she smiled at him gently, without any particular emotion.
He didn't recognize her. This was strange because Histori had an unforgettable memory. The idea of forgetting someone he knew was completely foreign to him.
The girl leaped gracefully from the top of the stairs, like a mountain cat, and landed steadily near Histori, who showed no reaction. He maintained his cold gaze, the only difference being that he took his hands out of his pockets.
As soon as the girl noticed this simple gesture, she smiled, her cheeks slightly reddening as she touched her lower lip with her slender fingers. "Cute! The legendary Histori is wary of me?" she said in a slightly mocking tone, as if deliberately trying to provoke him. But Histori remained deadly calm, uttering only two words:
"Who are you?"
The girl didn't answer and kept her carefree smile. She walked past him, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
"The masterpiece of Mr. Yagami… I don't know why you're here. Aren't you supposed to be in one of the glass towers of the Black Dome?"
Histori glanced at her over his shoulder, his caution growing with every word he heard from her.
He said in a cold voice, his red eyes narrowing dangerously, "Are you from there?"
The girl continued speaking, her hands behind her back. Histori realized there was no weakness in her posture, indicating she was fully aware of who she was talking to.
"Histori Martinez, nicknamed 'The Capable Without Ability,' the only student in the Black Dome who managed to control Abnormality 666—a savage, ultra-high-level specimen. The greatest irony is that you did it without any ability." Her tone carried a hint of admiration, but it was mixed with pure sarcasm.
She looked at him, maintaining her smile, and noticed the calmness on his face. She pouted her lower lip in boredom and said, "So boring."
"Who are you?" Histori asked again.
She lifted the hem of her skirt and bowed slightly like a princess showing respect. "From the same place as you, of course. My name is Mia Cyrus," she answered with a smile
"Which branch?" Histori asked.
"Branch One, naturally. I'm just like you, and my family holds power comparable to—if not greater than—the Martinez family," she replied with a smile, pulling out her phone and showing him her number. "I know you won't give me your number, so at least save mine. Since you have a strong memory, call me if you need help… Which class are you in?"
"Class D."
Mia sighed and put her hands on her hips and said with a slight frown, "Don't you have a reaction when you meet a colleague? I'm not your enemy."
The silence remained for seconds, an unreadable histrionic expression that made Mia surrender
"I'm in Class A. It would be great to spend some time together. Now, I'll leave you to read that worn-out book," she said, taking steps away from him.
Three hours later, Histori was settled in his room, but he began thinking about the kind of problems he might face. Originally, he had wanted three years of peace, but now… a sudden companion had revealed herself.
Histori had never heard of Mia Cyrus before, but as for her father… he was a well-known prime minister. He hadn't imagined he would meet his daughter in this place.
Histori sighed and said, "It seems fate has some troublesome events in store for me in the future."
After that, he tilted his neck and looked at the black book lying on the table.