Swast.
The sound of skin slapping against pavement rang out as a kick landed hard on the limp, passive figure of a boy. His shaggy black hair veiled his eyes, masking whatever lay behind them.
"You like that, huh? Know your damn place, you worthless deadbeat," spat a youth about the same age—though in all other ways, the two were nothing alike. His school uniform was sloppily worn, buttons undone like a lazy afterthought. Blond hair fell over his pierced face in messy chunks as he kept stomping on the downed boy, uncaring, cruel, and far too amused.
"Hey, Kenta, cool it. You'll get us in trouble," said another voice. A boy in the same classic Japanese high school uniform stepped over, cigarette dangling between two fingers. He took a drag, then placed the lit end against the passive boy's temple—burning it out right there.
Still, the gloomy teen didn't flinch. Didn't react. His eyes remained dull and lifeless, mouth hanging slightly open in a quiet, downward slant like a broken mask.
"Y-Yeah, Hikaru, if you say so," Kenta mumbled, fidgeting. "But this loser... he keeps looking down on us like he's better or something, even though we're awakened and he's not."
Hikaru didn't bother replying—just gave him a half-smile. That was all it took. Kenta winced, stopped the kicking, and spit on the boy before stepping back. Still, the dark-haired teen did not respond.
They'd chosen the corner near the dumpsters again. A shadowed, reeking edge of the school grounds where the waste from each class was tossed out. The stink of smoke and spoiled food mingled with their laughter.
Then came a voice—sharp, feminine, and furious.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?! Leave him alone!"
Every head turned. All except the gloomy boy's.
Standing at the entrance was a pale-haired girl with piercing ruby eyes. She wasn't especially tall or intimidating in build, but anyone who knew her name would feel their stomach twist at the sight.
Amamiya Mirei.
The twentieth S-Rank Hunter in Japan. A certified member of the Japanese Hunters Association.
The small group of delinquents scattered like cockroaches, offering quick, awkward bows before fleeing the scene.
Mirei strode forward, her presence cutting through the heavy air. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and gently wiped the spit from the boy's cheek.
"You okay, Shinka? You gotta stand up for yourself," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "Yeah, they're awakened, but they're only D-Rank trash. Just say the word and I'll put them in their place. I am a Hunter, after all!"
She pointed her thumb at herself, flashing a grin like a proud kid trying to cheer up a friend.
But Shinka Yūen didn't respond. His lifeless eyes gave a slow, empty nod. Then he simply turned and walked away—no words, no thanks.
Mirei stood there, hand still raised, watching his hunched back as he disappeared down the corridor.
"Tch... could've at least said thank you. Hmph," she muttered, pouting slightly.
Shinka didn't go back to class.
Instead, he went straight to the school office and requested to be excused—said he was feeling sick. They barely asked questions. No one ever did when it came to him.
The boy returned to a small, half-rotted home in an older part of town. Traditional Japanese in architecture, it looked abandoned to most—if not for the occasional repair job handled by his uncle.
He lived here alone.
His parents were long dead—victims of a dungeon break.
Kicking off his shoes, Shinka walked into the empty living room and collapsed onto the wooden floor, staring up at the cracked ceiling above him. The silence pressed against his ears like cotton.
A soft sound slipped from his lips—half whisper, half sigh.
"Should I end it?"
The words floated upward, unchallenged. From a question, they turned into something else.
A decision.
He got up, walked to the backyard, and entered the rusted shed. Dust and tools lined the walls. There, he found a thick, weatherworn rope.
Back inside, he tied it to the rafters with methodical care. He knew what he was doing. His hands were steady. This wasn't the first time he'd thought about it.
No. He had already died once.
Back in his previous life—before being isekai'd into this cursed world—he had felt this exact weight, this same emptiness. He remembered how the noose had bitten into his neck. How it had coiled tighter the more he kicked. The more he struggled, the closer death came.
And in the end... he hadn't been afraid.
He let out a dry laugh.
"Haha..."
With that, he slipped the noose over his head, stepped onto the chair beneath him... and then stepped off.
No struggling. No panic.
Just silence.
His body hung, limp, as the noose squeezed the breath out of him. His face slowly turned a sickly blue.
And yet, even then—
Even as the light began to fade—
A terrible smile stretched across his face.
A crooked, twisted thing.
And then, he chuckled.
Softly.
Like he was finally in on the joke.
[ You have died]
The world faded to black—
—then blinked back into being.
He woke up in his bed, same as any other morning. Same creaky springs. Same peeling ceiling. The same dull ache in his chest.
Grabbing his phone from the bedside table, he glanced at the date.
The day he killed himself.
He'd regressed.
Right back to the start of today .