He was just a boy.
A young boy, maybe twelve.
Small, pale skinned, with a thin frame that didn't seem to fit in with the world around him.
His dark brown hair was always a little uneven, cut hastily by his mother at home. His bangs fell messily over wide, timid eyes that were the color of ash—dull, tired, and forever searching for something no one would give.
He often wore a uniform a size too big, the sleeves rolled up at the wrists and pant legs dragging over worn-down shoes. His name was Naota.
And to many, Naota didn't even exist.
Not really.
At home, he was the second child. Not the firstborn prodigy his older brother was. Not the golden boy who won trophies and certificates. His parents rarely looked at him.
At dinner, they always asked, "How was your exam?"
But they were never talking to him.
Still, Naota studied harder than anyone.
He woke up before the sun and read until his eyes stung. At school, while other kids laughed or played games, Naota stayed alone in the library, flipping through textbooks that he couldn't afford but tried to memorize anyway.
He didn't want to be the best.
He just wanted to be seen.
He once scored third in a nationwide mock test.
He ran home, the paper trembling in his hand.
"Mom, Dad! Look! I got third! Third in the whole country!"
His father didn't even lift his eyes from the news on the tablet.
His mother stirred the soup and said, "Why not first like your brother?"
His smile faded.
He folded the paper and never brought it up again.
At school, things were worse.
Naota was soft spoken, and small. He flinched easily. He cried easily.
His friends—who he thinks they are... but for them he was like just a little weak animal.
"Oi, Naota! You still reading that nerd book?"
"What are you, a little girl?"
"Speak up, we can't hear your mouse voice!"
He laughed with them at first, trying to pretend it was a joke.
But they never stopped.
One afternoon, as he bent down to tie his shoe near the back staircase, they came from behind.
"Let's play pencil roulette!" one said.
"One stab, one laugh!"
He didn't understand until it happened.
A sharp pencil jabbed into the back of his thigh. He screamed, and they laughed. Another boy twisted his arm, another yanked his backpack away and poured its contents on the mud.
"Please," he cried. "Don't bully me…"
But that only made them laugh harder.
When he tried to tell the teacher, she told him to "stand up for yourself" or else no one would ever respect him.
That night, he went home with a swollen eye and a bruised rib.
No one noticed.
One day during gym class, they took it further.
They snuck into the changing room while he showered after PE.
Dragged him out.
Tore away his towel.
They laughed.
Girls screamed.
He screamed.
His body was exposed in front of everyone. Even teachers couldn't get there in time.
He sat on the cold floor, curled up, humiliated, body trembling naked.
And they still whispered behind him.
"Disgusting freak."
"Why does he even come to school?"
That night, he came home to see his older brother's birthday celebration in full swing.
There was cake. Candles.
Presents.
No one asked why he was late. No one noticed the cuts.
He sat in the corner, holding a worn, broken pencil in his hand.
Naota began to disappear bit by bit.
No one really noticed.
He stopped smiling.
He stopped talking.
And one day,
he stopped caring.
The morning was cloudy.
Rain fell in light taps against the school windows.
Naota came to school as usual, carrying the same torn bag. But inside, along with his books and pencil case, was a length of rope.
He smiled to himself, just once.
A small, empty smile.
No one said hi to him in class.
During lunch, he walked through the hall without anyone noticing, as if he were already a ghost.
He walked past the classrooms.
Past the staffroom.
Past the gym.
And into the second-last stall of the boys' bathroom on the second floor.
He shut the door behind him.
He climbed onto the toilet seat.
His hands trembled as he tied the rope to the pipe above.
His lips moved.
"Please don't bully me…" he whispered one last time.
And then, he slipped the noose around his neck.
He left only a pencil on the floor, its tip snapped and stained with blood.
No one found him until later that night.
They said he had no friends.
That he was quiet.
That no one expected it.
But the truth was.
No one saw him.
......
The broken pencil lay on the ground, split in half like a snapped bone. Koru sat quietly in front of it, knees folded under him.
His fingers were laced together in a prayer, head lowered. His eyes were soft.
Next to him were Nki and Enix, also sitting the same way. Their hands were joined in prayer too, eyes closed, a soft wind brushed through the trees around them. They were sitting in a quiet corner of a park, the bushes behind them, and the sky above painted in orange and purple from the setting sun.
No one spoke. It was just... quiet.
Until Koru finally broke the silence.
"They all suffered…" His voice was calm but low, barely above a whisper. "They were all in pain. So... at least after the end... we can pray for their peace."
Enix stared at the broken pencil.
Enix's fingers tightened around each other. "Do you… do you see all of their memories?"
Koru nodded slowly. His glasses caught the last bit of sunlight. "Yeah. That's the fate of the Deviner who has the Style of Knowing."
Nki glanced up at him. Her voice was small as she spoke and said,
"Life is sometimes unfair…"
Koru exhaled through his nose, standing up and brushing dirt from his long black coat. "I did not tell you his past to make you sad," he said, turning his back to them. "I want you to understand what we're fighting for."
His voice hardened a little.
"We're Deviner. We don't exist to look cool or play hero. We exist to make sure no one else suffers like they did."
Enix and Nki slowly stood up too. They were quiet, just looking at the broken pencil with a small, unreadable expression.
Then Koru turned his head and said,
"Let's go. We've got a lot to do."
He started walking. His coat swayed gently with each step.
Nki and Enix followed behind, side by side.
Then.... a small baby plant grew near the broken pencil.