"Ah? What did you say?"
Sunday was momentarily stunned, asking in confusion.
The homeroom teacher snorted, lifting a stack of workbooks from behind the lectern that was about as tall as Sunday himself. "You're new, so I'll explain it to you. If you want to get a high score and go to university in today's Penacony, you have to be diligent enough."
"And the standard in our school—our class—is this stack of workbooks, which is also the main content of our teaching from now on. It costs 500 credits."
Sunday stared blankly at the stack of workbooks in front of him. "Th-this many? Can we finish them in one semester?"
The homeroom teacher frowned: "One semester?"
"This is for this week. Next week, you'll have to pay for a new set."
Sunday was stunned again: "But... but can we even complete them?"
"Don't you know how to stretch one minute into ten minutes?" the homeroom teacher said with a frown. "There's a saying: Time is like the water in a sponge—as long as you're willing to squeeze, there will always be some."
"Not to mention, this is mandated by the principal. We're just following protocol."
·····
"You guys are this ruthless here?" Stelle pointed at the classroom, asking Clockie in astonishment with her mouth agape.
Clockie scratched his head: "No choice—everyone's in an arms race, the competitive pressure is too intense. Plus, the corporation even requires a graduate degree just to recruit janitors, so everyone has no option but to grind like this."
Stelle: "Then I kinda get why Sunday turned dark."
Clockie: "Don't rush—let's watch a bit more."
The scene shifted to Sunday's high school years.
By this time, Sunday was already able to take care of Robin simultaneously, complete his studies, and work part-time jobs outside.
However, Sunday's psychological state was also changing at a speed visible to the naked eye. For example, when he saw an old man begging on the street, a spark would flash in his mind, and the next day, he'd hire someone to play the beggar next to the old man, thereby intensifying the competition in the begging industry.
For instance, toward women in the real world and in 2D media, there was no longer a trace of fondness in his eyes, but when looking at handsome, strong men, his gaze would unwittingly linger a few extra glances.
And for another example······
"Brother, I wrote another song today—come take a look?"
At the school gate, Robin was dressed in a youthful and vibrant JK uniform, her long hair tied into a ponytail at the back of her head, making her look so full of youthful vitality.
And a girl as eye-catching as Robin naturally drew the attention of quite a few people at the boys' school gate. Passersby cast envious glances at Sunday one after another, while some harbored ill intentions.
Sunday pushed Robin in front of him away with one hand: "I still have to go to work. If there's nothing important, don't disturb me."
With that, as if remembering something, he took the sheet music from Robin's hand: "I'll take this and listen to it. Head home—you can have some pocket money transferred to you later."
Stelle, watching this scene from the side, nodded slightly: "Although Sunday seems a bit cold right now, he's actually the tsundere type, huh? Says one thing but means the opposite—hehe."
It still felt within an acceptable range?
Clockie snapped his fingers with a "snap," and the scene shifted. In a all-male bar in Penacony, Sunday took out the sheet music and said to a handsome-looking patron: "If you sign up for a card today, I'll drink with you to your heart's content and throw in a sheet of music as a bonus. How about it?"
Stelle: "······"
The scene continued. Next, Sunday encountered bullying from others at school, the reason being "You're actually that kind of brother to such a cute sister of yours—I have to rein you in properly."
·····
Sunday's entire life played out in fast-forward and soon came to an end. Stelle helplessly covered her face; even with her intelligence, for the moment, she couldn't think of how to break this situation.
The main issue was that all of Sunday's life up to now had been too tragic: Wayne + frail sister + poor starting point; school was insanely super-competitive with immense pressure, and it was a boys' school to boot; he was bullied by others; for a bit of credits, he was forced to bend his pride······
For a person like this, it was already pretty good that he wasn't thinking about destroying the world.
After the scenes ended, the surroundings fell into a vast expanse of white nothingness, and Sunday's subconscious incarnation stood with his back to the two of them about ten meters away. He curled up his body, his white feathers at the back of his head covering his eyes, like a child who was sobbing quietly.
Stelle wanted to step forward and comfort him, but she didn't know what to say.
Because she knew that in Sunday's such long life of suffering, a few words couldn't possibly have any effect.
"Clockie, what should I do?" Stelle said somewhat dejectedly. "It was fine before seeing his memories, but now that I have, I don't even have confidence anymore."
"Friend, not necessarily."
Clockie said patiently: "Haven't you noticed? In all the memories we just saw, Sunday was never the evil capitalist from outside. Like so many adults in Penacony, or even across the galaxy, he's just a child forced to grow up."
"A person's heart can determine their exterior, but the exterior can't determine the heart."
"Perhaps the words Sunday said before activating Ena's Dream weren't excuses he made for himself, but his genuine intention to use his own power to change Penacony."
"In Ena's Dream, everyone's time each day is fully squeezed, no wages are issued, but the possibility of arms races is also cut off······"
"Isn't that like chopping off the head just because of a fever and headache?" Stelle couldn't help but complain. "Whose side are you on now?"
Clockie scratched his head: "What I mean is, perhaps Sunday hasn't reached the point of no return yet. Why don't you give it another try?"
Stelle was stunned for a moment, looking toward that figure ahead. She sighed helplessly and said: "Fine, fine—who made us Nameless on the Astral Express all share the same creed?"
"Even if his life is shrouded in twilight gloom, I'll do my utmost to light up this long night."
·····
Sunday opened his eyes, looking at the person who had walked to his side. "You've come?"
Stelle shrugged: "From the tone of your voice, you know this is the mental space?"
Sunday said: "Of course. I've long heard of Mr. Mikhail's famous technique—the trick that can manipulate others' hearts. To be honest, I'm actually quite admiring of this move."
Stelle took a deep breath and said: "So, do you plan to talk with me?"
Sunday nodded slightly: "Of course. Though the outcome may not change."
Stelle: "······"
The two stood side by side. In this mental space without the concept of time, they seemed to talk for a very long while—perhaps an hour? Ten hours? Or even longer.
Stelle knew that mere words couldn't shake Sunday, but she still didn't give up. She kept trying, exerting herself, even if it left her mouth dry and tongue parched, even if her head spun and her vision blurred, it couldn't dim the spark in her eyes.
She felt that Sunday could still be saved.
"...Sorry, Miss Nameless."
This was the umpteenth time Sunday had shaken his head; his expression was as usual, his tone still firm. "I will use my own way to bring true paradise to everyone."
"You must understand that physical fatigue is far less than mental torment. As long as there's hope, people will always persist through the squeezing."
Sunday placed one hand lightly over his chest. "Time's about up, Miss Trailblazer. Leave my heart."