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[ Shadow Monarch in Hogwarts]
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Third POV:
Somewhere in Osaka University, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, mingling with the low murmur of students shifting in their seats. At the very back of the lecture hall, almost blending into the shadows of the wooden desks, sat a young youth named Akai. Nineteen years old, his posture was relaxed, leaning slightly back as though the weight of the world—or perhaps the weight of the lecture itself—was too trivial to demand his attention.
The professor's voice droned on, steady and monotonous, repeating once more the events of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the nuclear devastation that had reshaped Japan and left scars still palpable decades later. Akai's eyes, dark and alert beneath the messy sweep of black hair, didn't follow the slides or the images projected on the screen at the front of the room. Instead, they wandered, flickering from one corner of the hall to another, tracing the dull movements of his classmates as they took notes mechanically, some fighting to stay awake, others murmuring softly with friends.
He heard the words, but they floated past him like echoes in a cavern. Hiroshima… Nagasaki… nuclear war… catastrophe… Each syllable seemed familiar yet detached, as though he had read or heard them countless times but never truly absorbed their weight. He rested his chin on his palm, elbow pressed against the cold surface of the desk, and let the details wash over him without anchoring to anything.
Around him, life continued in its ordinary rhythm. A girl in the row ahead fidgeted with her pen, tapping it nervously against her notebook. Two students whispered, leaning close to share something trivial, and the sound of rustling paper punctuated the monotony of the lecture. Akai barely noticed any of it. His mind was elsewhere, drifting, hovering at the edges of consciousness like a bird circling high above a city it does not belong to.
The teacher's words repeated, as though trying to hammer history into the minds of students who were already half elsewhere. Akai listened, not out of diligence or interest, but out of habit, his thoughts wandering deeper into himself, into patterns and reflections that no one else in the room could see. The catastrophic images—the mushroom clouds, the charred landscapes, the faces of those who had endured the unimaginable—hovered in the periphery of his mind, abstract symbols of humanity's cruelty and fragility. Yet, strangely, Akai did not feel fear or sorrow. Only a quiet, simmering curiosity, a restless itch at the edges of his awareness that something more, something far beyond this ordinary life, awaited him.
He shifted slightly in his seat, letting his hand drop from his chin to tap idly against the wooden desk. The sound was rhythmic, almost meditative, marking the passage of time as the lecture continued. Outside the tall windows of the hall, sunlight spilled over the campus grounds, highlighting the green of trees and the muted movement of students walking between buildings. Inside, however, Akai remained secluded, as though the sunlight belonged to another world, one he could observe but never enter.
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The lecture droned on, the professor's voice unwavering, a steady tide of information and historical recollection. Akai's eyes, however, were no longer merely observing the mundane details of the classroom. His mind began to wander, drifting past Hiroshima and Nagasaki, past the words of the teacher, past the petty struggles of everyday life. He started thinking about the world itself—the invisible gears and levers that shaped every life, every action, every choice.
Governments, he pondered, built upon the backs of the powerless. They claimed authority, control, and order, but what was order if it crushed the individual beneath it? Slavery—both the obvious chains of the past and the subtle ones of modern society—had not vanished. People labored in invisible cages of debt, expectation, and fear, while wealth and power concentrated in the hands of a select few, creating a hierarchy that seemed immutable.
Akai's thoughts deepened. How did such a world affect the lives of ordinary people? Could someone truly live freely when their existence was dictated by forces larger than themselves? And if they could not, then what right did anyone have to claim justice or morality? With each answer he imagined, another question arose, sharper and more piercing than the last. Was true equality ever possible? Could strength alone define morality, or was morality itself a tool of the powerful? And so, from the labyrinth of his mind, a single word emerged, echoing with clarity through the tangled corridors of his thoughts: "Justice."
He paused mentally, as if the word itself were a light in the darkness, illuminating every doubt and contradiction he had wrestled with for years. Justice. What did it mean? Who could wield it? Was it an ideal, a tool, or a burden? He could not stop questioning, yet for the first time in a long while, he felt anchored—not by certainty, but by the gravity of that single word. The questions that had multiplied endlessly in his mind seemed to revolve around it, all spiraling back to that core, that essence. Justice.
It was then that the professor's words pierced through his reverie. "That concludes today's lecture. Remember to review the material and think about the human cost behind historical events. Class dismissed."
The sudden shift of attention brought Akai back to the present. The room seemed smaller, the hum of fluorescent lights more distinct, the rustle of papers and chairs sharper. He gathered his notebook and backpack, sliding into the motions of departure as if waking from a dream. Around him, classmates began discussing their upcoming holiday plans, their voices light, carefree, filled with the excitement of leisure and freedom.
Akai listened quietly, faintly smiling at the trivial enthusiasm, though a pang of something deeper tugged at him. The words "family" and "home" floated unbidden through his mind. He thought about the warmth of shared meals, laughter echoing in familiar rooms, a sense of belonging that he had never truly known. But the thought was fleeting—too fragile, too alien. Being an orphan, he had long abandoned such notions, and the idea faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the empty echo of what could have been.
He stepped into the hallway, the chatter of students fading behind him, replaced by the muffled noises of campus life outside the lecture hall. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ground as he made his way past the lecture theaters and through the courtyard, each step measured and calm, betraying nothing of the maelstrom that had churned in his mind moments before.
His destination was familiar and comforting in its simplicity—a bar tucked in a quiet street near the university, a place where he could sit alone, watch the world move, and drown the weight of thoughts he could not yet untangle. It was a sanctuary he had returned to countless times, a place that smelled of polished wood, aged liquor, and muted conversations, where he could exist without expectation or intrusion.
As he walked, the bustling city life surrounded him—students, workers, vendors—but he passed through it like a shadow, his mind detached, quietly spinning over the questions that haunted him: justice, freedom, strength, power. And though he had no answers, he had a direction, however faint: somewhere in this world, he would find a path to claim meaning for himself.
By the time he reached the worn wooden door of his favorite bar, the scent of aged bourbon and faint smoke greeted him like an old friend. He pushed it open and stepped inside, the bell above the door announcing his arrival with a soft chime, yet no one seemed to notice or care. Here, he was invisible—just another figure against the dim glow of the lamps and the polished surfaces of the counter.
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Akai sank into the worn leather chair at his usual spot near the corner of the bar, the soft murmur of conversation and clinking glasses fading into a distant hum. He tilted his head, staring into the amber depths of his drink, and let his mind wander. Life, he thought, was miserable in its quiet, relentless way. People were chained by invisible rules, by expectations, by chance and circumstance, and no amount of struggle could free them entirely. Misery wasn't loud or violent—it was persistent, gnawing at the edges of one's existence, shaping and breaking them in silence.
Lost in thought, he did not notice a figure approaching, her presence quiet yet deliberate. A gentle touch on his back pulled him from his musings, and a soft, lilting voice whispered in his ear, carrying a beautiful English accent that made him momentarily faint:
"You look lonely, boy."
Akai blinked and slowly turned to face her. There she stood—the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She was not Japanese; her beauty was effortless and striking, the kind that lingered in memory. Her long, silky hair cascaded around her shoulders, framing a face of flawless features—sharp, intelligent eyes, high cheekbones, and lips curved into a teasing, enigmatic smile.
Her slender figure moved with a feline grace, each gesture precise yet effortlessly captivating. Even in the simplest outfit, her presence radiated elegance, a magnetic allure that made her impossible to look away from. Every detail—the way she carried herself, the glint of mischief in her eyes, the subtle curve of her silhouette—spoke of danger wrapped in undeniable charm. Akai found himself frozen, lost, entranced.
Finally, he managed to speak, his words slipping out unconsciously:
"You look so beautiful… so even her herself would be jealous of such a goddess."
The woman let out a small, melodic laugh that danced through the air like wind through chimes. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she leaned slightly closer and said, teasingly,
"You have such a seductive mouth, pretty boy. But tell me—what can I bring you?"
Akai, caught in the spell of her presence, answered without thinking:
"You."
The words hit him immediately, and he flushed, realizing his slip. Clearing his throat, he corrected himself,
"Vermouth… please."
Her smile widened, and she leaned closer again, her voice soft and tantalizing:
"You can have me too… but after my work."
She began to leave, her movements still as graceful as a shadow, when Akai's curiosity forced him to ask,
"What's your name, my lady?"
She paused just long enough to wink at him, eyes sparkling with playful danger.
"Christin."
And then she was gone, leaving behind only the faint echo of her perfume and the lingering heat of her presence.
Akai's gaze followed her for a long moment before he finally turned back to his drink. He picked it up, swirling the liquid absentmindedly, admiring the bar's muted lights and shadows, though his thoughts kept drifting back to her. Every glance, every movement, every smile he had witnessed burned into his memory, leaving him lost in the allure of Christin's presence.
Time passed, unnoticed. The drink after drink blurred together as he remained in a haze of fascination and longing. Words, faces, and thoughts began to melt together in the dim light of the bar. Eventually, Akai became fully intoxicated, the world around him dissolving into a haze of darkness and warmth. He tried to recall the details, to hold onto the fleeting moments, but his mind betrayed him, and memory fractured.
Everything faded. The sounds, the lights, the teasing laughter, even the beauty of Christin—all disappeared into the darkness.
[ END OF CHAPTER 1.]
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IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE ABOUT MY WORKS OR JUST TO SUPPORT ME THEN HERE IS MY PATREON:
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