Antarctica – Year 2023
In the night sky, two fighter jets were chasing a massive crow. One of the pilots shouted,
"These gyaku bastards won't escape this time!"
Perched on the giant crow was a child, barely eight years old.
Just as the two fighter jets were about to attack, the child stood up. The jets were closing in when suddenly, an aura burst forth from the child.
The moment the aura collided with the jets, both froze mid-air, as if they had suddenly experienced centuries of life in an instant.
Then, two children inside the fighter jets began to fall. They transformed rapidly, becoming like newborns, innocent and fragile.
Scene Shift
Year 2025
The story begins inside a quiet, middle-class home in Japan. The house is modest but warm, the faint smell of rice and miso soup drifting through the air. It is evening; the golden light of dusk filters through the thin curtains, softening the sharp edges of the dining room. At the center of the room sits a rectangular wooden dining table where the family has gathered. Steam rises from the bowls, and the soft clinking of chopsticks is the only sound until the voice of a television anchor cuts sharply through the silence.
On the television screen, the anchor speaks with a serious tone, her expression grave, her eyes unwavering. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolls endlessly with unsettling updates.
"In the past two years, the government has begun large-scale production of gold,
Titanium
Platinum
graphene,
vertical glass,
and eternium metal.
They have invested nearly all funds and loans into this endeavor. And this is not limited to Japan alone; it is happening across the entire world. What exactly is going on in our nations? No one truly knows."
The weight of her words presses against the air, filling the dining room with an unease that no one dares to break immediately.
At the table sits Garve, the central figure of this story. His appearance already sets him apart from others: his hair is a stark white, almost silver under the dim light, and he stands six feet tall, a figure of quiet intensity even while seated. His face is calm, but his eyes hold a distant heaviness. For Garve, the world has always seemed hollow. His goal—though strange and chilling—is to find "the end," whether it be his own or the world's. Since his earliest memories, he has believed that life has no inherent meaning. "If we are destined to die," he thinks, "then shouldn't we simply die without hesitation?" Yet even as this thought haunts him, a question lingers: Is this truly the truth? Who can ever know?
Garve's father breaks the silence, his voice carrying both anger and disappointment. His chopsticks rest heavily on the table as he speaks.
"These days, every government has become completely corrupt. And now, this isn't just Japan's problem—it has become the problem of the entire world. We have so many other things to care about besides this madness."
His words hang heavily in the air. Garve's mother listens quietly, her expression concerned but controlled. She continues eating slowly, her eyes shifting between the television and her husband.
Garve listens in silence, his gaze fixed on the TV, the anchor's voice still echoing in his ears. His father shakes his head, his voice lowering into frustration as though he were speaking to himself more than anyone else.
"Who knows what will happen to this world? When will these great politicians finally stop hiding things from the common people?"
The heaviness of his father's tone deepens the silence in the room. Garve, though physically present, is mentally far away—lost in thought, lost in questions that dig deeper than the conversation itself.
Suddenly, his father calls him, breaking into his thoughts:
"Garve… Garve! Garve!"
Snapping out of his daze, Garve replies, "Yes? Yes, I'm listening."
His father sighs, a trace of impatience in his tone.
"Where is your attention these days? Tomorrow you have high school. Go now, an get some sleep."
"Yes, I'll go," Garve answers softly, pushing his chair back.
As he leaves the table, his parents share a quiet exchange, their voices hushed but filled with concern.
"He's a good boy," his father mutters, "but I wonder what is always running through his mind."
His mother's eyes follow Garve as he disappears down the hallway, her face shadowed with worry.
In Garve's Room
The room is dimly lit, the walls lined with books, a desk cluttered with notes and pens. Garve opens the window, letting the night air sweep in. The cool breeze brushes against his white hair as he tilts his head upward, staring into the endless sky. The moon hangs high, pale and watchful, while the distant city hum lingers in the background.
But then—something strange.
At the corner of the road outside his house, he notices a figure. The figure is draped in a white cloak, standing unnaturally still at the bend of the street. The cloak hides the face, leaving Garve uncertain if it is a man or a woman. Yet, even from this distance, he feels the weight of its gaze upon him.
The figure does not move, only watches. Then, as Garve's eyes meet theirs, a faint smile spreads across the unseen face. And with that, the figure turns—and vanishes into the shadows.
Garve leans out the window quickly, his voice cutting through the quiet street. "Hey! Who are you?"
But it is too late. The street corner is empty once more, the silence unbroken.
A troubled expression hardens on Garve's face. He shuts the window slowly, steps back, and lets himself collapse onto his bed. His eyes fix on the ceiling light above, its dim glow flickering as if struggling to hold on. Thoughts rush through his mind, questions without answers. Finally, he turns onto his side, letting exhaustion drag him into an uneasy slumber.
Garve's Dream
Darkness.
A scream.
The metallic scent of blood fills the air.
In his dream, Garve sees himself wounded, a knife plunging into his flesh. He is lying on the cold ground, his breath shallow, pain radiating through him. Over him looms a figure—smiling, yet tears run down their face. They laugh and cry simultaneously, their expression twisted with contradictions.
The image burns into him.
Suddenly he wakes.
His eyes snap open. Morning light filters weakly through his curtains. Sweat clings to his forehead, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The dream lingers like a shadow refusing to fade.
Downstairs, his mother calls warmly:
"Garve! Are you still asleep? Come down for breakfast!"
"I'm awake," Garve responds, forcing his body to move.
At the Breakfast Table
His father sits with the newspaper spread open, shaking his head at the headlines.
"What on earth is happening in the world? This week alone, our area has seen the seventh kidnapping case. And all the people who disappeared so far… they were all physically fit."
He looks up at Garve with stern eyes.
"Garve, take care of yourself. Be home before five in the evening."
"Yes, Father, I'll be careful," Garve answers while chewing his breakfast.
His mother's gentle voice breaks the moment. "Garve… is something bothering you?"
"No. Why do you think that?" Garve replies quickly, almost defensively.
She shakes her head, though her eyes remain soft with concern. "Nothing."
"Alright, then I'll be going," Garve says, pushing back his chair and leaving the table.
On the Road to High School
The streets hum with the distant sounds of traffic, though something about the air feels off—quieter than usual. As Garve walks, he notices posters plastered across the walls. Faces stare back at him—missing people. Young, healthy, strong. Their eyes frozen in photographs, begging silently to be found.
Garve's expression does not change. He walks past them without reaction.
But then a familiar voice calls from behind:
"Garve!"
It is Yashasvi, his childhood friend and classmate. She jogs lightly to catch up, her schoolbag bouncing at her side. Her smile is bright, though there is something deeper in her eyes—a fondness, a crush she has carried since childhood.
"Good morning," she says cheerfully.
"Morning," Garve replies simply.
Yashasvi notices his gaze lingering on the posters. "What's wrong, Garve? Is something bothering you?"
"Nothing. Just… people are disappearing more often these days," he says quietly.
"Yes," she agrees, her tone suddenly subdued. "Things feel strange lately. After 5 p.m., the roads are completely silent. No cars, most shops close by 6."
Garve frowns. "Don't you find it odd? All of this started ever since the government began research on the Other Side of the Earth."
Yashasvi pauses, lost in thought. "Hmm… that's true."
Their school comes into view, the building standing tall, its gates crowded with students. "Looks like we made it on time," Garve notes.
At School
Garve sits at his desk, his head turned toward the window. Outside, the sky trembles with the roar of helicopters. Massive cargo containers hang beneath them, filled with gold. The sight grips his attention, his thoughts spiraling deeper.
"Garve Froze! Garve Froze!"
His teacher's voice snaps like a whip. Annoyed, the man storms to Garve's desk, slamming his fist down.
"Where is your attention?!"
"I'm sorry, sir," Garve responds quickly.
The teacher exhales heavily, then softens.
"If a good student like you behaves this way, what effect will it have on the others? You've been very distracted lately."
The lunch bell rings, releasing the tension.
Lunch Break
Garve's friends gather around—Umaima, the gentle Muslim transfer student; Yashasvi, Hindu; Ryan, another Buddhist like Garve; and Claus, also Buddhist. The group blends cultures and beliefs, yet their bond is strong.
As they chat, Garve suddenly spots the same cloaked figure again—standing by the school gate. His heart jolts. Leaving his friends behind, he rushes to the ground where a letter lies waiting.
He picks it up, his eyes scanning the words:
"Who do you think is the real enemy? The one who created us, or the one we created?"
The words pierce him like ice.
Behind him, Claus calls, "Hey Garve! What are you doing? Why'd you run off like that?"
Garve hides the truth. "Nothing. I just… saw a unique dragonfly."
Ryan grins. "You collect insects too?"
"A little," Garve replies.
Claus smirks, teasing, "Really, Garve? Playing with bugs? That's so childish."
Ryan bristles. "Who are you calling a child?"
"Obviously you," Claus retorts. "You're barely five feet tall!"
The two clash, their voices rising. Umaima steps in with frustration. "Enough, you two. Stop it already."
Garve intervenes calmly. "You're best friends. That's why you fight so much."
Both boys fall silent, pouting like children. Yashasvi laughs lightly, then asks, "Garve, we're heading to the canteen for lunch. Do you want to come?"
"No… I'm not hungry today. You go ahead," he replies.
Claus turns to Umaima. "You're coming, right?"
"Not today. I'm fasting," she answers softly.
Ryan shrugs. "Alright, then we three will go."
As they leave, Ryan asks, "Hey, do you want to come with me and Claus tomorrow to the Miyamoka Shrine?"
"Can't. I have something important tomorrow," Garve says.
"What kind of important thing?" Yashasvi asks curiously.
"Just… something," Garve deflects.
"Alright, then we'll all meet the day after tomorrow. Bye!" they call, heading off.
Garve and Umaima remain behind. She notices his faraway gaze.
"Garve… is something bothering you?"
"No, nothing at all."
She smiles kindly. "That's good. But if something ever does… you can always share it with me."
"Of course," Garve says quietly.
But was he truly fine?
Or was his mind whispering again— Who is the real enemy? creator or creation
Perhaps what unsettled him most… was the truth he could never escape: Garve's ultimate goal was death itself.
Next Chapter: A Wish