I woke to the hum of an air conditioner and the dull ache of a headache.
For a moment, I lay still, staring at the ceiling. The fan spun. Light leaked through the gap in the curtains.
Everything was where it should have been. My desk, the shelf by the door, a faint smell of detergent from the clothes I'd washed just recently.
The last clear memory before sleep surfaced easily: finishing Hunter × Hunter. I remembered thinking, distantly, that it had been a great watch–one of my favorites easily.
The headache sharpened.
It wasn't painful exactly. It was more like pressure, as if something behind my eyes was adjusting itself.
My vision blurred, then snapped back into focus with an unusual clarity.
Then my memories came.
They slid into place like they'd always been there.
I sat up slowly, one hand pressed against my temple. The room spun a bit, but my heart didn't race.
This was still Earth.
I was in the same city. Same house. Same family asleep down the hall.
Just… everything else was different.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood. My balance was fine, and my body felt normal.
If not for the lingering pressure in my head, I might have thought nothing had happened at all.
Downstairs, the television murmured from the living room. I paused at the doorway.
"…Rift containment teams report full stabilization overnight. No civilian casualties. The Ministry reminds citizens that unlicensed Script activity remains prohibited outside designated zones…"
The anchor's tone was casual.
I watched for a few seconds, then turned away.
Summer break. Near the end of it, according to the memories now sitting comfortably in my mind. Middle school was finished, and the results were posted weeks ago.
Most of my classmates had already drafted their first scripts, rushed through the process as soon as they'd been handed their F-tier bases.
That, too, felt familiar.
I haven't. At least, not yet.
At the kitchen table, my mother was scrolling through her phone, half a cup of coffee cooling beside her. She glanced up, smiled, and asked if I'd slept well. I nodded, poured myself a glass of water, and sat across from her.
Normal conversation followed. She reminded me that the academy applications closed soon.
After breakfast, I retreated upstairs and closed my door. I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, and let my thoughts resolve.
In this world, everyone received one F-tier Script Base at the end of middle school. The type and class were random.
I got a decent format, Creature type, with the class of Brawler.
Most people treated it like a formality. Pick something strong-looking or aggressive. Just something that might get them through entrance evaluations without embarrassment. And then move on.
I don't have that luxury anymore.
I closed my eyes and focused inward.
At first, there was nothing. Then a faint but unmistakable sensation.
My Archive.
It manifested immediately.
<> — — — <> — — — <>
——Elias' Archive——
Archive Rank: Unranked
Scripts: None
Scriptmaking Material: (F) (Creature – Brawler)
<>———<>———<>
The headache intensified slightly in response. 'So thinking really does cost something here.'
I exhaled and leaned back against the wall, careful not to let my thoughts spiral.
Whatever I chose could never be remade, so it was a heavy choice.
I thought of the obvious picks. The names that came to mind instantly. I pushed them aside just as quickly. They would be limited by the tier of the material.
Instead, I focused on a single factor
The answer wasn't a technique, nor a transformation. Not even raw strength.
It was control. A body that understood violence so thoroughly that it didn't waste motion.
My thoughts settled on a figure I knew well. The earlier rendition of him, when his body was already wrong by normal standards, but still aligned with reality to an extent.
Baki Hanma.
I focused on his story: a body conditioned past human limits, will layered over muscle, pain in the form of pure information.
I reached inward again, this time more carefully.
My Archive responded.
[Story Formation Detected, consuming x1 F-tier Script]
Pressure built behind my eyes. My jaw tightened, and I felt something being drawn out of me, slow and steady, like an athlete's breathing.
I kept the image narrow. Just the foundation of his tale. Too much would exceed the limits of my scriptmaking material, and I didn't have enough Narrative Essence anyway.
[...Script Complete…]
My headache peaked and then receded to a dry throb. My nose tingled, and I wiped at it reflexively. Thankfully, there was no blood.
I sat there for several minutes afterward, letting my breathing slow and the remaining pressure drain away naturally. When I stood, my legs felt a bit wobbly, but it was manageable.
It was time to check the script.
<> — — — <> — — — <>
——Elias' Archive——
Archive Rank: Unranked
Scripts: (F | Gray) [Baki Hanma]
Scriptmaking Material: None
<>———<>———<>
Great. A gray quality script on my first attempt was something few could accomplish, but it was overall still common in the entirety of the Earth.
With some energy to spare, I focused intently.
'Summon Script: Baki Hanma!' I thought, channeling the remainders of my energy.
There was no surge of light or any sound. Just a subtle pressure shift, though unmistakably there.
My skin prickled as something was pulled outward from my Archive and forced into the physical world.
The floor creaked.
A figure took shape a few steps in front of me.
At first, it was only a silhouette. Then mass and heat settled into it. It was the presence of a living body occupying space where there had been none a second ago.
Baki Hanma stood there, barefoot on the wooden floor.
He was shorter than I'd imagined. His body was lean and compact, built for efficiency.
His muscles were defined in a way that felt quite wrong up close–dense, like every fiber had been trained to do exactly one thing.
He inhaled slowly.
The breath came out firm and steady. His chest moved and settled into its tempo, ribs shifting against their natural stiffness without pause. He didn't roll his shoulders or stretch, choosing to stand there as he was.
His eyes opened.
They moved across the room in pieces, starting with the wall first, then the desk, then the narrow space near the door. When they reached me, they stopped.
He was barefoot. His feet were placed flat on the floorboards, with his toes spread slightly, pressing down with enough force to maintain his balance. One foot slid forward a little and stopped. The wood creaked under it.
I took a step closer.
His body adjusted without him looking at me. One hip shifted back. His weight wasn't centered anymore.
I stopped.
Up close, he didn't look large, nor tall or wide. But the way his body held itself felt compact, as though there wasn't much space inside him that wasn't already in use.
His arms hung loosely, elbows bent just enough that they didn't lock.
I felt the urge to move aside, but I didn't know why.
I focused inward and dismissed the script.
The pull was quick and sharp. Pressure flared behind my eyes, and so his shape lost solidity all at once, breaking apart without resistance until there was nothing left in front of me.
The floor was quiet again.
I sat down on the bed and waited. The ache in my head was beginning to fade, but I certainly couldn't use any narrative essence for a while.
When I checked my Archive, the entry was still there.
I looked at it for a while.
Then I closed the Archive and reached for my laptop.
Applications closed in three days. I'd made something good, not great, but it should certainly be better than most of my competition.
After all, creative thinking costs narrative essence in this reality. I already had my memories of fiction from wherever I came from (I'm still a bit confused as to what's going on. Did I always exist here? Who am I really?).
I couldn't help the excitement bubbling inside of me.
Oh, the things to do.
"Alert! F-Grade Rift Detected, all civilians please enter your nearest bunker."