I'm Aoi Misora—just another high-schooler trying to survive the everyday battlefield known as teenage life.
The hallway buzzed like a disturbed hive. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. Laughter flared and died in bursts. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and cafeteria bread.
A boy approached a group clustered near the windows.
"Hey, how you doing?"
The words were ordinary. Casual. Harmless.
The reaction was not.
The students froze as if someone had pressed pause on reality. One of them forced a brittle smile. "Uh… yeah… good to see you." His voice cracked halfway through. Another adjusted their bag. A third pretended to check their phone, though the screen was black.
Then they scattered—too quickly, too neatly—like birds sensing a predator's shadow.
Whispers trailed behind them, thin and sharp.
I watched the entire exchange from my spot near the classroom door, curiosity coiling inside me like a cat stretching in sunlight.
Then my gaze drifted—inevitably—to Shinra Noa, seated two rows ahead of me.
There was something… wrong about him. Not wrong in a moral way. Not even wrong in a dangerous way. Just—misaligned. Like a painting hung slightly off-center, impossible to ignore once noticed.
His eyes were the first thing anyone saw. Black sclera, as though midnight had spilled into them. Faint purple irises, dim and distant like stars glimpsed through deep water. Not a contact lens. Not artificial. Just… there.
He wasn't rude. He never glared. Never shoved. Never raised his voice.
If anything, he was polite.
Too polite.
He listened when teachers spoke. He answered when called on. He didn't slouch, didn't fidget, didn't tap his pen or bounce his knee like the rest of us restless mortals.
But around him—there was a wall.
Not visible.
Not tangible.
Yet it existed.
Whenever I tried to talk to him, a strange weight settled in my chest. Not fear. Not anxiety. Something colder. Denser. As if gravity itself thickened in his presence. I would open my mouth, prepared with something casual—"Did you finish the homework?" or "What page are we on?"—and then the words would die before they were born.
I'd look down at my notebook instead, pretending to reread notes I had already memorized.
Everyone else felt it too.
Even the loudest boys—those who treated the classroom like their personal stage—lowered their voices when passing his desk. No bully dared test him. It wasn't that they respected him.
It was that they sensed something they couldn't categorize.
An unspoken rule had formed around him:
Leave him alone.
Sometimes our eyes met by accident.
When that happened, something inside me tightened.
There was no anger in his gaze.
No malice.
No mockery.
Just stillness.
But that stillness felt endless. Like staring into a frozen ocean and realizing the ice beneath you stretched deeper than the sky above.
There was… nothing inside those purple eyes.
And that nothing felt infinite.
Yet strangely—he wasn't frightening in the way monsters in horror movies were frightening. There were no sharp edges. No overt threat.
Just calm.
A calm so complete it made the classroom's noise seem childish. Temporary. Meaningless.
I couldn't explain it, but I wanted to understand him.
Not because I was scared.
Not because I was fascinated.
Just… because he existed like a question without punctuation.
And I've always hated unanswered questions.
From my seat, I noticed the small things.
The way his hands rested lightly on the desk, fingers relaxed as if he held invisible threads only he could see.
The way sunlight touched his hair, yet seemed unable to warm him.
The way he didn't avoid anyone—but everyone avoided him.
It felt almost unfair.
As though he was living in a different layer of reality while sharing the same classroom.
And the more I watched, the more something stirred inside me—not fear, not attraction—just a thrilling curiosity that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and wondering what would happen if you leaned a little further.
---
Again… I got ignored.
Again!
Is it because of these black eyes?
Noa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the back of a student's head as they hurried away.
Doctors had said it was some rare blood condition. Harmless. Congenital. "Nothing to worry about," they'd assured him with professional smiles.
He had almost laughed.
The world itself felt like the illness.
Every day repeated itself like a scratched record.
Wake up. Uniform. Class. Lecture. Notes. Bell. Home.
Rinse. Repeat.
The routine wrapped around him like soft chains—comfortable, suffocating.
He didn't have friends.
Eyes? Personality? Didn't matter.
He didn't care either way.
…Though, admittedly, the eyes were kind of cool.
He glanced around the classroom.
Students bent over notebooks. Some scrolled through phones beneath their desks, thinking they were subtle. Others whispered about test scores, love confessions, social hierarchies that would dissolve the moment they graduated.
They worried about popularity as if it were a currency that could be spent in the afterlife.
None of it mattered.
And then he noticed her again.
Aoi Misora.
Two rows away.
Yellow eyes that didn't flinch.
Silver hair—short framing her face, long strands falling down her back like a quiet waterfall of moonlight.
She wasn't like the others.
Most people skimmed through life like it was a picture book.
She read it.
Line by line.
That made her… interesting.
He let his hands rest loosely on the desk, leaning back as sunlight spilled through the window. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, turning the classroom into a snow globe of ordinary existence.
School was predictable.
People were predictable.
Even his boredom was predictable.
After I die… will I go to another world, like in those novels?
He imagined it for a second.
Truck-kun.
A glowing circle.
A goddess with poor management skills.
He almost smiled.
At least that would be something new.
Then, suddenly—
Everything broke.
Not gradually.
Not subtly.
Reality didn't crack.
It shattered.
Light—vast and merciless—flooded the classroom. Not sunlight. Not artificial brightness.
This was something older.
Desks stretched like melted wax. Walls twisted as though the room had become liquid. Voices warped, elongated, snapped.
Someone screamed.
Another student grabbed their friend's arm so tightly their knuckles turned white.
The teacher shouted something, but the words dissolved into static.
The world folded in on itself like paper burned from the edges.
Noa didn't panic.
He felt… intrigued.
The way a reader feels when the plot finally begins.
When his vision returned, the floor beneath him was no longer floor.
It was nothing.
A white platform extended infinitely, smooth and luminous, suspended in a starfield that swallowed comprehension. Constellations spiraled overhead like thoughts too large to contain.
Symbols drifted through the air—ancient, glowing, incomprehensible—like fragments of forgotten languages.
Ah…
The classic otherworld summon.
At the center stood a being.
It did not resemble a god in the way statues depict them.
It was shifting geometry. Angles that should not exist. Light and shadow intertwined. It hurt to focus on, as if perspective itself rejected it.
Its voice did not travel through air.
It bloomed inside their minds.
"You have been summoned to another world to become heroes."
Panic erupted.
Someone cried.
Someone laughed hysterically.
One student fainted in a perfectly dramatic fashion, which would have been impressive under normal circumstances.
"Protagonists, huh," Noa muttered under his breath.
The being continued:
"To rise in power, each of you will be granted an Essence Fragment."
A pause.
"To you… some may call it a 'System.'"
Light descended like rain.
Not warm.
Not cold.
It touched each student individually.
Some gasped as translucent panels appeared before them.
Dude, this is happening way too quick.
"I have stats!" someone shouted.
"Ohhh… there's a panel in front of me!"
"Me too!"
"I just have a voice in my head," whispered another, wide-eyed.
Chaos bloomed in miniature—comparisons, laughter, nervous bragging.
Noa watched.
The light approached him.
Touched him.
Passed.
Nothing appeared.
No window.
No voice.
No numbers.
Shouldn't I have some sort of panel too?
He kept his face neutral.
Better not tell anyone.
If this being thought he was "empty," it might interfere.
Though… a small flicker of excitement stirred in him.
Interesting.
The godlike entity spoke once more:
"Well then. Good luck."
And the white world shattered again.
***
Somewhere else…
On a cluster of floating islands bathed in eternal sunlight, a woman stood beside a throne carved from crystal and sky.
Her long blue hair shimmered like liquid sapphire. Her eyes glowed, deep and knowing.
She watched something unseen.
And smiled.
"heheh… he really did—"
Her laughter was soft.
Almost fond.
***
The students found themselves in a vast, luxurious hall.
Polished marble floors reflected trembling figures. Banners hung from towering columns. Chandeliers glittered overhead like captive constellations.
Anxiety spread through the group like ink in water.
"W-wait… where is this?"
"What happened?"
"Who was that before?"
"I—I'm a little scared…"
Hope clung to them stubbornly.
Surely this was temporary.
Surely they would go home.
Hiroshi Takeda, their teacher, stood stiffly at the front. His glasses caught the light as he adjusted them with shaking fingers.
He looked like a man trying very hard not to collapse.
For Noa, though—
They probably gave us these Systems to grow stronger as their pawns.
We won't be going home anytime soon.
Though…
This is already more interesting than that boring little world of mine.
Something inside him shifted.
Not physically.
Metaphorically.
As if invisible chains—rusted and ancient—had fallen away.
Strength flowed quietly into his limbs. Not overwhelming. Just… present.
Around them stood fifteen mages in ceremonial robes, exhaustion written across their faces. Sweat clung to their brows. Mana flickered in the air like the fading scent of lightning after a storm.
Were they the ones who summoned us?
Then why had a god appeared before?
"Ha ha ha—welcome."
The voice thundered through the hall.
On a raised throne sat a man built like a monument.
Broad shoulders. Muscular frame. Crown resting upon dark hair. His gaze was sharp as a drawn blade.
He wasn't merely a king.
He was a king.
Arrogance sat upon him as comfortably as his robes.
Knights lined the chamber, armor gleaming, hands resting on sword hilts.
The students instinctively glanced at the blades.
Then back at the throne.
Hiroshi Takeda stepped forward, swallowing.
"May we know… where we are?"
His voice remained steady—barely.
The king's reply was cold, measured, unquestionable.
"You are in the kingdom of Cyradis, in the northern region."
The name echoed through the hall like a verdict.
And then—
A knight moved.
So fast it almost seemed like a trick of the eye.
Steel flashed.
A shining sword curved in a clean arc—
And stopped just at Noa's neck.
Close enough that he could feel the cool breath of metal against his skin.
The hall fell silent.
Even the chandeliers seemed to hold their light a little tighter.
Noa didn't flinch.
He tilted his head slightly, examining the blade with mild curiosity.
Ah.
So that's how this story plans to begin.