Arien stared at Shiro, her disbelief so potent it was almost a physical force in the space between them. The bustling hallway of students flowing around them seemed to fade into a dull roar.
Arien: What do you mean, 'eh'? she repeated, her voice tight with exasperation. Are you seriously telling me you don't take another class besides the SR class? That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works!
Shiro: But I'm a short-range fighter, he said, as if this simple statement explained everything. He shrugged, a lazy, infuriating gesture. So what, should I go sit in a long-range class and take notes on how to throw a fireball from a hundred yards away?
Arien put both hands on her head, her fingers pressing into her scalp as if trying to physically contain her frustration. She looked skyward, though all she could see was the vaulted stone ceiling of the academy hallway.
Arien: Please, by all that is logical and good in this world, fix this man's brain. I am begging you.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, the kind meant to ward off an impending meltdown, and began explaining with the painstaking slowness of someone addressing a very small, very confused child.
Arien: Listen. Every single student at this academy needs to take two specialized classes. It's mandatory. For those of us in the Short-Range combat track, we only have two options. She held up a finger. First: The Artificer Class, run by Professor Alaric Pendragon. It's about weapon enhancement, tactical gear, channeling power through objects-
Shiro tilted his head, his expression one of genuine, blank confusion.
Shiro: Professor who?
Arien: Alaric. Pendragon. She enunciated each syllable with forced patience. So, you can either take that class, she held up a second finger, or you can go to the Practical Application Class. So. What's your answer?
Shiro was silent for a moment. He brought a hand up, covering his mouth, and closed his eyes as if in deep contemplation. When he spoke, his voice was low.
Shiro: If I go to the Artificer Class, I'll just be a problem to the other students. All I'd do is sleep through lectures on rune-carving and metallurgy. He opened his eyes and turned to her, and the shift was sudden and startling. His gaze was no longer sleepy; it was sharp, clear, and utterly resolute. And if I go to the Practical Class... it's the same thing. I'm not changing who I am for a timetable.
His eyes held hers, and the message was clear: This is me. Take it or leave it.
Arien: Haaaaa... The sigh escaped her like a deflating balloon. She saw the stubborn set of his jaw and knew she was fighting a losing battle. Fine. Just... join the Practical Class. It's run by Professor Kareth, so at least you're familiar with her. You won't feel too out of place. And you're already... you know... pretty strong when you bother to try. So it should be fine for you.
A sly, knowing look crossed Shiro's face.
Shiro: From what you're saying... it sounds like you're in the Practical Class too.
Arien crossed her arms, a faint blush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
Arien: Yes, well... I'm good at learning stuff from books. But in a real fight... my execution is... still developing.
Shiro: I see. A genuine, easy smile spread across his face. Then Practical it is, he announced, a note of finality in his voice.
Arien: Well, you can pick another one if you like- she started, feeling a sudden, strange need to give him an out.
Shiro: Nah, he interrupted, his smile turning into a mischievous grin. If I pick the Practical Class, I get a front-row seat to watch you failing again and again. It'll be entertaining. He let out a soft, teasing laugh. Heh heh heh.
Arien rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile touched her lips. He was impossible.
Shiro: So when does this glorious class start? I mean, the actual class.
Arien: Because of that partner assignment, today is a free day-no secondary classes. It all starts tomorrow. Sooo... since we have time to kill, let's head to the library or something. We can at least look like we're being productive.
Shiro: Oh, the library sounds awesome, Shiro said, his eyes lighting up with a sincerity that had nothing to do with academic pursuit.
Arien: Why? Because the carrels are dark and quiet and you can sleep peacefully without me slamming desks?
Shiro: Right on the spot. You're learning.
In the Library
The Shikai Academy library was a cavernous space, a temple of silence and knowledge. Towering shelves of dark, polished wood reached up toward a vaulted ceiling where faint, magical orbs of light hovered, casting a soft, golden glow. The air was still and cool, carrying the faint, comforting scent of old paper, leather bindings, and dust. Only a handful of students were scattered throughout the vast room, their presence mere whispers in the overwhelming quiet.
Arien: Well then, Arien said, her voice instinctively dropping to a library-appropriate murmur. I'm going to look at some books on intermediate aerial combat forms. After all, my hobby is reading now. She gave him a pointed look before turning and vanishing into the labyrinth of bookshelves.
Shiro raised his hand in a half-hearted, lazy wave. The moment she was gone, the slight energy he had seemed to drain away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to wander aimlessly through the aisles, his footsteps silent on the thick, patterned rug. He wasn't looking for anything in particular-just drifting, a sleepwalker in a world of waking dreams.
Then, he heard it again.
The voice.
But this time, it was different. It wasn't cheerful or distant. It was close. And broken.
???: Why? Why?
The voice was a raw whisper, filled with a pain that was both physical and soul-deep. Shiro froze mid-step, his blood running cold. He spun around, his heart already hammering against his ribs. This time, his expression shifted from vague confusion to something sharper, more primal-genuine fear.
???: Why aren't you dead yet?
Until now, Shiro had only heard the disembodied, cheerful voices of children. But now, standing right in the aisle between two towering shelves of historical treatises, was a boy. A small boy with jet-black hair matted with grime and something darker. His clothes were torn and hung from his thin frame in tatters. And he was bleeding-thick, crimson blood dripped from a gash on his forehead, running down his cheek and splattering silently on the rug. His eyes were the worst part-empty, hollow sockets that held no light, yet were fixed directly, accusingly, on Shiro.
Shiro: What? The word was a choked gasp.
???: Why? Why? the boy whispered, taking a shuddering step forward. All of them died... but not you?
Shiro's hand shot out, gripping a shelf for support, his knuckles turning white. The solid, polished wood was the only real thing in a world that was suddenly tilting. He began backing away slowly, his breath catching in his throat, each inhale a desperate, ragged thing. The boy mirrored him, taking another step, his movements unnaturally stiff, like a puppet on tangled strings.
Shiro: What are you talking about? Shiro managed, his voice barely audible.
Suddenly, with a sickening, wet pop, the boy's right leg exploded in a burst of crimson mist and shadow. There was no sound, only the horrific visual. The boy crumpled to the ground but did not stop. He began crawling toward Shiro, dragging his mangled, bleeding body across the lush carpet, leaving a smeared trail of red in his wake.
???: Why didn't you do anything for that? the boy sobbed, his voice cracking with a agony that seemed to fill the very air. Why didn't you save us?
Shiro: I- I- I don't know! Shiro stammered, his mind reeling, memories he couldn't grasp clawing at the edges of his consciousness. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM MEEE?
He stumbled backward, his legs giving way, and he fell hard onto the floor. He scrambled back, kicking out wildly with his feet as if to keep the apparition at bay. Don't come near me! Don't! he yelled, his voice tearing through the sacred silence of the library.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
It was a real, solid weight. But in his panic, Shiro's instincts-honed and feral-took over. He didn't think. He moved. In one fluid, violent motion, he grabbed the person by the neck and slammed them against the bookshelf. The impact sent a shudder through the shelves and a few books tumbled to the floor with soft thuds. He held the figure-a male student with wide, terrified eyes-two feet off the ground.
Student: Stop! Stop! Please! the student choked out, his hands clawing at Shiro's iron grip.
The sound of a real, panicked voice-a voice from the present-shattered the nightmare. Shiro's vision cleared. The bloody boy was gone. Vanished. No trace, no sound, not even a smudge of blood on the rug.
Shiro released his grip immediately, stumbling back three steps in horror. The student collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, clutching his throat.
Shiro didn't stay. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. His entire body trembled, his hands shaking so violently he could barely form fists. His eyes darted around the library, searching the shadows between the shelves, under the tables-anywhere the boy could be hiding. He saw nothing but the stunned, frightened face of the student he'd just attacked and the confused looks of others who had heard the commotion.
Without a word of apology, without a single backward glance, Shiro turned and ran.
He burst out of the library doors and into the hallway, then out into the courtyard. He didn't stop. He ran past startled students, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm of pure terror against his ribs. He didn't stop until he skidded to a halt in front of his dorm room, fumbling with the handle before practically falling inside.
He slammed the door shut and, without even turning on the light, rushed to the farthest, darkest corner of the room. He slid down the wall, crouching into the smallest possible ball, and buried his head in his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs.
The silence of the room was broken only by his harsh, uneven breathing. Over and over again, he whispered into the fabric of his trousers, a desperate, broken mantra against the visions in his head.
It's not me... It's not me... It's not me...
And there, curled up in the dark, physically and mentally exhausted, the tremors slowly subsiding, he finally succumbed to a deep, troubled sleep.