"Um... hello?"
His voice was clear and concise, not really matching his appearance.
A small boy, slender and frail, he looked as if a brush of wind could carry him across the world.
Thick frames, messy black hair with bangs.
Typical–
A person you could find anywhere in the world.
In front of him stood a tall man; he was lean, built like an athlete. His muscles transparent in his arms.
He wore a dark beige-like vest and a plain white short sleeve with a collar.
"Do you have books about... uh... Tragedy Readers?"
The tall man adjusted his circular glasses as he began typing away on a keyboard.
"Yeah, second floor, left."
The boy began walking away urgently. He speed-walked just a few steps faster, and the man would've told him not to run.
"Wait!"
"Hmm?"
The young man looked back at the Academy's Librarian, who had just called out to him.
"You'll find books there, but I doubt they'll have the answers you're looking for, kid. Find Desmond Arkive, he might have them."
"Huh? He's ranked eighth at the academy. Why would he waste his time on me?"
"You'd think so, but he'll be your best bet."
"Ah, thank you."
He paused for a moment. He didn't think the librarian would actually speak up, as he's known for being indifferent to every student that walks past here.
He's most known for saying, "I want to retire," in his deep, stern voice—which, combined with his looks, makes the female students completely swoon over him.
"Come back tomorrow. He'll be here."
****
'Why did Dr. Ortiz want me to talk to this guy?'
"Yo."
I raised my hand slightly in the air, greeting the slender boy that stood before me.
'This better be interesting, or else it'll just be a waste of time.'
I don't keep up with first-years; it's just a waste of time to me.
A backdrop of bookshelves adorned with books containing knowledge you could find nowhere else.
Hundreds of mysteries unsolved, a collection of stories as well as techniques for Readers trying to gather strength.
I sat at a small table, humbly reading a story about some stupid regressor who saves the world 1000 times or something.
Just your average slop fiction, good for passing the time.
I sat there, my messy black hair slightly adjusting as I looked around the academy's library, my light, diamond-like eyes drawn to every corner of the world before me.
The boy was wearing the typical academy uniform: a gray jacket pinned with our symbol and a crimson red tie.
Most students wore it—unless you were in the top 12 of the academies. Some rules don't apply to those students.
Like me. The only rule for our uniforms was to wear our emblem somewhere on it.
"Hah... so what do you want to know?"
"How do you feel it?"
"Feel what? Specify."
'Is he acting dumb on purpose?'
"Feel—Well, uh, despair..."
He paused for a moment, hoping to hear some secret wisdom I'd pass on.
'A secret technique for unlocking your emotions or a piece of hidden guidance he didn't see before. Sorry to break it for you, but that doesn't exist.'
I looked back up at him. His fists were clenched, his irises filled with silent hope for my next words.
'So desperate, for what? He kinda reminds me of me. When I was so desperately trying to catch up with them. Now, I'm stronger than most of them.'
"Despair isn't something you find. It's something you learn to live with. Us Tragedy Readers—we are different. Special in some sort of way. Despair and death follow us like a lost dog. A bastard curse which God laid upon us."
I trailed off, my voice dropping up and down like a roller coaster. I don't know if it helped, but I hoped he forgot about "looking for despair" or whatever bullshit.
However, his face only flushed in frustration, fueled by his hunger for power—his fists tightening as he tried to ask once again, expecting a different reply.
"How? How do I feel it, now?"
Though, why would my answer change?
"Don't be in such a rush. Everything will come in time. If you're half as interesting as that bastard librarian thinks you are, then it will. Just have some hope."
"Easier said than done. I need the strength right now. My Sentences can barely keep up with the rest of Class 1-1."
I could sense his emotions riling up, his desperation for strength mimicking my prior self. It felt all too familiar.
'So lame. What do you see in him, Ortiz? Just because he was a little like me back then?'
Images of me overlapping with his—my ambitions, my goals;
unwantedly rushing into my head for no goddamn reason.
"Hah..."
'Nowadays? I don't want to fight. I don't want to win. I just want to fucking stop. Just stop.'
However, something unexpected happened—as if the world was showing me a big, fat middle finger.
A sixth-ranked first-year, 689 in the academy.
Trying to attack the eighth-ranked in the academy?
"If I can't do this. If I can't beat them... how will I get her back?"
He muttered just slightly under his breath while he looked down toward the floor.
His emotions subtly slipping into the words he spoke.
"What a basic character with a basic backstory. Come back with something more interesting."
I swatted my hand at him, brushing him off. I didn't want to talk to him any longer.
I didn't see a point in it.
His fists clenched even tighter, his teeth gritting against the others. It seemed my reaction got to him.
He spoke.
"1st Sentence: Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
'A Sentence? Souls. His and mine are the same. A mind-reading ability or a copy ability?'
A flicker of a shadow appeared in my eyes.
A man peering from behind the shelf of a bookcase.
Thin, circular glasses clouded in shadow.
Normally, he would step up—but he didn't.
He wanted this.
"Hhah..."
'Ortiz... you bastard. You wanted this—sadistic fuck.'
Mikhail seemed to be in a trance, dazed somewhat.
Thud–
"Ugh... what the fuck?"
"Look who came back to reality..."
'His Sentence. Not mimicry or mind-reading. I feel it—the connection. He really touched something he shouldn't have.'
He had dropped
to the floor, each breath thundering in his eardrums. Rampant, wild, heavy—it felt like each gasp of air was trying to catch up with the one before it.
Fear.
True fear.
He was stunned. His face seemed stuck—the only semblance of living was his breathing, and it was really starting to piss me off.
"Did you see it?"
'I wonder what he saw. What's the extent of his skills?'
My eyes grew cold, unlike the dull blue that looked around the world with silent curiosity.
My voice was sarcastic, tingling with sharpness. It stretched ever so slightly as I spoke.
"A first-year?"
Mixing with a slight sort of amusement—because this was amusing.
"Trying to attack me?"
'I guess this new generation doesn't understand the powers of their superiors.'
I got up from my seat, and
I walked.
Each footstep, I could hear his breathing growing—his feet kicking against the floor only to slide desperately across the carpet-like flooring.
"Do you finally understand? Despair will always find us. No matter where you run. Where you hide. Your loved ones, your family. All on the table before him."
His breathing grew louder and louder.
Like a drum marching ever so closer to your house.
In and out,
in and out,
again, and again.
I didn't care. Not really.
'He's more similar to me than meets the eye. Desperate to control his emotions, his powers, that he doesn't even understand the weight of. Just like me, he'll learn the hard way.'
I let out a soft chuckle, witnessing the horror etched across his face as I stepped ever so closer.
"Unlike me, you're two-dimensional. A character you can find anywhere. Nothing special, nothing grand. Tell me why you read?"
He didn't say anything—not a single word.
He tried to make one, tried to speak to me, tried to form a single sentence, but he couldn't.
Yet, I could feel it.
A thread that connected me and him.
'The ability to connect souls together. Our emotions, our feelings, our memories. It's quite strong. Much better than mind-reading.'
"I have seen hundreds like you. Readers desperate to escape their own cruel reality. Acting only on emotions, fighting battles you can't comprehend."
'I hope he does learn. I hope he sees it—that being a Reader of Tragedy is the worst fate given to a person.'
I spoke—my words simple and concise. However, they carried weight; they carried emotion.
Each word felt like a gateway. A gateway into my heart, into the soul Mikhail connected with his own.
"3rd Sentence: These violent delights have violent ends."
A small red book danced across my body, floating ever so softly around me. A gift for reaching the sixth level of mastery for Romeo and Juliet.
The air shifted, the temperature rose, and the tension had already risen far past it.
What my Sentence could do?
Well, it could only be described as—
Beautiful.
A word that instantly overtook the head of the small boy before me.
He looked at me, and his eyes drew back to his fingertips.
Fire.
Beautiful, beautiful flames.
It softly roared in a warmth that matched the sun's gaze, and it twisted in tendrils like ribbons fluttering in the hands of a performer.
The colors—it was like the sunset and the sunrise had meshed into colors forming on the horizon of Desmond's finger,
A small ball condensing in a spectacle of fiery radiance.
I looked at it. No matter how many times I saw it—
It never grew old.
It was a stark reminder that everything grand, everything beautiful, is a tragedy waiting to happen.
Tragedies always burn the brightest; they always leave the audience mesmerized far more than any other story.
Clenching his teeth, his breath steadying as his body came to a calm.
The boy, Mikhail—he shouted once more.
"2nd Sentence: I cannot live without my soul."
His voice wavered, breaking ever so slightly, and yet he spoke with conviction.
A tinge of hope that shined through the fear.
That was his mistake.
"Hope is useless in a tragedy. The outcome will always be the same."
My voice grew disinterested. I was tired.
The battle had already been won.
I turned around, not even bothering to look at Mikhail.
"Haahh... I just want to retire in peace."
A clear, crisp, but tired voice rang out, Ortiz had finally stepped in.
"Hmm. Looks like the bastard librarian finally did something."
I looked back at them, my dazzling flames already smoldered out by the strength of our dear librarian.
"Mikhail, or whatever your name was. I promise you. When the world takes everything from you—you'll realize that you should've listened. You should've abandoned the path of Tragedy."
"Then... then... Why? Why don't you!?"
"I owe it to her, to them, to everybody. It's simply how it goes. Once my job is done, I won't live much longer than that."
'Telling him to give up. Maybe I'm projecting. Who knows?'