The bell rang in the classroom, an ordinary metallic chime that usually only marked the end of a lesson. Today, it fell like a stone in water—small at first, then sending out ripples that never reached the surface.
Amane sat in her usual seat by the window, but the light from outside did not touch her like it did the others. Her eyes stayed fixed on the blackboard, as if she could read all the way into the crowded depth of her chest. Her gaze had become strict, patient: it observed without thinking, followed without resisting.
Three months had passed since the accident. Three months of nights where sleep was only a sheet too thin to cover the cold. Three months of endless scrolling, photographs looping back to faces and places she could no longer return to. Her thumb slid over her phone screen—mechanical, learned—scrolling through smiles, shared jokes, and the last picture they had taken together, that impossible instant when the whole universe seemed to hold its breath. She kept it just inches from her face, as if proximity could recall the sensation.
Around her, students moved like a small, impatient sea. Some murmured without sound, gossip half-prayer, half-venom. Others avoided her gaze, as if shame or superstition could push grief away.
"…She acts like everything's normal," someone muttered.
"…If she had been careful… he might still be alive," another hissed, bitter as an aftertaste.
A third voice, softer but sharp, cut through the others.
"…Shut up. Didn't you hear what Yuki said? She was there that day—she knows it's not true."
Amane heard everything. The sounds slid across the room and settled into the hollow where her thoughts had disappeared. She did not answer. She had learned the economy of silence: words cost too much and earned nothing.
In her mind, the world had shrunk to three colors: the gray of the classroom ceiling, the washed-out blue of the sky behind the glass, and the deep, unknown black of absence. Even the breeze that stirred the curtain seemed to try not to notice her.
Yuki—her best friend—kept throwing furtive glances at her, the kind meant to decipher unreadable text. She knew the shape of Amane's grief like a familiar street. She had stayed by her side during the first two weeks, bringing instant ramen and pretending that laughter could work as medicine. But lately, her jokes had given way to questions—too long, too heavy between them.
Behind them, someone whispered:
"…Sometimes she looks like a corpse."
The words fell with the crudeness of a stone.
Yuki's hands tightened, fists invisible beneath her sleeves. The color drained from her face and anger—raw, protective—took its place.
"…Shut up!" she burst out, louder than she had meant to. Silence slammed down on the class like a lid.
Amane felt Yuki's outburst like a small warmth, a candle held under the rain. A faint smile flickered and died at the corner of her lips. When Yuki mouthed "Are you okay?", she answered with studied calm.
"…I'm fine," she said. The phrase was scentless, identical to those polite formulas one says to end a conversation.
The teacher stood to fetch something from the hallway. The door opened and a cold light slipped through.
"I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay seated and quiet," he said.
No one expected what came next.
Without warning, a glow burst from the floor where chalk dust lingered. It wasn't a simple light; it seemed to bloom from a point beneath the desks and swell like a breath in a balloon. The tiles trembled. The metal chairs resonated with a frequency that made teeth ache.
Desks shook. A light cloud of dust fell from the ceiling. A ring of pale glyphs spread across the linoleum, petals of light locking together into a vast circle. Murmurs turned to screams.
"…What the—what's happening?"
"…This has to be a joke!"
Panic spread like contagion. A student leapt up waving his arms, and a chorus of voices urged movement, escape—but even the air had turned traitorous. A pressure, like the herald of a storm, closed on their throats. They tried to run; their limbs moved sluggishly, stuck in invisible tar.
Then, with a sound that might have been a bell or a scream, the magic swallowed them. It took their breath first, then the floor vanished, and the world was rebuilt with a violence that bruised the mind.
When the light drained from their eyes, nothing before them was ordinary.
The sky was violet—an impossible, wounded violet that seemed to have its own gravity. In the distance rose a castle, its towers like teeth against the horizon, its silhouette devouring the sun. The grass beneath their shoes glittered as though dusted with metallic powder and whispered underfoot like a crowd of tiny voices.
At their feet, the ground bore runes, slow and alive, pulsing faintly as if they breathed. Even sound had taken on a new texture: footsteps echoed with a delay that made each moment feel slightly out of joint.
"…Where…" someone began, but the word broke apart.
From the shimmer of the summoning emerged a woman. She was beautiful the way statues are—perfect, not made for life. Silver hair spilled down her back; a white robe hung from her shoulders like a question. In her hand, a staff pulsed with a cold, inner light.
"Welcome, chosen ones," she said. Her voice was not loud, yet it bent the air. "You have been summoned to the Kingdom of Elaria."
The classroom dissolved into chaos: disbelief, fear, and the sudden, selfish hope that all this was only a dream obeying rules. Fingers pointed, eyes widened, and a thousand small plans bloomed in frightened minds.
"You have been summoned to this world for a purpose beyond your comprehension," she said, her voice carrying across the hill, bending the air itself. "The Demon King, a being of immeasurable malice, has risen. He threatens not only this realm but all worlds connected to it. You were chosen because each of you carries potential that, together, can shift the balance."
Murmurs rose immediately among the students.
"…Chosen? That's just a pretty word for cannon fodder!" a boy spat, anger flashing across his face.
"…Why us? We're just normal high schoolers!" another cried, voice shaking.
Fear and disbelief spread: some clung to each other, others paced nervously or muttered curses. A few, eyes wide, whispered of adventure and glory, though their trembling hands betrayed them.
The priestess did not waver. "I understand your fear, your anger, your doubt. You all feel powerless. But the choice before you is simple: stand aside, and worlds will burn, or rise and fight. I will guide you. The strength you need exists—in you, and among you—but it must be awakened. Can you do it?"
Silence fell. Wind rustled through the metallic grass, carrying the scent of wild earth. Students exchanged glances, pride, fear, and curiosity colliding. One by one, their hands fell to their sides, their breathing steadied, as though absorbing her words and letting panic burn off slightly.
At last, a boy at the front murmured, almost grudgingly: "…Fine… we'll try. But if we die, don't say we weren't warned."
A girl at the back, cheeks flushed, added: "…I-I'll do my part too… but this is insane!"
The priestess inclined her head, her pale eyes softening just enough to offer a hint of comfort. "Good. Then come, and I will lead you to the city where your journey will begin. There, your roles and paths will become clear."
The group followed her down the gentle slope of the hill. Each step drew them closer to a sprawling city nestled in the valley below. The air grew thick with the scents of baked bread, smoke, and the faint salt of a river winding through stone streets. Birds of unknown shapes and colors—some gleaming like molten metal, others covered in iridescent, subtle feathers—flew overhead, singing trills and cries that made the students stop, mouths open.
"…Look at them… they don't even seem real," one girl whispered, awe tangled with fear.
"They're alive," Amane said softly, more to herself than to anyone else. "…And we… not yet."
The city itself was a maze of towers, markets, and cobblestone streets that twisted like the paths of an ancient puzzle. Beings of every shape crossed the avenues: tall, horned creatures with skin polished like stone; tiny, winged beings darting between legs; and humanoid merchants whose features glowed faintly with elemental magic. The students whispered, some clutching friends, others wrinkling their noses at unfamiliar odors.
The priestess raised her hand, and like a curtain drawn by an invisible hand, the noise stilled.
"Each of you has been granted a unique ability," she said. "Look within yourselves; your status will appear."
A dozen glowing panels flared before their eyes—bright, strange. Excitement struck like lightning. Voices erupted: exclamations, curses, laughter, that brief human relief of discovery.
"…Scarlet Flame!" someone shouted.
"…EXP x10!" another cried.
Yuki's smile split her face; hope unfurled like a banner.
Amane closed her eyes when her turn came. She inhaled as if to drink in the world's color and felt only a fragile crack within.
Her status panel opened in ghostly white letters.
---
Name: Amane Seiren
Race: Human
Class: Unassigned
Level: 1
HP: 100/100
MP: 5/5
Strength: 6
Agility: 7
Endurance: 4
Magic: 0
Luck: 1
Unique Skill: [Writer] — Can rename any ability.
Status: Unfit for combat
Potential: Unstable
---
The room seemed to grow colder. Around her, disappointment buzzed like an angry wasp.
"…That's it?" someone scoffed.
"…No offensive skill?"
A thin, disgusted laugh slid among the students.
Amane lowered her head and felt every word fall with weight. Yuki's hand found hers—fingers brushing like a lifeline. Her eyes held a silent plea: don't become a wall between us.
"…Are you okay?" she whispered.
Amane looked at her, and for the first time since the summoning, something like a tremor passed through her. She forced a smile because the world demanded that form of civility.
"…I'll be fine," she said, and the lie fit so well it could have been truth.
The priestess led them through the city's main gate. "You will be divided into groups," she announced, her tone precise, almost ceremonial. "Each group will train, grow, and be assigned tasks suited to your abilities. Some of you will face trials beyond expectation. Do not despair—do not falter. Trust what you are about to uncover."
A ripple of tension passed through the students.
"…What? We're going to be separated? That's not fair!" a boy shouted, fists clenched.
"…This is insane! I don't even know what I can do!" another exclaimed, pale and twisted with fear.
The priestess raised her staff, and the mutters of dissent fell silent. "You will have your chance," she said firmly. "This is not punishment. This is training. Preparation. The path will test you—but only by walking it will you find your strength. Trust yourselves. Trust each other."
The students clustered like planets drawn to different suns. Bright eyes seized futures with euphoria. Rumors of glory spread, making court gossip of the weaker ones.
Amane's name was called into the third group. It felt like a door closing.
"…That's not fair!" someone protested.
"…We're not disposable!"
The priestess's eyes, pale as moonlit glass, did not soften.
"Those who refuse may leave—if they can find the way."
Yuki forced a smile and stepped forward. She pressed her hand over Amane's, and in that instant the world shrank.
"…We'll see each other again. I'll find you. I promise." Her voice had a ragged edge—fear braided with resolve.
Amane's throat tightened. She nodded, for a nod costs nothing.
They were led into a circular chamber, vaulted and cold, the stone smelling of ancient rain. Another summoning circle glowed at its center. A sack—plain, utilitarian—was tossed to the floor with a dull thud.
Words were given. Orders pronounced. The priestess's murmur sliced what little hope remained:
"Let the judgment of the weak begin."
The dome closed with the careless cruelty of inevitability. Light swallowed them and spat them into a place where air mattered less than hunger.
A dungeon spread before them: narrow, damp with the humidity of old stories; shadows with a taste of iron; echoes that forgot themselves only to return changed, harsher.
Panic devoured their judgment. The spells that had shone in the classroom sputtered against the darkness. First blood spilled, hot and vile—low, tearing sounds as creatures tore into confusion and flesh. Red eyes gleamed in the black.
Mutant wolves, ravenous.
Amane stood in the middle like a weather-worn statue. Around her, classmates screamed and were ripped apart. One by one, cries broke and died; the corridor filled with an obscene mortar of tragedy. The scent of iron thickened the air where, moments earlier, only fear had lingered.
"…Amane!" some shouted—accusation mixed with plea. "…What do we do? Say something!"
She finally looked at them, and the face she offered was a flat mirror.
"…I'm sorry," she said, not because she believed it could undo the violence, but because language searched for an anchor.
Then she ran.
Her legs remembered only the mechanics of movement. She ran like fleeing a recalled dream, feet slapping damp stone, breath tearing her throat. The screams followed like a chorus without response.
Battered, bleeding, she stumbled through the dungeon's corridors, and—minutes, or hours later—she slipped by mistake into a side chamber. The flickering torchlight revealed a forsaken room: rusted chests, a skeleton half-buried in dust, and at the center, a pedestal bearing a necklace.
It was small and ugly and unbearably beautiful: a pendant set with a gem black as a hole, rimmed in silver filigree that caught the torchlight and held it like memory.
As she looked at it, the world contracted: air thinned, closeness sharpened to the unbearable. The dungeon's funeral choir faded, replaced by a thread—almost a voice at first—that slid into her skull.
"Do you wish for your desire to be granted?" it whispered.
The voice had no form, but it matched the angle of her loneliness.
She had never thought such words could sound like mercy. They sounded like a hand on her shoulder—clear, near, and terrifying in its promise.
She thought of faces that had been there and were gone. She thought of Yuki, of how her fingers had found hers, of the warmth of their last normal day. She thought of the lingering ache of guilt, of how survival had hollowed her into glass.
"…Yes," she murmured, though the answer felt incomplete.
The necklace slipped around her neck with a cold that sank deeper than skin. A pulse ran through her bones—a frozen fire spreading like ink.
"This despair… it tastes of deep things," the voice mused, and for a heartbeat she felt something ancient had read her entire life like a palimpsest.
Her hands, without waiting for permission, closed around a sword resting on the pedestal: broad, old, vibrating with availability that answered the necklace. Its weight anchored her to the moment.
She thought of the forgiveness she could not ask and the last recklessness she could grant, to herself and those she had betrayed.
"…Forgive me, Yuki," she breathed, to no one and to everything.
Steel met flesh.
Pain, sharp and terrible, cut through everything—memories, darkness, senses. The world shrank, for one breath, to a single point: her name on lips she would never hear again, a photograph, the dizzying possibility of ending.
And then—before finality could seal itself—the necklace blazed, and fate sank its teeth into the moment.
The last thing she saw before the world tilted was a flash of light, neither tender nor forgiving, but precise: as if calculation and superstition had conspired to refuse the end. Her vision tore, and threads of something else wove into the breach.
Fate had not finished speaking. Something else—older, hungrier, or merely opportunistic—had noticed the crack and chosen its foothold. The blade slipped from her hands. Its echo rang long in the chamber.
Over the pounding of her pulse, another voice—different from the necklace's gentle seduction—breathed like wind through stone.
"…Child," it said. "You have chosen. We will answer."
It was not mercy.
It was not kindness.
But it was an answer.