Silence dominated the room — a silence that didn't feel empty, but repressed.
The kind that forms when a person learns their voice only brings trouble.
The lantern on the bedside table flickered weakly, as if afraid to burn too bright.
Its soft light carved long shadows across plain wooden walls — washed clean, scrubbed, purged of anything personal. It was almost as if someone had erased all traces of emotion from this space.
No posters.
No trophies.
No childish clutter.
Just obedience.
Leonhardt traced the edge of the bedframe with a finger. The wood wasn't old — but it had marks, tiny dents and scratches. Signs of someone who lived carefully, who never slammed a drawer or stomped a foot. Someone who had been taught to disappear.
The wardrobe in the corner had only two shirts hanging inside.
The rest of the space was empty.
A sword stand stood nearby — but the weapon was gone.
Either sold… or taken away.
"Restricted. Controlled," Leonhardt muttered.
Matteo had been a boy allowed to exist… barely.
He inhaled the air — metal and soap, sharp and cold.
Too clean. Like someone wanted to erase his presence even in smell.
Leonhardt's expression stayed blank, but his mind worked fast.
He had died for trusting the wrong people in his previous world.
He wouldn't repeat that mistake.
This time he would gather intel first.
Pick his allies second.
Trust no one.
"Information first," he whispered. "Everything begins here."
He stood.
creeeak
The bed protested faintly — even furniture here was trained to keep quiet.
He moved to the small desk shoved under the window. The surface was worn smooth by countless hours of work — but there were no books, no ink, not even a pen. Either the boy had given up studying… or someone had taken his materials away.
He pulled the drawers open one by one.
Clack.
Empty.
Clack.
Still empty.
He crouched, scanning under the bed. The shadows beneath were thick and suffocating.
His hand brushed against something.
scrape… rustle…
A small wooden box. Plain. Locked only by a rusty latch.
Leonhardt flipped it open.
Inside — a single notebook. Thin, worn, and damaged by moisture.
He sat back on the bed, turning the first page.
Matteo Alberti
— written neatly, carefully, as if the writer respected his own existence back then.
"So… that's the name of the boy whose life I'm inheriting."
He kept reading.
The Early Pages
Warm handwriting. Shaky little stars and clumsy doodles on the corners.
"Father said I'll awaken great spiritual power one day!"
"Mother made my favorite stew!"
"We're going to watch the night festival! There will be lanterns shaped like dragons!"
A childhood unscarred.
Leonhardt felt nothing sentimental — but he observed. A loved boy is harder to break… and easier to ruin.
The ink changed tones — darker, smudged at places.
"Father didn't come home tonight."
"Soldiers took him away."
"They said he betrayed the City."
"They lied."
A blot of ink spread over the next line — as if the pen had been crushed by shaking hands.
Next pages:
Neighbors pointing.
Doors slamming shut.
Food thrown at their windows.
Whispers like knives.
"Thief's son."
"He should be locked up too."
"Weakling."
"Trash."
Leonhardt's jaw tightened slightly.
He flipped faster.
"Mother collapsed…"
"Doctors too expensive…"
"She smiled when she closed her eyes…" "She didn't wake up."
The handwriting deteriorated —
Small. Tight.
Like someone folding inward.
He moved on.
"Sister married last year. She took me in." "Her husband gave me a blanket. It's warm." "I must never trouble them."
There wasn't anger in Matteo's writing.
Just exhaustion… and apologies.
The World Reveals Itself
A page titled:
Spiritual Power (underlined twice, the ink pressed hard enough to dent the paper)
"Everyone awakens spiritual power at age 12."
"Most go to the Academy at 14 to train it."
"I awakened… but the flame was tiny. Teacher called it 'a defective spark.'"
"I thought the Academy would help me grow stronger…"
"I was wrong."
The next lines were jagged — letters slanting, strokes uneven:
"At Academy, power decides everything." "Strong ones get respect, resources, and mentors."
"Weak ones… are just targets."
A blot of ink smeared across the corner — almost like it was dragged by a trembling hand.
"My classmates call me 'the traitor's cripple.'"
"They throw my books in the gutter."
"They hit me where teachers can't see."
"I can't fight back… my spiritual force flickers like a dying candle."
A short sentence followed — too short and too heavy:
"I wish I could disappear."
Leonhardt's eyes lingered on the last part longer than he expected.
Academy → Structure → Hierarchy
Power = social status
Weakness = permission for violence
Matteo was never just bullied.
He was being erased.
Leonhardt clicked his tongue quietly.
"…a system built to crush the bottom."
The final entries were the most disturbing — because they were too calm.
"If I disappear… sister won't worry anymore."
"I won't be a burden."
"I want the pain to stop."
A rough sketch of a glass vial — black liquid inside.
"Just one drink."
And that was all.
Leonhardt closed the diary.
Tap… tap… tap…
His fingers drummed the surface — a controlled rhythm hiding a storm.
"So this world punishes the weak," he whispered. "Good. I have no intention of staying weak."
He slid the notebook back under the bed, positioning it precisely.
He walked to the window.
Click.
Creeeeak.
Cold air rushed in — carrying the scent of wet stone and distant ash.
He sat on the frame and looked out.
And then he froze.
Two moons hung in the sky — one pale blue, massive and cold…
the other crimson, smaller but burning fiercely.
Two silent judges watching all below.
"…So this place really is different from Earth."
He studied the city:
Gas lamps flickering against darkness.
Horse-drawn carriages splashing through puddles.
Tall brick buildings pressing close together like prison walls.
Narrow alleys where light dared not go.
Everything orderly.
Everything suffocating.
A society where those with spiritual power stood tall…
and those without learned to crawl.
Exactly the kind of world he could thrive in — if he climbed fast.
Leonhardt's lips curled into a thin, lethal smile.
"A world where the strong rule…"
"…and the weak are crushed under heel."
He shut the window.
Clack.
He lay down, eyes sharp even in darkness, listening to rain tick softly against the glass.
Tomorrow, he would start learning.
How power is awakened.
How power is strengthened.
Who controls it.
Who can be exploited.
His past life died because he was too righteous — too trusting.
Never again.
"Whatever it takes," he whispered.
through the curtains — as if the world itself was watching his oath.
Leonhardt finally closed his eyes.
Sleep claimed his body.
But inside his mind, ambition sharpened like a blade.
Morning sunlight filtered softly through the kitchen window, dust motes floating lazily in the quiet air.
A women poured steaming tea into two cups, the aroma filling the small, tidy room.
Across the table, her husband, a man in a crisp work uniform, sipped from his cup, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
"Will Matteo be going to the Academy today?" he asked, setting his cup down. His voice carried a hint of concern.
She glanced at the empty chair beside her, lips pressed into a thin line.
"He hasn't gone in days," she admitted, her fingers tightening around the cup. "He says he's not feeling well… but I'm worried he's avoiding the others."
Her husband frowned. "Avoiding them? Clara, you know how harsh they can be with the weak ones. If he keeps staying away…" His voice trailed off, tension tightening his jaw.
She looked down at the table, stirring her tea absently.
"I know. I just… I don't want him to be hurt. He's not strong, and he never has been. They'll see it, and they'll exploit it."
Her husband sighed and stood, straightening his uniform. "I have to head to work. Try to encourage him, Clara. Even if he's scared, he can't let them break him completely. The Academy doesn't forgive weakness."
Clara nodded, forcing a small smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'll try," she whispered, watching him leave.
The soft click of the door echoed in the quiet kitchen.
She set her cup down and turned her gaze toward the empty chair once more. The thought of Matteo — frail, struggling, and alone in a world that punished weakness — pressed on her chest. She could only hope he would survive another day.
The wooden door to Matteo's room creaked open. A slender figure stepped out, the uniform hanging loosely over his frail frame. Matteo's shoulders slumped slightly, his hands brushing nervously against the fabric as if testing its weight.
Clara looked up from the table and froze. Her eyes widened.
"Matteo… you're in your uniform?" Her voice carried equal parts surprise and concern.
Matteo paused, staring at her for a moment. Oh… this might be his sister,he thought, uncertainty gripping him. He didn't know the voice — this body's voice — well enough to control it properly yet. A small, hesitant nod was all he could manage.
Clara's lips pressed together, worry tightening her brow. "Are you… going to the Academy today?"
He nodded again, barely lifting his gaze.
Clara stood, placing a hand gently on his arm. "Then eat something first. You'll need your strength, even if it's just a little."
Matteo didn't protest. He moved toward the chair, his steps light and careful. The uniform shifted awkwardly with his movements, the sleeves slightly long and the jacket hanging at odd angles.
Clara watched him silently, a pang of concern twisting her chest.
"You have to take care of yourself, Matteo… Please," she murmured.
"I will," he managed to say quietly, his voice barely carrying the words.
She's… gorgeous, he thought, his mind noting the softness of her features, the warmth in her eyes.
His eyes flicked to a small photo frame on the table — Clara and her husband smiling, dressed neatly.
So he's already gone…
He settled into the chair, hands resting lightly on the table, silently reminding himself: I need to act normal. Eat. Survive today.
Clara watched him with a gentle, nervous smile. "Finish your breakfast, Matteo. Don't skip it. You'll need energy for the Academy."
He nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself, silently noting every detail of the house, the careful order, the small comforts.
When he finished, he stood and straightened his uniform, adjusting the edges with careful precision. "I'm done," he said softly.
Clara's eyes softened, a mixture of relief and worry flickering across her face. "Alright… take care, Matteo. Remember what I said."
"I will," he replied, voice steady, though his mind remained alert.
He turned toward the door, pausing for a fraction of a second to glance at her.
This is his sister… and she's just like the photo — kind, careful, aware.
With that, he stepped out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
As Matteo walked through the narrow, cobblestone streets toward the Academy, his mind raced, cataloging everything he had observed so far. Morning, breakfast, Clara… orderly, careful. Good to note. But that's not enough.
He tightened his fists slightly.
Today… I need to learn. I need to understand this world — its rules, its hierarchy, its power structure.
Spiritual powers. He had read about them in the diary, seen the cruelty inflicted on those too weak to defend themselves. That system decided everything — respect, survival, even life itself. He couldn't afford ignorance.
Knowledge is the key, he thought.
And the best place to get it is in books. The Academy… that's where the real lessons begin. If I can study their techniques, their histories, their tactics… maybe I can catch up. Maybe I can survive.
He glanced at his uniform, slightly oversized on the frail frame, a reminder of his weakness.
Strength isn't given. It's learned. It's earned. And if I want to avoid being prey, I have to start now.
But then a sudden thought froze him mid-step. Wait… I don't even know the way to the Academy.
He looked around. Narrow streets twisted in all directions, alleys branching unpredictably. The city felt unfamiliar — even after waking here, everything was alien.
Should I ask someone?
Another thought hit him like a hammer.
No… what will they think? A student wandering aimlessly? Weak. Useless. An easy target.
Anxiety curled in his stomach.
He hesitated, unsure which way to go. Then, through the morning haze, he saw movement — a boy in the same uniform, walking with confident steps, clearly heading somewhere important. Relief flooded him like warm sunlight.
"Perfect."
Silently, Matteo fell in step behind him, keeping his distance, careful not to draw attention. Just follow… observe… learn the way without showing weakness.
The morning mist curling around his ankles. Cobblestones glistened beneath his shoes, each step echoing softly in the quiet city. Pale sunlight filtered through the haze, painting the walls with muted gold and gray.
Shadows of buildings stretched long across the road, swallowing corners and alleys whole. A faint breeze carried the scent of rain and dust, brushing against his face like a whisper.
He walked steadily, neither fast nor slow, letting the rhythm of his steps mark the start of something new. The city unfolded around him — silent, cold, indifferent.
With each step, his resolve sharpened. Whatever this world demanded, he would meet it. Whatever obstacles it placed, he would rise above them.
The road stretched ahead, endless and waiting. Matteo's gaze remained forward, lips curling into a faint, calculating smile.
And with that, he moved on.