Yamamoto Shiro learned early that silence was safer than attention.
He sat near the window—not because he liked the view, but because it gave his eyes something to do. Outside, the school courtyard buzzed with movement: students laughing too loudly, running too freely, living with a confidence that seemed rehearsed. Inside, the classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and old wood, the kind of smell that clung to uniforms no matter how often they were washed.
Shiro sat straight. Too straight, maybe. His hands rested on his desk like they didn't belong to him. Fingers interlocked. Nails trimmed too short. He tried not to fidget.
He had learned that too.
"Yamamoto."
The teacher's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Yes," Shiro answered immediately, a little too loud. A few heads turned. Someone snickered.
The teacher glanced at him, unimpressed. "Read the next paragraph."
Shiro nodded, stood up too fast, and began reading. His voice was steady—he practiced that—but his throat felt tight, like it always did when eyes were on him. He didn't stumble over the words. He never did. Being prepared was one of the few things he was good at.
When he finished, the teacher told him to sit. No praise. No criticism.
That was how it always went.
Shiro sat down and exhaled quietly.
Around him, the class moved on without him.
Two rows ahead, laughter bubbled up again. The charming boy, Kurogami Ren, —everyone loved him—leaned back in his chair, grinning as a group of girls crowded around his desk. They laughed at something he said, too quickly, too eagerly. He raised his hands like he was innocent of the attention, which only made them laugh more.
Beside him sat her. Tsukishiro Aoi.
She wasn't laughing.
She was listening.
Calm. Composed. Straight-backed. Her eyes followed the conversation, not hungry for attention, not dismissive either. Just… observant. She didn't compete for the spotlight, but when she spoke, people listened.
She noticed Shiro looking.
Their eyes met for half a second.
She nodded once. Polite. Acknowledging.
Shiro looked away immediately, heat creeping up his neck.
That nod mattered more to him than it should have.
At lunch, Shiro ate alone.
Not because he was forbidden from joining anyone—no one had ever told him to go away—but because no one ever asked him to stay. There was a difference. A subtle one. A cruel one.
He unwrapped his bento carefully, eating in small, quiet bites. He had learned to make meals that didn't smell too strong. Didn't attract attention.
Across the room, Kurogami Ren, the classroom's hero, —though no one called him that yet—stood up dramatically, hands planted on the table as he told some story. Laughter erupted again.
Shiro watched without envy. Mostly.
"Yamamoto."
He almost dropped his chopsticks.
She stood beside his table.
Up close, she was taller connect than she looked from afar. Her expression was neutral, unreadable, but not cold.
"You dropped this earlier," she said, holding out a pen.
Shiro stared at it for a second before realizing it was his. "Ah—th-thank you."
She placed it gently on the table. "You should be more careful."
"Yes," he said quickly. "I mean—thank you. I'll be."
She nodded. "See you in class."
And that was it.
She walked away.
No awkward silence. No pity. No forced kindness.
Just… normal.
Shiro stared at the pen for a long moment.
That night, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Shiro thought about that nod. That pen. That brief conversation. He wondered if it would be strange to ask her to call him by his first name instead of Yamamoto. He wondered if that was something normal people did.
He decided it probably wasn't.
But then, after a couple of days, it happened. A Tuesday.
One moment, Shiro was sitting in his seat, copying notes from the board. The next, the floor vanished.
There was no warning. No dramatic chant. No light from the sky.
Just absence.
His stomach lurched violently as the world twisted. Desks, chairs, walls—everything stretched and folded like paper dipped in water. Students screamed. Someone grabbed his arm, nails digging in.
Then—
Stone.
Cold, polished stone beneath his feet.
Shiro stumbled, barely managing to stay upright. The air felt heavier. Thicker. It smelled like incense and something metallic.
Around him, his entire class appeared in a wide circular hall. High ceilings arched overhead, carved with symbols he didn't recognize. Torches burned along the walls, their flames unnaturally still.
People were screaming.
"Where are we?!"
"What the hell is this?!"
"Is this a prank?!"
Shiro's heart hammered against his ribs. He clutched his chest, forcing himself to breathe.
Then he saw her.
She stood near the center of the room, steady on her feet, eyes already scanning their surroundings. When her gaze found Shiro, she frowned slightly— in concern.
"Stay calm," she said, her voice carrying. "Panicking won't help."
Some students listened.
Others didn't. But at least they quieted down.
Robed figures stepped forward from the shadows. Tall. Inhumanly composed. Their eyes glowed faintly, not with malice, but with authority.
One of them raised a hand.
Silence fell.
"Welcome, heroes of another world," the figure intoned. "You have been summoned to save ours."
Shiro felt a strange chill crawl down his spine.
Heroes.
The word didn't feel like it belonged to him.
The appraisal ceremony came soon after.
One by one, students stepped onto a glowing platform. Light wrapped around them, forming symbols in the air. Voices murmured in awe as results were announced.
"Fire Mage—High Rank!"
"Divine Archer—Rare Class!"
"Blessed Knight—Exceptional!"
Cheers erupted. Pride swelled. Tears of joy flowed freely.
Then Kurogami Ren stepped forward and received thunderous applause when his result appeared—some rare, dazzling class that made nobles whisper excitedly. "A hero quality." The robed figure announced.
Then she stepped up.
The light around her was calmer. Cleaner. Strong.
"Chosen Hero—Balance Class."
The room went still.
Respect followed instantly.
Shiro swallowed.
His turn came too soon.
He stepped onto the platform, legs trembling despite his efforts. The light touched him—and then… nothing happened.
No symbols. No glow.
Silence stretched.
The robed figure frowned.
Then the words appeared.
Power: Human
For a second, Shiro didn't understand.
Then laughter broke out.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Someone snorted. Someone else clapped sarcastically.
"Is that a joke?"
"Human? We're all human!"
"No class? No skill?"
Shiro's ears rang. His vision blurred.
The robed figure cleared his throat. "It appears… you possess no divine aptitude."
The words struck harder than any insult.
No one defended him.
Aoi looked at him—but this time, her gaze was sympathetic.
And Shiro felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The world had chosen.
And it hadn't chosen him.
No one clapped when Yamamoto Shiro stepped off the platform.
The silence afterward was worse than the laughter.
He stood there for a moment too long, unsure where to go. The glowing platform dimmed beneath his feet, as if embarrassed to have carried him. A robed attendant gestured vaguely to the side, already calling the next name as if Shiro's existence had been concluded.
Shiro moved.
He walked back into the crowd of his classmates, head down, shoulders tight. Conversations resumed almost immediately. Quieter than before—but not for him.
"Power: Human… what does that even mean?"
"Is he useless?"
"Guess not everyone gets to be special."
He wanted to say something. Anything.
An explanation. A joke. An apology.
He said nothing.
The heroes were separated next.
The robed figures spoke about training halls, about duties, about destiny. They spoke about responsibility like it was a gift. Shiro listened from the back, hands clenched, trying to understand where he fit into any of it.
He didn't.
Later, when assignments were handed out, it became clear.
Those with high-ranked classes were grouped together. Mid-ranked students were placed in support units like healing. Low-ranked ones were given roles like crafting, gathering and stuff.
Shiro was not placed at all.
Eventually, one of the attendants approached him, expression strained.
"You will accompany the exploration teams," the man said. "As… well.. support maybe."
But that wasn't the "Mid-tier healing Support".
Torch bearer. Spare body.
Shiro nodded quickly. "I can do that."
The man hesitated. "Do not interfere with combat."
"I won't," Shiro said. "I promise."
The dungeon came three days later.
Shiro spent those days trying to be useful.
He cleaned weapons he didn't know how to wield. He carried packs heavier than he should have. He listened carefully when strategies were discussed, memorizing routes, enemy descriptions, escape signals.
No one asked him to, but he did it anyway.
Because that was how he survived—by being convenient.
On the morning of the dungeon expedition, she approached him.
"You don't have to come if you're afraid," she said quietly.
Shiro startled. "I'm not."
That was a lie. But he said it anyway.
She studied him for a second longer than usual. "Stay behind us. If things go wrong, follow my instructions exactly."
"Yes," Shiro said immediately. Relief washed through him. She trusted him enough to give him instructions.
That meant something.
The dungeon entrance yawned open like a wound in the earth. Stone stairs descended into darkness, cold air rushing upward. The smell of damp rock and something rotten clung to the walls.
Shiro swallowed.