The sky was clear again.
It almost irritated me how clear it was.
I sat at my desk near the back corner of the classroom, the teacher's voice drifting through the air like background noise that my brain had long ago decided was optional. My gaze rested on the school gates visible through the wide glass windows, watching students filter through them as if nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.
Japan had always felt unreal to me.
I had grown up with it through screens — anime marathons, late-night gaming sessions, subtitles becoming second nature. My first awkward attempts at speaking Japanese had come from mimicking fictional characters whose lives were exaggerated and stylized for entertainment. It had been fantasy layered on fantasy.
Now I was here in person, in a real classroom, with chalk dust and fluorescent lighting and a teacher who clearly regretted his career choice.
And somehow it all felt more artificial than the shows ever had.
The bell rang sharply, snapping the class back into motion. Chairs scraped against the floor. Conversations began immediately. I gathered my things, but before I could leave, I noticed my homeroom teacher motioning me forward with a small flick of his fingers.
Of course.
I approached his desk with the polite composure expected of an exchange student.
"Alexander Greywald," he began, adjusting his glasses as he looked at me with the sort of restrained disappointment that Japanese authority figures seemed to perfect. "You have been here for three weeks. I understand adapting to a new environment takes time, but I would prefer if you paid attention during class."
His tone wasn't harsh. It didn't need to be. The implication was clear enough.
"Yes, sir," I replied evenly. "You're right. It won't happen again."
He studied my face for a moment longer, perhaps looking for defiance, perhaps simply making sure the apology had the correct weight behind it. Eventually, he nodded and returned to his paperwork, dismissing me without further comment.
I left the classroom and closed the door gently behind me.
It wasn't that I resented him. In another life, I might have even admired his consistency. But I couldn't bring myself to care about algebra when I knew how quickly the structure of this place would collapse. In a matter of days, attendance records and lesson plans would become irrelevant artefacts of a world that no longer existed.
I moved down the hallway toward the stairs, checking the time on my phone.
Lunch break.
Forty minutes.
Enough.
Since arriving in this world, I had pushed myself relentlessly. Physical conditioning first — endurance runs, sprint intervals, balance work. I had needed to align my body with my mind, to eliminate any subtle disconnect that could cost me a split second under pressure. The Starsector memories provided combat knowledge, but knowledge alone meant nothing if muscle memory lagged behind.
Being seventeen complicated matters. Gun ranges were not particularly eager to accommodate foreign teenagers, but money softened resistance. After several attempts, I had found one owner willing to "bend interpretation" in exchange for generous payment. Repetition there had been essential — not for learning fundamentals, but for smoothing the friction between inherited memories and present reality.
As I descended the stairs, I saw him again.
Takashi Komuro stood in his usual place, leaning against the railing with his back turned to the hallway. His posture was heavy in a way that suggested frustration had become habitual rather than temporary.
He had been standing there like that since the day I arrived.
Without context, he might have seemed like any other teenager nursing private drama. But context changed everything. I knew where his path led. I knew that in a few days, the weight he carried now would be replaced by something far worse.
I approached slowly, aware that forcing interaction too abruptly might only push him further away.
"Excuse me," I said, keeping my tone neutral.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows lifting slightly. His eyes assessed me with faint irritation.
"Who are you?"
"Alexander Greywald. Transfer student." I shifted my weight casually. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just noticed you standing here every day. You look like you're dealing with something."
He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, as if evaluating whether I was worth the effort of an answer.
"I've been better," he said finally, turning his gaze back toward the field. "Why do you care?"
There were a dozen honest answers I couldn't give.
Because your survival determines mine. Because I need you functional. Because you're about to become the centre of a catastrophe.
Instead, I chose the simplest one.
"Where I'm from, we don't ignore someone who looks like they're carrying too much."
He let out a quiet breath that might have been a humourless laugh.
"I'm not about to jump, if that's what you're thinking."
"I'm glad," I replied lightly. "Just… don't let whatever it is convince you to do something stupid."
He didn't respond. Only a faint sigh followed me as I continued down the stairs.
If only he knew how relative the word "stupid" was about to become.
The gym was empty when I entered, just as I'd planned.
Most students preferred eating or socializing during lunch. Few voluntarily chose physical exertion.
I changed into my spare shirt and began jogging along the indoor track, settling into a steady rhythm. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Even stride. Relaxed shoulders.
Above me, the school banner hung with polished pride.
Fujimi Academy.
It was strange how something so mundane could feel like a countdown marker.
In two days, these halls would no longer echo with casual conversation. They would echo with screaming.
I increased my pace slightly, letting the physical strain override the spiral of thought.
My body felt strong — stronger than it had when I first arrived. My reflexes were sharper. My endurance had improved. I could sustain sprint intervals far longer without burning out. On paper, I was prepared.
Physically.
Mentally, the uncertainty lingered.
I could not guarantee that events would unfold exactly as depicted in the anime. The system had already warned that the infected were more aggressive. A deviation in timing or location could leave me isolated. Immunity to the virus meant nothing if I was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
No one survives this alone.
Which meant I needed proximity to the group.
The narrative I remembered followed Takashi and those around him. If I wanted to leverage that knowledge, I needed to integrate early enough that my presence felt natural rather than opportunistic.
As I slowed back to a jog, I acknowledged another, less noble thought: the dynamic between Takashi and the girls would be… irritating. But irritation was irrelevant. Survival dictated pragmatism.
I finished the session with a controlled sprint, lungs burning slightly, sweat cooling against my skin.
Soon enough, everyone would be running like this — only without the luxury of preparation.
That evening, my apartment was lit only by the glow of my computer screen.
The search bar displayed anatomical diagrams of the skull.
The pterion.
Thinner bone structure. Lateral penetration offered the cleanest path to the brain. If the infected followed basic human anatomy, precision would matter more than brute force.
The mission description suggested otherwise — increased aggression likely meant increased resilience.
I couldn't rely solely on what I had seen in fiction.
Stacks of printed manuals covered my desk: firearm breakdown guides for models I knew would appear later, blade maintenance instructions, movement discipline techniques for minimizing noise. I had annotated several pages already, marking sections about gear adjustment and weight distribution.
Beside them lay the credit card tied to this fabricated identity.
I stared at it briefly before removing the battery and SIM card from my phone and placing the disassembled device into a drawer.
Distraction removed.
I couldn't afford divided attention.
The notebook in front of me contained a schedule marked in two ink colors. Black for shooting-range visits. Red for self-defense sessions. Most of my funds had gone into repetition and ammunition. The rest into food and basic living expenses.
I had considered purchasing bite-resistant clothing, but there was no plausible explanation for wearing such gear to school. The same logic applied to openly carrying weapons. Preparation would have to align with circumstance.
Which meant integrating with the group and accelerating their gearing process rather than attempting solo heroics.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Two days remained.
The next morning arrived with the same indifferent sunshine.
The alarm rang. I silenced it and sat upright slowly, staring at the blank wall ahead while my thoughts assembled themselves.
No nightmares.
Either my mind had adapted, or it was simply too busy calculating.
After washing up, I grabbed the packaged food I'd bought the night before and moved toward my desk. A stack of printed firearm diagrams lay waiting, the top page displaying a Mossberg 500 schematic.
Kohta.
If there was one predictable vector into the group's orbit, it was his enthusiasm for weapons.
I slid the papers into my bag.
Outside, the air felt deceptively calm. I paused briefly at the doorway of my apartment, glancing back inside as if memorizing the stillness.
Two days.
After that, preparation would be replaced by execution.
I locked the door and began walking toward school.
If everything unfolded as expected, today would mark the first deliberate shift from observer to participant.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, I felt something steadier than anxiety.
Focus.