Chapter 5.

Professor Ryota bursts into the classroom like a whirlwind, with his characteristic exuberant enthusiasm. He is a tall, slender man with sharp, elegant features that give him an air of mystery. His red hair, styled into a spiky do, highlights his unusually colored purple eyes that seem to pierce through you when they gaze upon you.

He is dressed in an outlandish Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with palm trees, paired with baggy mustard-colored pants. His outfit would certainly scandalize more traditional teachers, but nobody dares to question his style. Not when he is one of the world’s most feared and respected curse hunters. Despite his usually nonchalant attitude, he exudes a commanding and intimidating aura. We’ve all heard tales about how lethally creative he can become in battle.

“Good morning, my dear students,” greets Ryota with a broad smile. “Have a seat, sit down, form a circle here on the floor so we can start today’s lesson.”

We diligently obey, settling down. Some chat in low voices, speculating about what the topic of the class will be. Others watch Ryota with penetrating eyes, trying to guess his intentions. The room fills with a nervous expectation.

Once we’re all seated, Ryota clears his throat.

“Well, today’s topic, my esteemed apprentices, will be mental manipulation curses,” he announces in a grave voice. “As you know, these are dangerous creatures that manifest by distorting the victim’s perception of reality, immersing them in elaborate hallucinations.”

He pauses dramatically and surveys the circle with his gaze, evaluating our reactions.

“They are extremely difficult to fight,” he continues, “since the affected can hardly distinguish the real from the illusory. They require a strong, focused mind to resist their effects, as well as a deep understanding of the subtle indicators that betray their presence.”

As he speaks, I examine the expressions of my classmates seated around me. Most listen eagerly, leaning forward, absorbing every word. A few are skeptical, especially those from conservative families wary of Ryota’s unorthodox methods.

After all, our prestigious academy is one of the best and most elitist in the country, hence it is home to a large number of children from leaders of prominent clans and aristocratic dynasties. Some lineages are so ancient and venerable they can be traced back to the distant Heian Period, more than a thousand years ago.

One of the skeptics, sitting across from me, is Ren Yamamoto, heir to the influential Yamamoto clan. With his slicked-back black hair and his small, narrowed eyes, he exudes a constant air of annoyance and superiority. By his side sits the delicate Saya Hanamura, with her long, straight, and silky pink hair, from another distinguished family. Both wear elegant uniforms embroidered with the emblems of their ancestral houses.

Suddenly, Ren leans in to whisper something into Saya’s ear. She emits a melodic giggle, covering her mouth with a polite gesture, though her eyes twinkle with malice. I don’t need to hear them to know they are mocking Ryota and his “ridiculous” lesson.

They come from a world of strict traditions, where appearance is everything and reputation must be protected at all costs. The mere suggestion that their minds could be deceived is outrageous to their proud egos.

Another clan represented here is the Date, fierce and reckless warriors since time immemorial. Sitting with an exceedingly straight back is Kaede Date, with sharp eyes and an attitude ever vigilant, as if she expects to be attacked at any moment. Even now, her eyes continuously scan the room, ready to identify any slight sign of danger.

In stark contrast are the Sato twins, Taiki and Haru, known for their laid-back and carefree demeanor, typical of their clan. Haru yawns openly while Taiki absentmindedly doodles in his notebook, utterly ignoring the lesson.

Others come from less illustrious yet equally proud and tradition-bound families, always suspicious of new ideas or approaches. Like Daisuke, a serious and reserved boy. Or the quiet Midori, who avoids eye contact and strives to be inconspicuous.

And then there’s Kyo, a combat prodigy despite his humble origins in the slums. As far as I know, he entered this exclusive academy on a prestigious scholarship. The old families look down on him, and he returns their disdain tenfold. Even now, Kyo glances at Ren and Saya with a smirk, clearly amused at their discomfort.

Seated next to him is Tsuneo. As nervous and pathetic as ever... now that I think about it, I don’t even know if Tsuneo belongs to any important clan. There’s no family emblem embroidered on his uniform, nor does he project that aura of proud distinction characteristic of nobility. He could easily be another scholar like Kyo. Or perhaps he comes from some lesser house so insignificant that it’s not even worth mentioning.

But appearances can be deceiving, I know that all too well. After all, I myself am living proof of that. I must find out more about his origins as soon as possible. I dislike uncertainty. I need complete and detailed information. Tsuneo’s family remains a mystery, and I cannot stand mysteries. I want every variable measured and anticipated.

“Fantastic!” suddenly exclaims Tatsuya, breaking my concentration.

I glance at him sidelong. Tatsuya comes from a minor samurai family so irrelevant it hardly qualifies as true nobility. His ancestors served for generations as vassals to more powerful clans, earning a modicum of aristocratic status but no real wealth or influence.

Because of this, Tatsuya has never really clicked with the haughty scions of the dominant clans at this academy. They tolerate him around, but they have always treated him as an inferior, a nobody.

This does not seem to bother Tatsuya. Because deep down, he is just like them. He is desperately eager to be part of that world of privilege and wealth that he has only been able to glimpse. He dreams of grandeur and power, to someday rub shoulders with those influential families as an equal. He does not seek to reform or overthrow the system like Kyo. He wants to climb to the top of the pyramid by any means necessary.

That’s why Tatsuya secretly idolizes Professor Ryota. A man who, like him, does not come from high nobility and yet managed to become one of the world’s most feared and respected curse hunters and heroes. Ryota embodies the ideal Tatsuya aspires to. He represents living proof that sheer brute force and skill can overcome any social barrier. That a “nobody” like him can also earn a spot in the elite if he works hard enough.

Of course, I am the first to scorn Tatsuya’s ridiculous social pretensions. He does not understand that no matter how hard he tries, he will never be recognized as an equal by the nobility. He does not belong to their world and never will. He can spend his entire life trying to climb to higher spheres, but he will always be seen as an upstart. A social climber who dares to aspire to something far above what his birth dictates.

I too am striving to reach a status that has been denied to me by birth. However, unlike Tatsuya, I am fully aware of the reality of my situation. I know that my skills and achievements will never erase the stain of not belonging to the main branch of my clan. I will always be one step below, no matter how exalted and perfect I appear to be.

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Moreover, I do this out of mere instinct for self-preservation. In contrast, he stubbornly clings to his ridiculous dreams of grandeur that are doomed to fail. He’s like a child silently admiring the toy he desires behind a glass, a glass he will never be able to break. He is as naïve as he is pathetic.

“Very cool!” exclaims the professor, giving Tatsuya a smile. “You see, the abilities of these mental manipulation curses are difficult to classify, given that each one operates uniquely according to the creativity and intention of the caster. But if I had to categorize them in some way, I would say there are two main types: pure hallucinations and manipulated scenarios.”

It’s curious, since I was a child, I’ve had a gift for knowing exactly what to say, how to behave, so that others see what I want them to see. I’ve honed the art of deception all my life. This class, like all the others, is nothing but a charade to me. But I must admit that I feel a certain intellectual curiosity about these curses.

Would they be able to deceive even someone like me, who makes deception his second nature? It would undoubtedly be an interesting challenge.

“To illustrate the effects of these curses, we will perform a practical exercise,” announces the professor with a mischievous smile. “Everyone stand up and follow me.”

The group rises, looking at each other nervously. What has Ryota planned? With him, you never know.

He leads us out of the classroom to one of the courtyards. There, next to an old elm tree, is a large wooden box with intricate carvings. As soon as we approach, the box shakes violently as if it had a life of its own. Several students startle. Even I become alert. This box radiates a dark, unnatural energy.

“Inside this box, I’ve locked a very mischievous curse: a bakemono,” he explains in a playful tone, as if about to show an innocuous magic trick. “As you know, bakemono are creatures capable of distorting reality and deceiving the senses. The perfect opponent to practice against mental manipulation curses!”

The professor scans the classroom with his gaze, pausing briefly on each face before moving on. Eventually, he stops at Tsuneo.

“We’ll need a volunteer... Let’s see, Tsuneo! Since you’re new to the class, this will be a good introduction.”

Tsuneo stands up awkwardly, his face pale and his shoulders slumped. Clearly, he doesn’t want to be part of this. But he wouldn’t dare defy Ryota’s “suggestion.”

“P-professor...” he stammers.

Ryota shows no mercy. He simply points at the box with an imperious gesture.

“Come on, don’t be afraid,” Ryota encourages him. “Just open the lid and look inside.”

Tsuneo swallows hard and shakily lifts the lid, as if expecting a ferocious beast to leap out. But nothing visible emerges. At least, nothing visible to the rest of us. However, a few seconds later, his expression becomes disoriented, and his gaze is lost in space. He begins to flail his arms, clearly reacting to some hallucination only he can see.

“Please, back off, don’t come any closer!” he pleads with the shadows, stumbling backward.

Ryota lets out a giggle and covers his mouth with his hands in a gesture of surprise.

“Observe how the mental curse has completely distorted his perception, making him believe he is surrounded by threatening enemies.”

He slowly approaches Tsuneo, who is still floundering against shadows. Feeling Ryota’s footsteps, the boy lets out a heart-rending scream and throws himself to the ground, covering his head reflexively. The other students hold their breath, shocked by the power of the illusion that has subdued Tsuneo.

Finally, Ryota makes a gesture with his hand, and the spell breaks. Tsuneo blinks in confusion, with sweat beading his forehead and labored breaths. He looks around bewildered before recognizing the classroom. Ryota pats his back.

“Very well Tsuneo, at least you didn’t faint. That’s a good first step!”

Tsuneo nods dazedly and returns to his seat, impacted by the experience. The other students murmur impressed while Tatsuya and his group of athletes mock him.

Professor Ryota continues to call names randomly. One by one, my classmates approach the box with hesitation. As soon as they lift the lid, their faces contort into expressions of confusion and fear. They begin to wave their arms frantically to fend off invisible enemies, or run away terrified from nothing.

Finally, it’s my turn. I rise calmly and approach the cursed box. I ignore the screams of some of my classmates who are still writhing on the ground. They are irrelevant, just background noise. I lift the lid and look inside, waiting for my mind to be flooded with unspeakable horrors.

But I see nothing.

Only darkness and silence.

There should be something in there, something frightening, something so appalling and disturbing that it would tear me apart, shatter my soul, reduce me to a quivering, incoherent mound of flesh, as it happened to the others.

But no, not to me.

There are no monsters, no phantoms, no traumatic memories arising from the blackness to torment me. I frown, puzzled. I’m supposed to be terrified, confused, beside myself...anything. Instead, I feel completely normal. Unchanged.

The box mocks me, yes, but not with an evil laugh or a sibilant whisper. It mocks with its silence, with its refusal to share its secrets with me. It denies me the chance to understand that dimension of human existence, the chance to feel what I cannot feel. And there lies the irony, the paradox that engulfs me: the box that drives men mad has no effect on me, the “man” who walks through life without knowing the madness of the human heart.

For a moment, just for a brief and fleeting second, just when the light filters through the treetops and the dust dances in those beams of light like tiny stars trapped in a ray, something pricks me inside.

It feels like an annoyance, a slight alarm signal that my mind rushes to analyze. A pinprick, a stab, something that should be frustration, but cannot be categorized as such. No, this is... an unknown entity that clumsily stumbles in the voids of my consciousness, uninvited and unidentified.

It is not anger, as anger presupposes passion, and passion is a flame that needs fuel, something that burns within, and in my interior, there are only ashes of what I once pretended was fire. Anger is the right of those whose hearts beat strongly, that fill and empty with the blood of their emotions.

No, I do not have such a right.

Nor is it sadness, because sadness requires a heart to mourn something, a throbbing organ capable of bending and breaking under the weight of pain. Sadness is the luxury of the sensitive, of those who feel the world owes them something, and that something has been snatched away or lost.

But I have lost nothing, because I never possessed what is necessary to lose.

No, what I feel is... a void, a lack that apparently has no name. It is not for something I once had and now miss. It is the absence of an absence, as if the hole that should be populated by a beat, by a sigh, by a glimmer of humanity, had folded upon itself. It is like a dimension bent in space, creating a new compartment for something unknown, something that was never there to begin with.

So, what is this? This strange tingling, this shadow of a sensation that doesn’t even have the right to be called that —sensation— since it would imply the ability to perceive something beyond the void. It is like the echo of a scream in an empty room, bouncing off the walls with no ears to hear it. I am aware of it, but at the same time, deprived of the ability to truly know it.

It shouldn’t exist, but there it is: hanging on the periphery of my existence, a disturbing monument to nothingness. It is as if something within me, in mockery of my condition, evoked the idea of ‘I should’ or ‘I could’. It suggests that, under different conditions, in an alternate reality, I might be feeling something.

But not here.

Not in this reality.

Not in my reality.

It is curious and startling, but so ephemeral that as soon as I blink, I doubt its existence as soon as it disappears. It is as if I tried to remember a dream upon awakening, a ghost of a thought that vanishes at the slightest attempt of exhaustive analysis.

The disturbance is momentary, a fleeting distraction that prevents me from noticing the gaze that has been piercing my back, like needles being driven in with surgical precision. I feel the weight of that observation, a subtle but undeniable pressure that forces me to regain the composure I shouldn’t have lost.

My turn is smooth, controlled, that of a feline stretching after a lazy nap, and there they are, Ryota’s purple eyes piercing me with their scrutiny. Watching me intently with an inscrutable expression. In their depths seems to burn a cold, calculating fire. For an instant, we stare at each other in silence. Then the professor breaks eye contact, clapping his hands to call the class’s attention.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. Let’s go back to the classroom, the lesson is over for today,” he announces cheerfully.

The others react as if awakening from a dream. They blink, rub their eyes, look at each other. They are confused, dazed, relieved. They don’t understand what has happened. It seems that Ryota released some of his blessing, dispersing the remaining effects of the curse.

In a matter of minutes, everyone begins to gather their things, chatting about the vivid illusions they experienced. I too feign confusion, acting as if nothing happened. But something about the look Ryota gave me earlier makes me uncomfortable.

It was too perceptive, too speculative. It was the look of someone playing chess and suspecting the opposing king isn’t as predictable as it appears. I’m sure he distrusts me. But if he thinks he’s found a monster, he has no idea what he’s dealing with.