The afternoon sun poured its last golden rays over Higashi High School, casting elongated shadows that danced across the weathered concrete. Inside a small, cluttered classroom, Hayato sat slumped over his desk. His black hair, disheveled and unkempt, framed a face marked by deep lines of exhaustion. His black eyes, once full of life, now seemed like dark voids reflecting a world devoid of hope. He wore a plain brown T-shirt beneath the standard school uniform jacket and black trousers, his attire as dull and uninspiring as his mood.
The cicadas outside sang their relentless song, their chirping a harsh contrast to the heavy silence within the classroom. The teacher, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a stern expression, stood at the front of the room. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, surveyed the classroom with a mixture of frustration and impatience. He wore a crisply ironed shirt, a dark vest, and a pair of well-polished shoes that gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Hayato,” the teacher's voice cut through the silence, its sharpness causing Hayato to lift his head reluctantly. “Your scores are dropping. You need to step up and do better. Your future depends on it.”
The teacher’s words felt like a distant echo against the relentless tide of bullying that Hayato had endured. His gaze dropped back to the stack of graded papers on his desk, each one marked with scrawls of red ink that seemed to scream at him in judgment. The teacher’s voice faded into the background as Hayato’s mind wandered to the hallways of his school.
In those hallways, three boys stood in a tight circle around him, their figures imposing and menacing. Their leader, a tall boy with spiked hair and a sneer permanently etched on his face, stood with a sense of authority. His eyes, a piercing gray, seemed to gleam with a cruel satisfaction as he towered over Hayato. Beside him, two accomplices—one with a mop of messy brown hair and a thickset build, the other with a sullen expression and a scar running down his cheek—closed in, their faces twisted into expressions of malicious glee.
The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent lights casting erratic shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of old textbooks and the faint odor of sweat. The bullies’ laughter echoed through the corridor, a cruel and taunting sound that resonated off the walls.
“Look at you,” the leader jeered, pushing Hayato roughly against the wall. “Always with your nose in a book. Think you’re better than us?”
Hayato’s heart raced as he felt the sting of their words, their physical blows striking him with a brutal regularity. The boy with the messy hair shoved him, causing him to stumble. The one with the scar sneered as he delivered a sharp kick, leaving Hayato breathless and aching.
The teacher’s voice, now a distant murmur, could hardly penetrate the haze of Hayato’s memory. The relentless bullying, the scornful laughter, the physical pain—each moment had chipped away at his spirit, leaving him a shadow of his former self. His heart was heavy with a sense of inevitability as he faced the edge of the school roof.
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Later that day, Hayato found himself standing alone on the roof, the wind tugging insistently at his clothes. The city below was bathed in the dying light of the afternoon, the streets bustling with life that seemed so distant and unattainable. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint aroma of food from a nearby vendor.
He looked down at the ground, feeling a profound sense of detachment from the world around him. The edge of the roof seemed to call out to him, a dark promise of escape.
“I’m tired,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind. “What’s the point of all this?” Memories of his tormentors flashed vividly in his mind. The hallway fights, their sneers, the sharp pain of their kicks and punches. He remembered their voices, cruel and relentless, hurling insults that cut through his defenses. Each day had been a battle, each night a struggle to keep his head above water.
“I just want it to end,” he thought, stepping closer to the edge. The world below was a blur of colors, the sounds of the bustling city fading into a distant hum.
With a final, shuddering breath, he took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. As he fell, he prayed for the end, for peace from the pain that had become his constant companion.
Darkness. Silence.
A gentle warmth enveloped him, and the muffled sounds of an unfamiliar world reached his ears. He opened his eyes to a bright, warm light and the soft, comforting pressure of being held. The scene was a stark contrast to the cold emptiness he had expected.
“Push, my lady! Just a little more!” a voice urged with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
The bright light that greeted him was blinding, and the sounds around him became clearer: the cooing of attendants, the relieved sighs of those present. He felt himself being gently cradled and wrapped in soft fabric.
“Congratulations, my lord and lady. It’s a healthy boy.”
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the faces of two young adults gazing down at him with love and relief. His new father wore a deep blue tunic embroidered with silver threads, paired with dark trousers and polished black boots. A richly adorned belt cinched his waist, and a flowing cloak draped elegantly over his shoulders, signifying his high status. His pure white hair and striking emerald eyes completed the regal look.
His mother wore a flowing gown of soft, pastel hues, adorned with delicate lace and subtle embroidery. The gown covered her modestly while emphasizing her refined grace. Her long blonde hair was styled with a simple yet sophisticated touch, framed by a gentle diadem that highlighted her nobility.
As he was cradled in his mother’s arms, Kibo’s appearance was an enchanting blend of his parents' features. His hair, a pristine white inherited from his father, contrasted strikingly with his mother’s deep blue eyes. His small, cherubic face, framed by wisps of white hair, exuded a delicate cuteness that drew affectionate glances from all who beheld him. His tiny body, wrapped in soft fabric, seemed to embody the perfect harmony of his parents' traits.
“You did wonderfully,” his father said softly, kissing his mother’s forehead. “Our beautiful son.” “Welcome to the world, Kibo,” his mother whispered, her voice gentle and soothing as she held him close.
Confused and overwhelmed by the sudden change, Kibo felt a strange mixture of emotions. He didn’t cry; instead, he absorbed the warmth and tenderness from his new parents. The room, though unfamiliar, felt safe and comforting. The presence of the maids and the gentle hum of their voices added to the sense of serenity.
As the scene unfolded, a white bird flew past the window, its flight graceful and free. It seemed to symbolize the beginning of Kibo’s new life in this strange, fantastical world.
Kibo, still haunted by memories of his past life, felt a deep sense of confusion. The kindness of his new parents was a sharp contrast to the cruelty he had known, but it was a kindness he didn’t yet understand. For now, he could only observe, trying to make sense of his new reality in this vibrant and mysterious world.