Close Call to Class and the Demon's Scrutiny
I sent the observation text message, and time was running critically short. So I hurriedly packed my bag and headed straight to school. As soon as I stepped out, I spotted some seniors and classmates heading forward. At first, I thought the entrances were only at the farthest points from the gate, but there were also ones in the center and at the ends. Well, considering fire prevention and escape routes, having them nearby made sense.
Leaving room 114, I entered Fuuga Hall, the spacious communal lounge right to the left. Since it was morning with classes in session, most of the chairs were empty. Just a few people eating simple cup ramen. They had cup ramen here too, but sadly, no spicy flavors—at least none I knew of. It was the kind of food you could eat right after boiling water, so back home, we'd stocked a box in the storage shed, and there were days I had no choice but to eat it.
Anyway. Past Fuuga Hall was a staircase, and going down from there—not to the ground level, but underground—led to a passage to the school. It felt weirdly off since I'd just seen something similar moments ago in my mind. The concrete-like material here, painted simply white, felt less eerie, but once I walked a bit further into the synthetic resin-covered area, the sensation grew uncanny. Still, looking at it now, the differences stood out clearly in spots. Even ignoring the transport tracks or convenience facilities, unlike that purely pristine white place, this one bore traces of time everywhere. Like graffiti near the ceiling that I couldn't fathom how it got there.
Thinking that, I ascended from underground. Touching the handrail absentmindedly after climbing the stairs was pure unconscious habit. The texture felt just like that place—chilling.
Entering the classroom, it was already buzzing with students, probably because I'd cut it so close. Strangely, even with the class half-full, the window seat I'd taken yesterday was empty. Ah, right. Seats weren't assigned, but people tended to stick to the one they'd sat in once.
"Hey, Rian."
As I sat down, Phaenax, who'd arrived early, greeted me. Her impression changed every time I saw her. First meeting, she looked like a grubby boy; yesterday, a girl with vivid green hair instead of dull green; today, the refined outline of a delicate young woman was fully evident. Her frizzy hair from yesterday was now smoothly combed along its natural flow, and her skin was clearly refined overall, her features neatly contoured.
"What the hell happened to you, Phae?"
"I learned how to groom myself."
She answered flatly, like it was no big deal. Was it really? The boys' dorm, Choir Dormitory, had communal lounges where 1st through 3rd years mixed, so the girls' probably did too. Picking up beauty tips from seniors in group living was common. Guess the nighttime stuff was still messing with my head. Sudden changes made me suspect some big incident.
"You're different from yesterday too. You look exhausted, like you didn't sleep a wink."
Phaenax pointed it out coolly, staring at me. Exhausted? My body actually felt pretty refreshed. The moment I'd suddenly woken in that mysterious white place, it'd cleared right up. Like rising from deep sleep. So it all had to be a dream. The issue was, even if the file was corrupted, the broken footage itself remained. But if the video on my pad was real, dropping it there should've left marks on the case—yet my pad was pristine. Contradiction. Either no video or damage traces should've existed, but both were present. What the hell was going on? My mind insisted it was real, but my body said I'd slept properly all night. Or maybe it was a dream, and the corrupted file was just coincidence. Right, answer the question. Was I tired?
"...Tired."
"Yeah, you look it."
Right. Wait, that was it? No follow-up? I waited, expecting her to ask why, but she fell silent, as if that wrapped it up. Easy to label her cold, but from what I'd seen, she just hadn't had much chance to interact with others.
"Did everyone sleep well?"
Before I could continue, the door opened with a cheerful voice. Bsaya Pticha, the young teacher. A Pristine Comprehensive University grad, so our senior too. She stood at the podium, scanning us.
"That student over there looks like he's seen a ghost. Even if sleep's self-regulated, don't stay up too late. Alright, we're starting proper classes today, so everyone, please bring out your student handbooks."
For a second, I thought she knew I'd been in the white place since she singled me out, but it was just a joke—she didn't glance my way and began the lesson. Yesterday's first class was just a quick overview of the city in the Pristine basin and a visit to Pristine Comprehensive University and the central Grey Ark Research Institute, so this was the real deal.
Okay, real classes—how long could I keep up my smarts? My past life self was average, and this life didn't feel sharper. Kids drilled in advanced study seem prodigious young but turn normal later; I was the same—just prepped ahead, not truly smart. No delusions there. Hopefully snag that uni diploma before effort couldn't bridge the gap anymore.
With that in mind, I focused on the lesson.
On the outskirts of the capital, Centaphalas. A modest office. It looked ordinary overall, but the walls displayed worn mechanical gadgets like decorations. Further in, a sofa and table for greeting guests. Ahead loomed a large desk, a wall-filling bank of monitors, and behind that, a stark white board plastered with countless photos, memos, and crisscrossing strings.
Between the board and broad office table sat a woman on a hard metal chair without cushioning, arms crossed, glaring at the screen. Her unnaturally snow-white hair—unlike anything of this world—framed inhuman cross-shaped pupils with slowly turning golden gears, scanning the static-filled monitor with its incessant hiss.
Lambda Lilion. The demon bearing that name idly spun the golden cog sprouting from her fingertip. Each twitch summoned and banished myriad screens on the monitor, proving it no mere fidget.
"A video with nothing captured..."
Lambda Lilion recalled the boy who'd sent data thrice already, not even three days into school. A reincarnator she'd chanced upon. Even she, who'd seen countless souls, couldn't pinpoint his origin. It was pieced from forcibly mended shards of something shattered. Yet the form was familiar: those utterly altered by trauma that flipped their worldview, never to revert.
The era of the Guardian Knights, desperately battling swarming beasts in the Monster Surge—some called it the Monster War. They hadn't broken fighting monsters; harsh as it was, they'd endured through solidarity. Collapse came after. When the ceaseless war ended, those who'd fought to protect all realized they'd saved only themselves.
Like them, he was off: preaching redemption, but with indifference to humanity over love, death as mere beginning not end, sin repaid through living torment. Yes. Reincarnation was mere disability to humans. Even the generational gap between old and young was a chasm; add time and space, and the gulf was vast. Beyond maladjustment—a true handicap.
She might've ignored it there. But he claimed anyone could improve—not hatred of evil or praise of good, but with yearning conviction. They say love's opposite is indifference, not hate. Yearning bordered affection... or fierce hate. Such contradictions were ever amusing. So she'd tied him to her ongoing probe with a small deal. An excellent choice.
The name Philip Goldberg Abelian brought. From a dream-reality space, yet shockingly real. Three years prior, a 6th-year in orange uniform neared graduation. But a month before June, he'd abruptly quit without warning. No train record; even his parents died in a "random accident" en route to Pristine Comprehensive University. Clear disappearance.
The horned girl was murky, but a purple-clad one matching the "upper body only" description existed. Like Philip, a 1st-year-to-be who'd suddenly withdrawn. Guardian Knights' files noted accidental death, body parts too mangled for ID handed to family. Too coincidental.
Staring at the barely salvaged data, she'd restored the format for playback—success, but no image or sound. Endless repeating noise, 23 hours long. Empty, yet meaningful. Even if recorded all sleep, it was too long. Headers lacked start/end times, but the length was logged. No human tampering. A trace of touching what ordinary humans mustn't.
A vast door, cold, and lingering dead. The institute's victims got proper memorial and exorcism. But they'd merely left reality. Another place endured: between this life and next. Strictly, a corridor-point manifesting as space—folks called it the afterlife.
Had he gone there? He described an invitation, unlikely—he'd just connected to Pristine Comprehensive University's domain. Better: he'd gone himself. Why? One so indifferent to others wouldn't chase the dead into peril. Another intriguing contradiction.
Professionally, personally, Abelian Anion was a delightful subject. Checked him out—just a normal human, reincarnation aside. "Special" meant disability, not power. At least so far. Self-praise: picking him was brilliant. Now, how to relay this without Pristine's taps catching it?
Everything a fun quiz. Lambda Lilion pondered with a faint smile playing on her lips.