Facing Reality
That afternoon, classes ended at the awkward hour of 3 PM. Surprisingly, our homeroom teacher declared tomorrow a holiday. We were guaranteed two whole days off. Well, it wasn't that strange if I thought about my past life, but for someone living in a rural wasteland village like me, holidays were just a theoretical concept—so the shock was real.
Two days off in a week. Shockingly similar to my past life, but apparently, back in the day—around 30 years ago here—they only got a day off every ten days. I remembered hearing that from some old guy in the village. Anyway, I headed straight to the library.
The moment I stepped into the library, the air grew noticeably cooler and drier. The lighting dimmed softly, and while children's chatter echoed behind me, a thick silence poured from ahead. It was where the lower grades' section of the affiliated school met the upper grades' basement. Not a huge library by any means. At a glance, it didn't feel like a place for students to read— the shelves and desks were too eerily quiet.
Inside, there were hardly any new books; faded paperbacks filled the shelves. It didn't look like a spot where students came to read regularly. More like a storage for records. Which meant I'd come to the right place...
Looking around, no librarian in sight. Makes sense if hardly anyone visits. There was a search terminal up front, so I punched in Philip Goldberg. My fingers froze midway through typing "Phil." A faint warning whispered that "danger" hadn't slipped my mind.
Right. Those three were in uniforms. If they were real, they'd gone missing inside Pristine Comprehensive University, especially the affiliated school. Digital records could be risky. Yeah. I typed some nonsense like "Philbuster" instead, skimmed the fake results, and closed the window.
Okay, so what now? Searching would be easiest, but I couldn't trust much here. Once I assumed the enemy existed, doubt took root in the info, sprouting all sorts of hypotheses.
The incident I saw on my way to school. Guardian Knights were involved. Recalling the high-ranking knight directing things at the train station, probably not all of them—but in the worst case, there was some flow connecting the school and the Knights.
Affiliated school. Uniforms. Orange. Graduation? Probably not. They'd be in something else if they had. Of course, I'm no real detective; maybe I'd snowballed a wrong assumption into a totally flawed premise. Still, let's do our best.
So, what should I check for data? Can't confirm existence via graduation, so where? My wandering eyes fixed on the purple stripe embroidered on my collar. New students. There had to be records for incoming kids—like enrollment rosters.
I slowly scanned the shelves. After a good long while rummaging through them, "Enrollment Roster" caught my eye. I grabbed the cleanest-looking one. My hypothesis was to start with the newest and work backward, but that went past tense fast. Latest date: 10 years ago.
Checking around its spot—left was 11 years ago, right was something unrelated. Either digitized, or recent enough to be in some admin office. Anyway, let's start here.
Hoping to spot Philip Goldberg, I quickly flipped through the 10-year-old roster. Tech was decent even then; clear color photos and names remained. Just skimming pics and names, it didn't take long.
10 years: nothing. Next, 11 years. Flipping through, I realized this age group wouldn't wear purple like the girl or orange like Philip. Back-calculating from my purple: purples entered 6 or 12+ years ago. Oranges: 8 or 14+.
10 or 11 years wouldn't show them. Just incoming freshmen here... Huh. A chill ran down my spine. Then doubt followed: why?
The roster wouldn't turn the page. Stuck on one side: a freshly 13-year-old girl with an awkward smile. Small horns on either side of her head. It overlapped perfectly with the girl from that scene—head left behind, horns grotesquely piercing her eyes.
At least, the face I'd seen was a teen, not a kid. Could be wrong. But an uncanny certainty hit: this was her. 11 years ago. Enrolled in a uniform with a blue stripe. A girl who should've graduated the affiliated school 6 years ago was right there.
Ailia Secrem.
Totally unexpected. It hammered home that those discarded like trash under that horrific sight were real. Reality crashed in late.
Faint metallic tang, rancid milk stench of rot. All of it preserved pristine on this aging paper—not just a dream. Ugh, disgusting.
I carefully closed the roster and slid it back into the shelf depths. First goal achieved, but no urge to smile. A stranger's death whose face you don't know is just a number or entertainment. Yeah, exactly that.
I hadn't planned a next goal. I just needed to know if that half-dream was real or nightmare. If dream, shrug it off as a wild one and move on. That's all I'd thought.
No clue what next, so back to the dorm. I stood, left the library. Exiting to the first-floor entrance—not basement—the sweltering heat enveloped me.
Still early autumn, but the daytime scorch chased the chill from my body, clearing my head. That clarity lasted five minutes before fading with the heat.
Exhausted just climbing to the cafeteria in this late summer swelter. Wait, even for late heat, isn't it too hot? Basin effect? Problem is, dorm's the same distance up from cafeteria as school to here...
Didn't feel this tough before. Why so draining today? Oh, right. If yesterday was real, the time I wandered there was real too.
I slumped into a chair right by the cafeteria. Shadowed, but still toasty. Sweat trickled down my back. Reincarnation perks: less sweat, at least. Human-looking, but mana as a vital element makes me different from past life. Yeah.
I let thoughts branch wildly like a tree in my head, blanketing the reality I wanted to ignore.
"You look like someone staring blankly as water rises in a leaky room."
A familiar voice, though it'd only been days. I turned. Under the blazing sun, vibrant green hair sharper than nearby grass hit first. Phaenax Conrad. Her lime-green eyes met mine—name so stiff it could be a guy's.
So, how to play this? I shoved thoughts aside first.
"Evokes a tragic past, doesn't it?"
"Does it? Maybe."
Phaenax agreed casually, sat beside me. Not prim—just utterly indifferent.
"No, it's hot here!"
"It is. Why so toasty in the shade?"
Textbook tone. She hugged her knees on the chair, stared straight at me. Eyes stayed lime—not yellowing like when thinking hard—so not too serious, maybe.
"Need help?"
Right as I nearly asked if she was bored, she pierced the gap. I did need help. But from where to where? And Phaenax wasn't the type to ask. Death's too gruesome for a kid—whether hearing or suffering it.
Death's an escape for sinners, but that doesn't make it okay for kids. Endless restarts aren't normal. Best to beat around the bush here.
"You can't do anything about it."
But words slipped out first. A Confucian dragon roared in my head: Are you insane? I know, but...
"Seems like something tough for anyone."
Unless a superman who can do anything. Reincarnator with special powers. Hero with transcendent skills. Otherwise, you'd just loop back meaningless. And I'm no different.
Few I know who could act: maybe Lambda Lilion, or the stern-faced elder at the station. Best I could do? Contact her. But no intent to solve crimes—just casually chase unease away.
I'd found the truth. Now what?
"What's missing?"
Dragon rampaged over my harsh words, but Phaenax asked unfazed.
"A lot."
"Lacking now?"
"Probably forever."
"Then stack it up."
No matter the future, I couldn't face it alone—but she stared straight: "If you can't do anything now, build until you can. Then it changes."
Deliberate, like stating the obvious.
I'd heard this. Exactly the curse I'd hurled at villains: gaze at the unreachable shining star, charge straight through hardships to seize it. She echoed my curse.
"Terrifying."
Slipped out. Yeah, a truly fearsome curse. Maybe that's why it boomeranged—branches overhead blocking sun like sudden doubt.
"I find resignation scarier."
She said it like she'd lived it. No wonder her resolve's ironclad. Can't ignore "you do it too."
"Alright, I'll try."
Felt like karma circling back. Lesson: don't curse so loosely.
"Won't tell me what?"
She turned forward, asked.
No, can't dump this on a kid. Yeah.
"If you can handle it?"
Anxiety she'd do something rash if refused, so I added that.
"Cowardly. Fine. I'll take the burden soon. Wait."
Like proposing a casual after-school bet, she left. Heat haze shimmered her back—or the world? Probably exhaustion. Time to crash.
Clutching fading memories, I mechanically climbed the dorm stairs, step by step.