Dust curled into the air, thick and choking. Two armies clashed like tidal waves on opposite shores—steel ringing, war cries splitting the sky. In the eye of the chaos, where the ground shook with the weight of history repeating itself, one figure stood untouched.
Shiro.
No armor. No weapon. No command.
Just him—barehanded, motionless, stunned.
They didn't even see him. Not the screaming soldiers rushing into death. Not the generals barking orders. To them, Shiro didn't exist. He was a ghost stitched into the battlefield, watching fate unfold like an outsider peering into his funeral.
He tried to step back. The earth cracked beneath his feet.
And then it hit.
Not the swords. Not the bullets. But the realization: he shouldn't be here.
The sound of hoofbeats shattered everything.
Time slowed.
The cavalry broke through the fog like a tidal wave of muscle and metal. Shiro's legs moved—too late. The hooves came down. Raw and ruthless.
Darkness followed.
—
Shiro jolted awake.
His room glowed dimly with soft RGB lights from his PC, casting hues of violet and blue across scattered gaming gear. A scream tore from his throat.
"AHHH—"
"I'm still alive… I'm still alive…"
He whispered it like a prayer, clinging to the words like a lifeline. Nine lives. I still have nine lives... right?
He tried to shift—pain flared up instantly. His body screamed in protest. Trembling fingers pulled up his shirt. Blood smeared across his ribs. Tiny cuts, shallow but angry, burned like fire ants in his flesh.
Every breath was a punishment.
A groan escaped his lips—uncontrolled and louder than he wanted.
"This… hurts. This is brutal." His voice cracked. "I don't know if I can—"
He froze mid-sentence, swallowing another breath. "I don't know if I can handle this."
A voice from beyond the door stabbed through the silence.
"Will you let me sleep, Shiro? You're being loud as hell."
The door creaked open.
Shiro scrambled, quickly pulling down his shirt. His pain was tucked under a mask of calm.
Yuki stepped in—fifteen, a storm of tousled hair and sleep-heavy eyes. Her nightclothes hung loose. Her annoyed expression flickered with curiosity.
He tried to sound normal. "Hey… what're you doing in my room, Yuki?"
She scowled. "What do you think I'm doing? You're yelling in the middle of the night like someone stabbed you."
Her gaze narrowed. Then she leaned in, tapped his nose playfully.
"What happened—fall off a cliff in your dream? Or was it your imaginary wife serving hands?"
Shiro snorted, nudging her back with a weak smile. "Wait… you care about your brother?"
Yuki rolled her eyes and turned away, her voice drifting with teasing indifference. "Just don't yell so loud if you wanna sleep in peace, dumbass."
She vanished behind the closing door.
Shiro exhaled long, shakily. His muscles relaxed just enough for him to breathe.
When he lifted his shirt again, the pain had softened. His wounds… healing.
Too fast.
He stared. Confusion and disbelief twisted on his face. The tiny cuts were already sealing, bruises fading into memory.
Standing, he peeled off the shirt with a wince. The sharp sting now dulled—more ache than agony. After locking the door, he stepped toward the window, tracing the remnants of fading scars.
"It's morning…" he whispered, voice cracking. "Worst night of my life."
Then, barely audible:
"I don't know if I can finish this story."
His gaze sank.
"I need to heal faster… What if next time I lose a limb? What if it doesn't grow back?" His fists trembled. "What would I even tell Mom? Or Yuki? Dad'd probably say I joined a gang."
He stared at his phone—6:09 AM.
Still time before school. But first… the blood.
He needed to clean everything before it was found.
Clothes. Sheets. Skin.
He frowned at the shirt in his hand. No way this'll survive the laundry.
He crossed the room, opened the door near his overflowing bookshelf. Inside the washroom, he stripped down, turned on the shower, and stepped in. Water hissed against his skin, warm and sharp. Blood ran in swirling ribbons down the drain.
After thirty minutes, he leaned against the basin, studying his reflection.
The wounds were gone.
Not just healed—erased.
He slipped into his uniform, combed his dripping hair, then checked the time: 6:49 AM.
Opening his room door, he nearly collided with Yuki again.
She blinked, then gasped.
"Mom! Something's wrong! Shiro woke up without me pulling him out of bed!"
She bolted down the stairs. Shiro stood behind, rubbing his cheek with awkward amusement.
"It's just—"
He followed her down to the table.
"Yuki, shut up. Maybe I just… felt like waking up early."
Their mother, sharp-eyed with her greying hair twisted into a stick bun, glanced his way.
"Your girlfriend dumped you or something? That's why you couldn't sleep?"
Shiro flinched—his face tightened. "Mom, seriously? I wake up early once, and suddenly it's about girls or heartbreak? I'm just… figuring things out."
Without waiting for another jab, he turned and walked off.
Behind him, silence lingered.
Yuki turned to their mom, her voice hushed. "Do you think it's because of that dream? The one that made him scream?"
Her mom didn't answer right away.
Then softly, eyes distant:
"He'll be fine… probably just a nightmare he never wanted to see."
—
In the classroom, Shiro sat in silence, center seat, perfectly still. Only two other bags lay scattered on desks nearby. Besides him, the room was empty.
His eyes traced the ceiling. Thought stacked over thought.
How can any of this be real… not in our world.
It has to be a dream. But…
His brow creased slightly.
It's not a coincidence. Not if I keep dreaming of the same place… Starila… and those wounds.
His mind wandered so deeply, he didn't notice the boy walking in—black hair, brown eyes, swagger sharp. The guy dropped his bag onto the desk ahead, then paused mid-step.
"It's just our Shiro—wait, Shiro? This early?"
He squinted, voice half-joking but loud.
"Oi, what are you doing here this early?"
No reaction.
Shiro didn't flinch. Just kept staring at the ceiling, one foot on the desk, hands behind his head, pencil balanced between his lips. Completely zoned out.
The boy blinked, tone sharpening.
"Oi, Shiro. Wake up, daydreamer!"
Students began to trickle in—girls whispering, boys sliding into chairs. The air shifted from quiet to soft hums of chatter. Still, Shiro didn't move.
"Seriously," the boy muttered, "What are you thinking about?"
Shiro stirred slightly. His voice was barely a breath.
"Yes…"
"What?" The boy leaned closer, brow furrowed. "I said, what are you thinking?"
Shiro's gaze stayed locked on the ceiling. His voice dropped, dreamy and distant.
"I'm thinking about her… is she real… or just a myth I made to cope?"
Silence swallowed the room.
Girls froze mid-sentence. Boys exchanged glances. Confusion crackled.
"He's talking about a girl?" one whispered.
Another student chuckled nervously. "Or some anime dream girl?"
A few laughed, brushing it off. But unease lingered. Something about his words… something deeper than infatuation.
Shiro didn't notice the noise around him. His eyes didn't flicker. As if he weren't in their classroom at all—but floating in some invisible rift.
His thought echoed again:
Is she real… or just a myth I created?
The black-haired boy leaned forward, confusion laced through his tone.
"Which girl? Who is she?"
And Shiro—barely awake, barely himself—whispered:
"Starila… I'll kill her… and take my life back…"
The temperature dropped.
Whispers burst like gusts of wind. A girl turned to her friend, horrified.
"Did he just say kill? What did she do to him?"
Panic crept in. Then the boy grabbed Shiro's shoulders and shook him.
Shiro blinked hard. The trance cracked.
"Can't you see I'm thinkin—"
Eyes met eyes. Everyone watching. Heat rushed to his cheeks.
He exhaled. "Oh, it's you, Riku. Sorry… I was just thinking about something."
He paused. Then shrugged.
"A game I played last night."
The tension eased, but the moment didn't leave.
Class began. Voices returned. But that one sentence stayed lodged in the room like a ghost.
—
The day passed in pieces. School ended. Shiro walked home, silent. Ate with his family—barely touched the food. A ghost in routine.
Later, in his room—washed, changed—he lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He knew it would come.
The dream.
The void pressed in—endless, black, familiar. That same place again. Grey fog coiled around his feet like breath from something ancient. Thin enough to see through. Heavy enough to suffocate.
A voice slipped into his ear, echoing from nowhere.
"What a shame... You died the moment you set foot in the world. I thought you'd make a fine protagonist."
Shiro gasped.
He turned.
She was there.
Starila. Floating beside him. Close enough to breathe into his skin. Her whisper tasted of elegance and poison.
Rage pulsed through him.
"Why the hell did you send me into that battlefield?"
She drifted back, circling like a snake teasing prey. Her eyes shimmered with wicked playfulness.
"Hmm… seems you healed well. Thank God my method worked."
A cruel smile spread across her lips.
Then her tone shifted—darker than before, twisted and ancient.
"This is just the beginning…" she hissed.
"You'll regret ever dreaming of being a protagonist."
•••