In the enigmatic confines of the white room, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, the revered "Masterpiece of the demonic 4th generation," undergoes rigorous training. But when the military raids the facility, Ayanokouji is finally freed from its grip.
However, spe...
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- Start of 1st Arc -
I trudged through the crowded hallways of my school, my steps heavy and burdened. I blended into the sea of students, my appearance unremarkable, my presence easily overlooked. I was just another face in the crowd.
But beneath the surface, a struggle consumed me. I was a target of relentless bullying, subjected to cruel taunts, mocking laughter, and endless humiliation. Day after day, I faced the harsh reality of being an outcast, an easy target for those who sought to exert their dominance.
The weight of their words and actions bore down on me, chipping away at my self-esteem, leaving me battered and bruised emotionally. Each insult became a dagger, piercing my already fragile confidence. It felt as if the world was conspiring against me, reinforcing my belief that I was inherently unworthy, deserving of the pain that consumed me.
My pessimism grew like a poisonous vine, entwining around my thoughts and emotions. I saw the world through a lens tinted with despair, convinced that happiness and acceptance were luxuries reserved for others, forever beyond my reach. The laughter of my tormentors echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of my supposed insignificance.
I longed for an escape, a respite from the relentless torment, but the walls of my existence seemed impenetrable. Each day, I mustered the strength to face the school halls, the cold stares, and the cutting words, but inside, I was crumbling, a mere shell of who I once was.
In the depths of my despair, I often wondered why fate had dealt me such a cruel hand. What had I done to deserve this? Was there any purpose to my suffering? But the answers eluded me, lost in the labyrinth of my own self-doubt.
As I arrived at my locker, dread clutched at my heart. I hesitated, my hand trembling, before slowly turning the combination lock. What awaited me inside was a constant reminder of my torment—a barrage of insults scrawled across the walls of my locker, mocking words etched into the very fabric of my existence. The stench of garbage filled the air, as if to taunt me further.
Hot tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to lash out at the cruelty that surrounded me. But I knew from experience that raising my voice would only invite more ridicule. The walls of my despair closed in, suffocating me, leaving me feeling utterly helpless.
In a desperate attempt to find solace, I sought help from my teachers, the supposed guardians of safety within the school walls. I reported the bullying, hoping for intervention, for a sliver of protection. But instead, my pleas were met with indifference or, worse, a dismissive wave of the hand. The bullies, emboldened by the lack of consequences, unleashed their torment with even greater intensity, as if punishing me for daring to speak up.
