The CLANG tore through the air like a blade, slicing the chatter of students mid-breath.


    Ah, right. The "school bell."


    To call it a bell was an insult to bells everywhere. This was no gentle chime to mark the passage of time, nor a resonant toll to stir the soul. No—it was a jagged iron monstrosity, a relic from an era when the school’s budget had clearly been spent on… something else.


    It echoed like the call of an animal across the concrete playground of Sakuragoka High School, portending another day of existence.


    This was not a place for learning, but a battlefield of steel and sweat.


    Lunchrooms were war zones. Hallways demanded vigilance. You either dominated or perished.


    Around Muren, classmates scrambled like startled mice, clutching textbooks to their chests as they fled the courtyard. A first-year dropped her bento box. A senpai tripped over his untied shoelace. Chaos, as always, in the shadow of that damned clang.


    Of course, he thought, sighing as the vibrations lingered in his molars. ''This school couldn’t afford proper bells… or windows… or a principal who doesn’t nap through faculty meetings.''


    Muren moved through the throng of students, gaze sharp, posture coiled. He didn’t seek alliances; bonds were weaknesses here. Instead, he mapped gaps in the crowd, exits within reach. Not frail, but unremarkable—a ghost in a system where power meant everything.


    Power here wasn’t material; it was the invisible armor of reputation, the unspokennto the dazzling light. He’d learned early: laugh a beat too loud, linger a second too long, and you became target practice.


    Tripped backpacks. Lockers rattling with muffled taunts. Muren moved quietly through the crowded schoolyard. The air was filled with tension and fear. Then he heard a shout—a cry that made the hairs on his neck stand up.


    ---


    A small kid was cornered by a group of bullies near a row of lockers.


    One bully barked, “Give us your lunch money, loser!”


    The kid, trembling, stuttered, “I—I don’t have it…”


    In a flash, chaos exploded.


    A burly bully grabbed the kid by the collar, his eyes cold and cruel.


    Another kicked the kid’s backpack, sending books and papers flying.


    The kid’s face flushed red with pain and fear, his eyes wide as he tried to shrink away.


    - “No money? Then you deserve this!”


    - “Learn your lesson, punk!”


    Around them, other students froze. Some gasped; others lowered their eyes, scared to get involved.


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    As the bullies continued their assault, the kid''s eyes welled up with tears. He tried to defend himself, but his small frame was no match for the larger and stronger bullies.


    - “You think you''re tough? You think you can stand up to us?” The bully shoved the kid against the lockers, causing him to stumble and almost fall.


    The kid''s books and papers were now scattered all over the floor, and his backpack was torn and broken.


    The bullies began to hit him with their fists, shoved him, and then kicked him. Their laughter and taunts filled the air.


    - “You''re nothing but a weak little nerd. Nobody likes you, and nobody will help you.”


    The bullies barged in and surrounded the child in a circle, with expressions of cruelty and contempt on their faces.


    The kid''s face was red and swollen, and he was starting to cry. He looked around desperately for help, but the other students were too scared to intervene. Some of them looked away, trying to pretend they didn''t see what was happening.


    Muren stood at the edge of the crowd. His gaze was sharp. His face remained calm, but his eyes burned with anger and worry.


    He balled his hands up into tight fists. He clenched his jaw as he watched the atrocity unfold.


    Inside, a thought rang out clearly:


    “Not me. I have to look out for myself.”


    Muren felt a familiar fire—a combination of fear and determination. His mind flashed to the secret he guarded so closely: the old, worn book.


    - He thought, “If I could use that book''s magic, I would never be caught in a mess like this.”


    As the bullies continued their assault, the surrounding crowd slowly dispersed, leaving the beaten kid trembling on the cold concrete.


    Muren''s heart was beating violently, not to call for help, but to protect his own safety and reputation.


    He retreated back into the shadows, his mind already planning his next move.


    Rules were simple. Predators ruled. Prey endured.


    Muren chose to remain invisible.


    But he harbored a secret. A world untouched by Sakuragaoka’s savagery.


    Not sports. Not clubs. Not fleeting crushes.


    Magic.


    The obsession began with a book.


    His father had given it to him one muted evening—a leather-bound relic, crumpled with age. “Yours now,” he’d said, gravity making his voice heavier. “Guard it well.”


    The tome rang with ancient majesty. Its pages, brittle and tea-stained, smelled of dust and secrets. No fairy tales here.


    This was a blueprint. A ledger of truths scrubbed from history—or buried. Real magic. Not parlor tricks, but forces that bent reality.


    Muren pored over every line. The mysterious diagrams. The warnings inscribed in faded ink. Each glyph, each ritual, pulled him deeper into a realm where Sakuragaoka’s bullies couldn’t reach. Where strength wasn’t fists or snarls, but knowledge.


    The book wasn’t refuge. It was a revolution.


    Since middle school, Muren had one loyal companion: this old, worn book. He hid it away during lessons and pulled it out in his quiet room.


    He ran his fingers over blurry ink and swirly symbols. One day, while studying the book’s complex diagrams, he found something unexpected—a simple spell.


    Tucked near the back of the book was a thin leather notebook.


    This wasn’t a neat dictionary. It was a collection of handwritten notes, explanations, and examples.


    The pages mixed grammar rules with vocabulary. It was like finding the key to a secret room.


    Muren spent hours at his desk, comparing symbols and testing pronunciations. Slowly, he began to understand that the language was a complete system—a way of seeing the world. And within that system, the spell called “Stillness” started to make sense.


    The simple spell turned out to be “Windless Paradise.”


    The spell was not flashy. Instead, it was refined and precise. It allowed the user to manipulate the wind around them.


    The book explained that when activated, Windless Paradise would remove wind pressure only from the user.


    It would create a small bubble of still air around the user. With no wind resistance, he could move faster and strike with more force.


    There was a special note: The effect would be personal. It would not affect anyone else in the area.


    The book listed the simple requirements for the spell:


    - Basic Offerings: Incense and an item that represents freedom.


    - A Talisman: A focus for the spell’s energy. Muren was instructed to craft one with a patterned grid of symbols.


    The book also described a pact with a wind spirit.


    - Permanent Connection: Once made, the pact meant Muren could always call on Windless Paradise.


    - The Price:


    - A Quest for Each Use: Every time he would use the spell, he must complete a quest set by the spirit.


    - The Risk: If he were to fail, the wind would no longer answer his call.


    Muren imagined his bullies on the schoolyard—clumsy, slow, and cruel. With *Windless Paradise, he could move with ghost-like grace, dodging attacks and striking quickly. It wasn’t about dominating everyone; it was about protecting himself and finally feeling respected.


    Muren closed the book with a mix of determination and relief.


    - Action Plan:


    - Gather the required offerings.


    - Craft his talisman.


    - Speak to the wind and seal the pact.


    ---