The sky over Seoul that morning looked dull and heavy—gray clouds hanging low, smothering what little light the sunrise offered. It had rained earlier. The streets were still wet, reflecting the flicker of neon signs like broken mirror pieces. The whole city felt like it was holding its breath.
Aryl walked alone down the cracked sidewalk, school bag slung over one shoulder. His shoes made quiet squishing sounds with every step, soaked from puddles. The cold seeped in through the frayed ends of his uniform pants. Ahead, the blinking lights of a convenience store flickered faintly in the misty air.
He passed by groups of students chatting with coffee cups in hand, laughter echoing around them. Their faces looked bright and full of ease. None of them noticed him. Or maybe they did—and just didn't want to. Aryl had gotten used to being ignored, like he wasn't really there. A ghost with a shadow too sharp to overlook.
He stopped outside the gates of JH High. A breeze rustled his messy hair as he looked up at the tall building ahead, his face unreadable.
Another day. Another stage.
He walked in.
The classroom was already half-full, buzzing with idle chatter and the scratch of markers on whiteboards.
Laughter echoed in pockets, and sunlight leaked through half-drawn blinds, casting stripes on the tile floor like prison bars.
Tables cluttered like territories, each claimed by packs of students. Kings, pawns, jesters, and ghosts — all roamed under flickering ceiling lights and the smell of stale curry and wet notebooks.
Aryl stepped in, his presence barely acknowledged His eyes scanned the room—not out of curiosity, but habit. Same faces. Same whispers. Same tired dance. Without a word, he made his way to the last row, slipping into his usual seat by the window. The chair creaked under him, familiar and silent, like it too had grown used to being ignored. He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes drifting to the world outside—where things felt quieter , no one came near him.
Except for them.
Hyenas of JH High.
"Yo, look who crawled back from the dead," sneered a boy with a sharp jaw and dull eyes — Taesung. "Didn't know ghosts attended school."
Laughter followed. Fake. Echoey. The kind of laugh people use to cover silence.
Aryl didn't flinch.
He never did.
From across the room, a pair of curious eyes had been watching.
nari.
Long hair dyed chestnut brown, glossed lips pursed with practiced indifference. She had it all—followers, flair, flawless grades. Every boy in class tripped over themselves to gain her attention. Every boy... except him
He hadn't spared her a single glance since the semester started. Didn't trip over himself to compliment her hair. Didn't pretend to be impressed by her stories. He just… existed. Like her presence meant nothing.
And that pissed her off.
"why is he acting cocky even in this situation " her friend muttered to her. "Who even is he?"
But behind the scoff, behind the curl of her lip—there was something else.
Curiosity.
"Oi."
"Still acting like a king, huh?" -Taesung leaned in close, voice lowering. "I heard something about you. Son of a killer. That true?"
"Did your deadbeat mom finally croak in jail?" another voice snorted.
"Or maybe you're planning to kill us just like your mom, huh?"
The words sliced through the haze. Aryl's fingers twitched.
For a second—just a second—his head tilted, and his eyes caught the bully's with a flicker of something molten.
The classroom dimmed in his mind. The world muffled.
A broken image flashed across his memory: blood. Glass. A man's body crumpled on the floor. And his mother—
—standing above with a broken beer bottle, blood dripping from her hands, eyes hollow.
Behind her, police officers in their navy blues, muttering into radios, walking over shattered picture frames.
"Aryl," her voice had cracked that day, soft and desperate. "Don't ever resort to violence. Never do it like your mother."
Aryl blinked. His fist—clenched without realizing—unfolded.
The bully laughed, "What, cat got your tongue, trash?"
"Enough."
The word cut clean through the tension in the room like the sharp snap of a violin string. Not shouted, not barked—spoken with a chilling, unshaken clarity.
All heads turned. The laughter, the jeers, the sneers — they all paused mid-air.
A small figure stepped forward from the side—a girl, short in stature but sharp in presence, Her black hair was cut into a messy wolfcut, the strands falling just over her eyes. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain-like, and her eyes were wide—too big for her face, but they held a kind of nervous strength. On the left side of her chin, just below her lip, sat a small mole that made her otherwise soft features stand out more than you'd expect.
The new transfer girl. Barely a day old in this hellhole of a classroom. Her uniform was crisp, her shoes still clean. But her face — tense — betrayed her nerves. She was scared.
You could see it in the way her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves, in the slight shake of her stance, in the way her eyes flickered between Aryl and the boys.
Still, she didn't back down.
She stepped forward, placing herself between Aryl and the bullies, her breath quick and shallow, her posture stiff like she was holding up a wall she knew could collapse at any second.
The lead bully scoffed, "This doesn't concern you, princess."
Another added with a smirk, "Step back unless you wanna get mixed up in things that'll mess up your pretty little face."
Her lips parted — just slightly.She was afraid. But more than that, she was angry. Angry enough to risk it.
She didn't say anything back.But she didn't move either.
The tension snapped like a taut wire—
SLAM.
The classroom door burst open, the frame trembling from the impact. Their homeroom teacher strode in, his bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze scanning the tension like smoke.
"Take your seats," he said, voice bored but firm.
Like magic, the predators backed off.
One of them clicked his tongue. Another muttered something under his breath as he passed Aryl.
But the girl? She turned back slowly, glanced once at Aryl… and walked to her seat without a word. Her shoulders trembled, just barely.
She had been scared.
But she did it anyway.
—
After class, as the last of the students spilled out the door, Aryl remained seated — still, quiet, just breathing.
Then, the soft sound of shoes on tile.
He turned his head slightly.
She was standing beside his desk now, looking everywhere but at him. In her hand was a small bandage — the kind you keep in your pencil case or bag, just in case.
"You're bleeding," she said softly.
Her voice was calm, but her hands were still shaking.
Aryl reached to his forehead and felt the sticky warmth. He hadn't even noticed the cut.
She held out the bandage.
He didn't speak.
He just took it.
And for a brief moment, their fingers brushed.
Then, she turned and left without another word.
Like nothing had happened.
But something had.
later that evening, under the flickering lights of a dingy Seoul convenience store, Aryl stood behind the counter. His apron hung loosely, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.
Asha—his little sister—sat nearby on a stool with her sketchbook open, her small hands clutching watercolors. She dipped the brush, humming soundlessly. Her voice had been gone for years—since that day.
The day her world shattered.
She was drawing a bluebird.
Asha had once pointed at one in a library book and smiled—a real smile, the rare kind that lit up her otherwise silent world. Bluebirds meant peace. So now, whenever she painted one, Aryl knew what she was wishing for.
He watched her for a moment longer than he should have. The way her brow furrowed in concentration. The gentleness in her strokes. It made him ache inside—an ache that never fully went away. He was supposed to protect her. Be strong for her.
Aryl turned and began restocking a shelf of beer bottles, each clink against glass making his jaw tense. The chill of the bottles seeped into his fingers, and for a second—one quiet second—the cold felt familiar.
He dropped the bottle.
It didn't break—but it rolled across the floor, stopping at the foot of a thug who had just barged into the store, reeking of booze and swagger. Two more followed. They were laughing, loud, careless.
They didn't notice the bottle. But they noticed Asha.
Asha, startled by the noise, accidentally knocked over her palette.
Splashes of blue and red and green flew into the air—landing square on the front of one thug's branded jacket.
Time froze.
"You little brat!" he snarled.
He grabbed Asha by the arm, yanking her upright.
Aryl's heart dropped.
"Let her go. It was a mistake." His voice was quiet, but edged with steel.
The thug smirked. "And what if I don't, huh?"
That thug threw a punch.
Pain flared in his ribs, his head spun, and Asha screamed—silently.
They were going to hurt her. They were going to—
But he promised. He promised his mom he wouldn't fight.
Aryl's body trembled. Protect her. Or keep the promise.
He stood up, and for the first time in a very long while, he threw a punch.
It missed. Or rather, it landed like a whisper. The thug barely flinched. Aryl's punch, once fueled by instinct, now carried no weight. Years of malnutrition, relentless bullying, and a body worn down by survival had drained every ounce of strength he once had.
The next moment, Aryl was on the ground, boot against his chest. Asha screamed—but no sound came out.
"Maybe we teach you a lesson too, pretty boy." The other thug moved toward Asha.
Aryl tried to move. His body screamed in agony, but something deeper roared louder—something ancient, buried, angry.
And then—
[System Booting…]
A screen blinked across Aryl's vision.
[Emotional Catalyst Triggered.]
[Initializing... Awakening Sequence…]
A flicker of blue light danced across his blurred vision. His chest burned—not from pain, but from something deeper. Something rising.
His limbs, moments ago weak, suddenly felt electric. The hum of something unknown crawled under his skin like fire and frost at once.
Aryl opened his eyes.
[Welcome, Crownless.]