Aiken Clint sat quietly in his classroom, his eyes locked on the glowing math equation displayed on his laptop screen. Numbers danced in his mind with a clarity that came naturally to him. Despite his academic excellence, Aiken preferred the quiet corners of attention, tucked safely behind his thick-rimmed glasses and an unassuming presence.
The stillness of the room was broken by the sudden bark of the professor's voice, slicing through the air like a whip.
"Mr. Clint—your answer?"
Aiken flinched. The question had pulled him violently from his focused world. In his startled reaction, his knee struck the underside of the desk, sending his pens skittering to the floor and his notebook flopping open with a slap. A few quiet snickers rippled through the classroom.
Flushing slightly, he adjusted his glasses—thick lenses that caught the light like twin shields—and turned his gaze back to the screen. His heart thudded in his chest like a drumbeat, but he steadied his breath. Slowly, he rose from his seat, the creak of his chair amplified in the silence that followed. A dozen eyes followed him, and for a moment, he stood at the center of a stage he never asked for.
"...One," he said, his voice clear and certain, the single syllable landing with surprising weight. A flicker of pride straightened his spine.
Then—whap! A pen struck the back of his head.
He blinked, confused for a second, before a familiar laugh echoed from two rows back.
"Ha! Gotcha," Henry said, grinning like a kid who'd scored a perfect prank. His brown curls bounced as he leaned back in his chair, clearly proud of the throw. "Man, I really thought you were about to give Scarface the wrong answer!"
More laughter erupted from their classmates, the tension dissolving into a ripple of amusement. Even Aiken managed a small, crooked smile as he bent to retrieve the pen.
The professor, unfazed, continued with the lesson—but not without a raised eyebrow and a muttered, "Scarface?"
With shared laughter echoing between them, Aiken and Henry made their way to the school's bustling canteen, the rhythm of their camaraderie steady and light. Between playful nudges and exaggerated complaints about hunger, the duo weaved through crowded halls, their bond made tangible in every inside joke and shared smirk. Their break was simple—a quest for snacks and momentary escape—but in that simplicity bloomed something enduring: quiet, effortless friendship.
Scarface, as the students irreverently called him, loomed large in more than just stature. The jagged scar that ran down his cheek was more than a mark; it was a banner of intimidation, a silent warning that earned him a fearsome reputation. Whispers about his past flourished in corners of the school, half-truths braided into rumor. Yet for all the mystery he carried, Aiken had already solved the most difficult equation the professor could throw at them.
And still, he held back.
He had no desire to stand in the spotlight, no need to dazzle the class with the speed of his mind. Aiken sought something quieter—something simpler. He wore the illusion of ordinariness with practiced ease, blending into the background like furniture in a room. It wasn't insecurity that kept him there, but choice. Humility. Self-preservation.
Henry, ever the jester, continued his teasing with good-humored zeal. "You should've seen your face when Scarface called your name," he laughed between bites of a chocolate bar, eyes gleaming. "Thought you were gonna pass out!"
Aiken chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Better that than miss the question."
He shrugged off the jabs with the ease of someone used to wearing masks. It was his nature to endure, to smile, to deflect. Because behind Aiken Clint's quiet demeanor and thick glasses lay something few—if any—suspected.
A secret identity born not in the real world, but in the digital expanse of Letheon.
There, he was not the overlooked student in the third row. He was Cziell, master of the forbidden arts, a necromancer whose name sent shivers through both friend and foe. Cloaked in power, feared in every PvP arena, revered across forums and fan channels, Cziell was legend incarnate.
And yet here he stood—unseen, unnoticed, unremarkable.
Just the way he liked it.
A subtle vibration pulsed against Aiken's wrist—a nearly imperceptible tremor, yet instantly distinct. This wasn't the usual flurry of messages from his older brother's overbearing check-ins or his little sister's daily cascade of trivia and worry. No, this alert bore the tone of urgency, coded and deliberate.
His eyes flicked downward. The display on his wrist phone glowed with a single icon—one only he would recognize. His heart skipped a beat, not from surprise, but anticipation.
Without hesitation, Aiken turned to Henry, who was mid-rant about the disappointing ratio of meat to bun in his burger. "Back in a bit," he murmured, casually enough not to raise suspicion. Henry gave a half-wave, his attention still firmly rooted in his snack-based indignation.
Aiken navigated the stairwell with practiced ease, each step ascending not just the school's floors but the carefully constructed walls around his dual life. The rooftop door groaned slightly as he pushed it open, welcoming him into the open sky and rare solitude.
There, under the veil of a passing cloud, he checked the message in full. Lines of encrypted text unfurled like a spell scroll—coordinates, call signs, and a warning. A digital raid was brewing in Letheon, one that demanded more than reflexes or brute strength. It called for strategy. Leadership. Him.
The shift was instantaneous.
Gone was the modest student in secondhand sneakers and a sweater one size too large. In his stance now was poise, precision—shoulders squared, gaze focused. The timidity he wore during lectures evaporated, replaced by the commanding presence of Cziell, the tactician of the undead legions. A master necromancer. A legend carved into the code of the virtual world.
Where Aiken was overlooked, Cziell was obeyed. Where he stammered in real life, he issued commands that orchestrated entire guilds, that turned the tide of war. There was no room for hesitation in that realm. No room for fear.
Only results.
The dichotomy between his two selves was stark—a living paradox of humility and dominion, invisibility and influence. Yet to Aiken, the contrast was not contradiction, but balance. The classroom might never know what power stirred behind his quiet eyes, but in Letheon, the world bent to his will.
And soon, it would again.
"Listen to this," Aiken said, his voice low, threaded with intrigue. His eyes never left the glowing message on his wrist display. "Sco—the current 12th-ranked player—is throwing down the gauntlet. He's challenging Cziell to an official duel. Friday."
The rooftop stirred with a sudden gust, as if the wind itself responded to the gravity of his words. Aiken's dark hair lifted, swept back by the breeze, echoing the regal sweep of his online avatar's spectral mantle. In that moment, the boundary between the real and the virtual blurred. The soft, unassuming lines of his face tightened—just slightly—into something sharper, more calculating.
And then he smiled.
Not the gentle, uncertain curve his classmates were used to. This smile carried something darker. There was poise in it. Precision. Power. A harbinger of reckoning that would send chills through even the most hardened player in Letheon. It was the expression of a predator who'd just spotted prey—one who'd already seen how the hunt would end.
The rooftop fell silent.
That was when the door creaked open.
A girl stood framed in the doorway, her chest rising with shallow breaths, eyes wide with alarm. Her name barely whispered in the wind as she stepped into the charged space he'd left in his wake. She'd been following the alerts too, but seeing him like this—caught mid-shift between Aiken and something else—rattled her.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice hushed, but strained with concern. "This… this isn't just some game, is it?"
The gravity of the moment was undeniable. Though only a handful in the real world knew of Cziell's true identity, fewer still understood the scale of influence the duel would carry. A confrontation at that level wasn't just for rankings or reputation—it was a move on the board of something far deeper, with consequences spilling into both the virtual and real.
Without another word, the girl turned and pressed her fingers to her wrist communicator, the device blinking to life with a sharp tone. Her voice, now clipped and urgent, carried into the silence:
"The Dark Lord will engage the Little Prince tomorrow."
On the other end, static crackled, followed by a solemn acknowledgment.
With that single phrase, the game changed. The gears of a hidden war shifted into motion, setting off a chain reaction that neither realm—real nor virtual—could ignore. Strategies would be rewritten. Alliances tested. Shadows stirred.
And at the heart of it stood Aiken Clint.
Or rather—Cziell.
The ambiance shifted, mirroring the storm that had begun to unfurl its fury beyond the confines of the rooftop. Thunder rolled in the distance—low, ominous—and the first heavy drops of rain struck the ground like distant footsteps of something ancient and inevitable. Within moments, the sky wept in torrents, the downpour painting streaks across the night like ink bleeding on parchment.
The girl stood motionless, drenched in silver rain, her figure silhouetted against the angry heavens. The flicker of lightning carved brief moments of clarity, illuminating the turmoil etched across her face.
Eyes closed. Fists clenched.
A vow broke free, barely more than a breath, but heavier than any storm.
"I won't let him fall."
It wasn't just concern for Aiken—or for Cziell. It was deeper than that. This was a promise born from history, from secrets too heavy to name and stakes too immense to ignore. She wasn't merely a bystander to the duel. She was a piece on the board, one whose role remained hidden in shadow… for now.
And yet, despite her resolution, doubt lingered—silent, coiled like a serpent in the depths of her mind. Would she be fast enough? Smart enough? Could she reach him before the masks they wore consumed them entirely?
Above, the clouds cracked open with a burst of white fury.
The girl raised her wrist communicator once more, its interface reflecting in her rain-slick eyes. Words formed, hesitated, then vanished before she could speak them.
The future teetered.
Rain struck the metal rooftop in relentless rhythm, as if echoing the pulse of the world itself—alive, waiting. Somewhere between this world and the virtual dominion of Letheon, destinies were converging. Hers. Aiken's. Sco's. And those still unknown.
In that moment, she wasn't just a girl in the storm.
She was the quiet before something cataclysmic. A spark waiting for ignition.
And the rain kept falling.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───