A dim light seeped through a lone glass wall in a concrete-walled room, where a young man with azure-blue hair, and a fair face that made him look better even though his clothes are plain, sat motionless. Three figures, arranged like a panel across from him, watched silently. A middle-aged man cleared his throat, his voice carrying an air of formal regret.
"Mr. Hiro, we are extremely sorry to inform you that the position you applied for has already been filled by a new recruit. We will contact you in the future if any vacancies arise."
Hiro's gaze fell to the worn floor as his hair cascaded over his downcast eyes. With a soft sigh, he murmured, "Thank you, sir. Have a great day," and clutched his file as he rose to leave.
The corridors of the building echoed his footsteps as he made his way to his modest room. After a long, silent walk, he reached a narrow, creaking door. Before he could step inside, a familiar voice called out.
"Oh! Hiro, how did the interview go?" asked a woman in her forties, clad in an apron, her face bright with expectation.
"Ah, Landlady! W-well..." he stuttered, caught off guard.
Her eyes narrowed as she sensed the instability in his tone. "It didn't go well this time, huh?" she sighed, her annoyance seeping through. "Well, it doesn't matter—your rent is due next month. So don't keep slacking, or I'll have to kick you out."
Her words trailed off as she departed, leaving the creaking door to reveal a cramped, dilapidated room. A single bed occupied one corner, barely leaving enough space to maneuver. A rusted sink sat in another corner, perpetually leaking drops that pooled on the threadbare floor—a minor nuisance that, at times, invited the scurrying of rats the size of a stretched palm.
Hiro lowered his hand to cover his face, his eyes brimming with the weight of countless disappointments. He longed to cry, yet his tears had long since dried up, replaced by a numb resignation that had become all too familiar. Exhausted, he finally succumbed to slumber.
His life had not always been so bleak. Once, he belonged to a humble middle-class family—a small house that offered a semblance of privacy, a solid roof, a doting mother who catered to his every whim, and a father who, despite enduring menial tasks and unspoken humiliation at work, carried himself with quiet dignity. Happiness, however fragile, had once suffused his days—until the tragedy that stole his parents and shattered his world, leaving him to navigate a cruel life without guidance.
Hours later, his phone rang, jolting him from a restless half-sleep. Reluctantly, he answered. It was the manager from the part-time café where he worked.
"Oi, Hiro, what are you doing? It's already ten minutes past your shift! Hurry up and come, or I'm cutting your pay for the day." The call ended abruptly, leaving him with nothing but a bitter reminder of his daily struggles.
Hiro had little choice but to report to his monotonous job. His pay was meager, and his manager—ever quick to cut corners and pocket scraps—had no qualms about his verbal tirades. Yet hunger and necessity bound Hiro to his station. Memories of past deprivations, when his wages vanished for days, haunted him, but the pang of hunger was a constant enemy he could not afford to ignore.
At the counter, his hollow eyes stared blankly ahead, as if awaiting oblivion. In that moment, his phone buzzed—a notification heralding the release of a new chapter from a novel he treasured. The story was a beacon in his otherwise grey existence, a world where tragedy and destiny danced together in mysterious rhythms.
Just then, a frail young man with pale skin and dark circles approached the counter. "Hey mister, my coffee!" he called.
Almost mechanically, Hiro handed over the cup without a thought. As the young man turned to leave, a soft voice called after him, "Excuse me! You haven't taken your sugar cube—coffee tastes bitter without it." Without hesitation, Hiro offered the cubes and returned to his station.
Minutes later, the heavy pull of exhaustion overwhelmed him. His eyes grew impossibly heavy until, with a final blink, they closed. The bustling sounds of the café—the shuffling of feet, the hum of distant conversations, even the clink of utensils—slowed to a lethargic crawl. A strange calm settled over him, until a single sound—a familiar notification tone from his beloved novel—pierced the haze.
Then, everything faded to black.
In that pitch darkness, an unfamiliar voice resonated in his mind—a voice that carried both warning and invitation:
"[Aspirant! Welcome to Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your first trial.]"
And with those cryptic words, Hiro's descent into a realm beyond the ordinary began.