The classroom was noisy. Students were laughing, some tossing paper balls,
others scrolling through their phones under the desk. The teacher kept talking
about equations on the board, but no one was listening.
Elias Gray sat in the last row by the window. His desk was stacked with
manga volumes, their covers bent and pages worn from too many reads. His
notebook was already full of copied lines—spells and chants written in neat
handwriting.
He whispered them under his breath.
"Ina—sora… valen… astra…"
The words rolled out without him noticing, like breathing. He had read them
a hundred times from the pages of his favorite series. In those stories,
ordinary kids discovered secret powers by repeating old chants. Elias
believed—no, he hoped—that if he memorized them enough, something
inside him might wake up too.
A snicker cut through the air.
"Hey, listen! He's chanting again."
Heads turned. A couple of boys in front twisted in their seats to grin at
him.
"What's wrong with you, Gray? Think you're in an anime?"
"Careful, guys. He might summon a dragon."
The class laughed. Even a few girls by the door covered their mouths,
giggling.
Elias froze. Heat spread across his cheeks. He gripped his pencil harder,
staring down at his notebook. His lips clamped shut.
"He's so weird," someone whispered.
"Creepy nerd. Always alone. No wonder."
The words cut deeper than they looked. They always did. Elias didn't talk
back. He never did. His body felt too small, too weak, like the words
themselves pressed him down into his seat.
The teacher didn't say a thing. They never did. It was easier to ignore him
than to get involved.
The bell finally rang. Chairs scraped back, students rushed for the door,
still laughing about their weekend plans. Elias packed slowly, slipping his
books into his worn backpack, careful not to bend the covers any more than they
already were. His manga were the only things that felt alive in his world.
He walked down the hall. The glass windows reflected him—messy dark hair,
pale skin, glasses slipping too far down his nose. A thin boy with hunched
shoulders. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like the background character
in everyone else's story.
The walk home was worse.
He kept his head down as footsteps trailed behind him. They always did. The
same group from class followed him past the school gates.
"Hey, magic boy!"
"Cast a spell on us, why don't you?"
"Oh wait—you can't."
A hard shove hit his back. He stumbled forward, knees smacking the concrete.
Pain shot up his legs. His bag fell open, manga volumes spilling onto the
ground. The colorful covers flashed in the sunlight.
The boys burst into laughter.
"Seriously? Still carrying those stupid comics?"
"Man, no wonder nobody talks to you."
"Pathetic."
One of them kicked a book across the street. Elias crawled forward,
snatching it up before a passing car could crush it. His hands shook as he
gathered the rest, shoving them back into his bag. His knees stung, blood
spotting through his uniform pants.
He didn't fight back. He never did. His arms felt weak, his voice useless.
Even if he shouted, no one would step in.
When the boys finally left, Elias walked the rest of the way in silence.
His house was quiet. Too quiet.
The lights were off. No one was waiting at the table. No sound came from the
kitchen. He unlocked the door, slipped off his shoes, and stepped inside.
His father used to be there—sitting on the couch, watching TV, or teasing
Elias about reading manga all night. But after the accident a few months ago,
the house had turned into nothing but empty walls and dust.
His mother? She was never around. Elias only knew her from the one photo
tucked into a drawer: a young woman with kind eyes holding a baby. She had left
before he could even remember her.
Now it was just him. Him and his books.
He dropped his bag onto the thin mattress in his room. The shelves were
stacked with manga, light novels, and random fantasy paperbacks he'd collected
since he was little. Their spines were bent, their pages taped back together.
He had read them all. Stories about wizards, chosen ones, secret academies,
forbidden magic. He memorized chants, hand signs, everything. He believed them,
even if the world didn't.
That belief was all he had.
Elias sat on the edge of his bed, pulling one volume from his bag. The cover
showed a boy with silver hair, sword glowing, magic swirling around him. The
boy was strong, confident. Everything Elias wasn't.
His chest tightened as he stared at it. He wanted so badly to be someone
like that—to fight back, to protect himself, to not always be the target.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The bruise on his back throbbed from the
shove earlier. His knees ached from the fall.
His room was silent, but his voice broke it.
"Why can't I become stronger so I can protect myself?"