Copyright © 2025 Terobero
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition, 2025.
Printed in an unreal yet merciless world.
Dedication
To the children who learned to smile with broken pieces.
And to those who never stopped hoping, even when hope never came back.
Epigraph
"When Justice forgets mercy, it becomes the sharpest cruelty of all."
— Fragment from The Seven Radiant Virtues, banned scripture of the New World
Forword
Dear reader,
Stories are born from silence—those quiet hours where grief and imagination breathe together. The Exiled Weapon was born from that silence.
From the thought that trauma is not linear. That pain does not vanish when the world expects it to. That sometimes, the strongest people are not those who triumph, but those who simply continue after they should have broken.
Ryuji Shiratori came to me as a shadow first—barely a silhouette standing in a white room that had no doors. A boy defined not by what he possessed, but by everything taken from him. The kind of character whose strength is not granted, but carved through endless loss.
This story is not about glory.
It is about survival.
About the cruelty of ideals.
About virtues transformed into weapons.
About a world where even death sends you back, demanding you suffer again until you "learn."
If you have ever felt alone, unseen, or misunderstood—then perhaps you will see a piece of yourself in Ryuji. And I hope, in some small way, this book offers you the same thing it offered me while writing it: a place where darkness is not the end of the road, but the beginning of change.
Welcome to the other world.
Welcome to the cycle.
Welcome to The Exiled Weapon.
—Terobero
PROLOGUE — WHITE IS NOT AN INNOCENT COLOR
They say children enter the world crying.
Ryuji Shiratori didn't.
According to the attendants who logged his birth, he opened his mismatched eyes—one green, one gold—and stared at the ceiling as if the blank white above him had already answered every question he would never dare to ask.
He did not cry.
He simply registered the world.
In the White Room, that was enough.
He grew up in a place where walls weren't walls but boundaries, and caretakers weren't caretakers but mechanisms disguised in human skin. Where silence had shape and weight, and where the soft hum of air vents felt almost maternal if you listened long enough.
The curriculum began early.
Infancy, even earlier.
When the other children in distant normal worlds learned colors, Ryuji learned neutrality.
When toddlers learned the difference between "mother" and "stranger," Ryuji learned the difference between obedience and irrelevance.
When children learned to run, he learned to endure.
Every morning, he watched the instructors' shadows move behind the glass partition.
They observed him the way a scholar observes an insect pinned perfectly beneath a microscope—fascinated, detached, meticulously cruel without the need for malice.
And Ryuji understood something even then:
He was not born here by mistake.
He was designed.
But children, no matter how engineered, are not built with empty spaces.
They carve them over time.
His emptiness began quietly—like a room in his mind someone forgot to fill.
Then it grew.
And grew.
Until it became large enough to echo.
The White Room noticed every tremble of his fingers, every hesitation of breath—
but it never noticed the echo.
Only Ryuji did.
He first heard it at five years old, during a lecture about moral paradoxes.
He answered every question correctly and the instructor nodded, satisfied, already turning away.
Ryuji smiled.
It surprised him.
The expression felt foreign—borrowed.
"Why are you smiling?" the instructor asked.
Ryuji blinked.
He hadn't meant to.
Inside his mind, a voice whispered:
Because he wanted you to.
The voice sounded like him.
But it wasn't.
It was steadier.
Sharper.
A version of himself unburdened by breath or heartbeat or the subtle tremors that gave away fear.
At first, Ryuji tried to silence it.
But every time he felt the quiet ache behind his ribs—an ache he could never name—
the voice returned.
Not to comfort him.
Not to guide him.
Just to fill the space the White Room had carved out.
Sometimes it spoke only three words:
"I'm still here."
Sometimes that was enough.
Years passed without seasons.
Time didn't flow in the White Room—it circled, looping around the same routines until even memories felt recycled.
Ryuji learned to speak only when spoken to.
To sleep lightly enough to hear the footsteps of the night shift.
To breathe in a rhythm that never betrayed anxiety.
He became everything they shaped him to be.
A polite child.
A brilliant student.
A perfect subject.
But a strange truth settled into him as he grew:
Perfection is only a beautiful name for captivity.
And as long as he remained perfect in their eyes, he would never belong to himself.
He understood this not through logic, but through the faintest tremor of rebellion that bloomed in him each night—quiet, fragile, like a candle lit in a room built to forbid fire.
The White Room could measure his intelligence.
It could sculpt his reflexes.
It could sharpen his logic until it gleamed.
But it could not extinguish whatever lived in the gap between his two mismatched eyes.
Whatever whispered to him when the lights dimmed:
"One day, Ryuji…
you will walk out of here."
Whether that voice was hope or madness, he didn't yet know.
But he clung to it.
Not because he wanted freedom.
Because it was the first thing in his life that felt like it belonged to him.
Welcome To TEW Series , I Hope You Enjoy It !
Next : The Exiled Weapon Chapter 1 !