I woke up to the same gray haze pressed against the classroom windows, the air heavy and almost suffocating. The fluorescent lights flickered lazily above, and the silence was so complete it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
A whisper broke the stillness.
"Where… are we?" a girl asked, her voice trembling, hands clenched on the desk.
"This isn't school," another muttered, eyes wide as he stared into the void beyond the glass.
I stayed quiet, watching. Fear, confusion, hope, curiosity—everything surfaced too quickly, too honestly. And yet, beneath it all, I felt a strange calm settle in me. Observation came first. Understanding could wait.
Then he spoke.
"Welcome," said a deep, composed voice from the front of the room.
Every head turned.
"Mr. Kiyomizu?" someone asked, relief and doubt tangled together.
The man smiled slowly, deliberately. It was the kind of smile that did not belong in a classroom. "You believed you knew me. Names and faces, however, have little meaning here. I am not your teacher. I am the one who intervened at the end of your lives and placed you here. What you have been given is not mercy, but an evaluation."
A low murmur spread across the room.
"An… evaluation?" someone whispered.
"Yes," he replied. "An examination of truth and concealment. Of emotion and denial. What you reveal today will shape what you become tomorrow."
The room seemed to tighten around us. Students shifted in their seats, arms folding defensively, fingers gripping desk edges. Fear was obvious, but curiosity lingered just beneath it.
He raised a hand, and the murmurs faded. "You will be presented with a statement. Only one of you has spoken it as a lie—one you have hidden even from yourself. Your role is to determine who that is. Choose carelessly, and you will expose your own weaknesses. Choose carefully, and you may begin to understand who stands beside you."
A boy in the back scoffed weakly. "That's impossible. How are we supposed to know?"
The man's gaze did not waver. "You already do. You simply choose not to notice. Watch. Listen. Measure your words. Truth wounds more deeply when ignored, and lies are sharpest when believed."
I leaned back slightly, letting his words sink in. This was no simple test. It was an inspection of the mind, a deliberate pressure applied to the heart. I had read enough to know that truth was never clean, never whole. What mattered was how people reacted when it was disturbed.
"The statement is this," he continued. "'I have never envied another person's life.' Only one among you has spoken these words without believing them. Decide who."
Tension snapped through the room.
Eyes shifted. Breathing changed. Whispers began—soft accusations, cautious guesses.
"I think it's him," a girl said, nodding toward a boy seated near the corner.
"No," another replied quickly. "She's too calm. It has to be her."
I watched without speaking, focusing not on what was said but how it was said. The slight delay before denial. The way fingers curled when someone felt cornered. Silence, I noticed, often spoke the loudest.
The man observed us with faint amusement. "Do not rush. When truth is examined, time bends. Every word you speak leaves a trace."
I murmured, barely audible even to myself, "Everyone envies something. What differs is how carefully they hide it."
A boy in front of me flinched as an accusation landed on him. His pulse throbbed visibly at his neck, his hands tightening against the desk.
"I don't envy anyone," he blurted out, voice unsteady.
The man tilted his head. "Interesting. That sounds less like honesty and more like defense. Continue observing, Johan."
The room pressed in on itself. This was no longer about the statement. Lines were being drawn, instincts sharpened. Alliances formed without agreement. Distrust bloomed without warning.
Time passed strangely. Minutes blurred, or perhaps stretched. Every glance, every hesitation carried weight.
Finally, a girl spoke again, her voice quiet but firm. "It isn't a lie. Not really. We've all deceived ourselves at some point."
The man smiled, approving yet unreadable. "Correct. Truth is rarely singular. What matters is what you have discovered—not about the statement, nor about me, but about yourselves. Your impulses. Your fears. The ease with which you judge."
I leaned back, understanding settling slowly. This evaluation had no correct answer. Awareness itself was the measure. Every emotion revealed here would become leverage later.
The man's voice cut through the lingering tension. "This phase concludes for now. Remember this well: every truth you reveal, every lie you protect, and every choice you make will carry weight. The Book of Life does not wait."
I exhaled slowly. Fear and curiosity twisted together, sharpening my thoughts. Around me, whispers resumed, uncertain and strained.
As for me, I understood one thing clearly. To only survive from this life game of death, and get back into my future scape trading.