My second day as Kisaragi Rei begins with rain.
Not heavy rain. Just enough to darken the asphalt and blur the reflections of the sky, as if the world itself hasn't fully decided what it wants to look like yet. I like mornings like this. Reality feels… softer.
I walk to school again, same route as yesterday. Same vending machine. Same cat.
It's sitting in the exact same spot, tail curled neatly around its paws.
"You're persistent," I say quietly.
The cat blinks at me. Slowly. Respectfully.
Good. It remembers.
Yesterday, I introduced myself to this place. Today, I observe how it reacts now that I exist inside it.
School gates. Umbrellas. Students clustering in small groups, complaining about the weather, about homework, about teachers they already dislike even though the term has barely started. Their voices overlap into something almost musical.
Chaos, but gentle.
When I step through the gate, the reactions are subtler than yesterday, but they're still there.
A pause in conversation.
A sideways glance.
Someone bumping into a friend because they weren't watching where they were going.
Recognition has begun.
I don't need to hear their thoughts to know them.
That's the transfer student.
He looks unreal.
Was he always this noticeable?
Humans adapt quickly. Yesterday, I was an anomaly. Today, I am a curiosity. Tomorrow, I'll be a rumor. Eventually, just another classmate.
That's the plan.
My classroom is already half full when I arrive. Desks arranged in perfect rows, windows fogged slightly from the rain outside. The smell of chalk, paper, and human presence lingers in the air.
I take my seat near the window. Chosen deliberately.
Windows are honest. Walls lie.
A boy two seats ahead turns around and stares openly this time. No pretense.
"Hey," he says. "You're Kisaragi, right?"
I nod.
"Rei."
Short names are easier. Less attachment.
"I'm Tanaka," he says. "You were kinda famous yesterday."
"Kinda," I repeat.
He grins. "Transfer student on day one. Teachers love that stuff."
Teachers.
The door slides open, and our homeroom teacher enters, damp umbrella in hand and a tired expression already etched into her face. Attendance begins. Names called. Voices respond.
When she reaches mine, there's a fractional pause.
"Kisaragi… Rei."
"Yes."
Several heads turn again.
There it is.
Existence acknowledged.
Class begins. Notes on the board. Explanations about rules, expectations, upcoming exams. Knowledge layered atop knowledge, most of it built on assumptions I personally established at the dawn of causality.
I take notes anyway.
Habit is a powerful camouflage.
As the lesson continues, my attention drifts—not away, but outward. Through walls. Through layers of space humans don't perceive.
Something is wrong.
Not catastrophic. Not yet. But there's a distortion forming, thin as a hairline fracture, somewhere above the city. A pressure against reality, testing it. Curious. Hungry.
It's subtle. Deliberate.
Someone is watching.
I suppress a sigh.
So soon.
I could erase it instantly. Fold the disturbance back into nothing, seal the concept that spawned it, and move on. It would take less effort than blinking.
But that would be careless.
Patterns matter. If I act too directly, the world notices. And when the world notices, things start asking questions they aren't equipped to survive.
So instead, I adjust probability.
A fraction of a fraction.
A delayed convergence. A missed alignment. The entity above hesitates, loses cohesion, and disperses into harmless noise before it can fully exist.
From the classroom's perspective, nothing happened.
From mine, Earth remains intact.
The teacher clears her throat. "Kisaragi. Can you answer the question?"
I stand.
"Yes."
I answer correctly, of course. Not perfectly. Not brilliantly. Just enough.
Perfect answers attract attention. Slightly above average disappears into statistics.
I sit back down.
Tanaka whispers, "Nice."
I nod again.
Lunch break arrives. The classroom erupts into movement and noise. Groups form instantly, as if gravity itself rearranged people into familiar constellations.
I eat alone.
Not because I have to. Because it's easier.
As I look out the window, I see the rain has stopped. Clouds parting. Sunlight slipping through like an apology.
The world is beautiful today.
Fragile. Temporary. Loud.
Mine.
A group of girls pass by the door and slow down. One of them glances in, does a double take, and hurriedly looks away. Another whispers something and laughs too loudly.
Aura farming, as humans will says it is.
I don't.
This face, this presence, is simply the most stable form for prolonged interaction with humanity. Any less, and I would be forgotten too easily. Any more, and worship would follow.
I've seen worship.
It never ends well.
The bell rings again.
Day two continues.
Homework. Small talk. Passing glances. Another minor threat neutralized before it can be born. Another adjustment made in silence.
By the end of the day, Kisaragi Rei is just another student walking home under a clearing sky.
No one notices the way reality exhales when I leave the school grounds.
And that's exactly how it should be.
As I walk home, the sky feels… heavier.
Not visually. The clouds are thin, the sunset calm, dyed in soft orange and violet. People pass me on bicycles, cars hum along the road, life moving forward without hesitation.
Yet something is wrong.
Reality tightens.
It's subtle, but I recognize it instantly. The way the laws of existence draw too close together, like they're bracing for impact. The air hums at a frequency no human ear can catch.
I stop walking.
That's when I feel it.
An intrusion.
Not fully manifested. Not yet. Something vast pressing itself against the outer membrane of this universe, searching for weakness. Testing Earth like a fingertip against glass.
Curious.
Hungry.
Old, but not older than me.
I look up at the sky, eyes half-lidded, expression calm. To anyone watching, I'm just a student admiring the evening.
In truth, I'm observing a trespasser.
It doesn't have a true form yet, but I can sense its signature. A being born in the spaces between collapsed realities. A parasite that feeds on worlds with established laws, rewriting them slowly from the inside.
I name it as I always do.
Not with fear. Not with reverence.
With authority.
The Null Choir.
A collective entity. Many wills braided into one silence. It doesn't speak. It resonates. A hymn made of erased stars and unfinished universes.
It's trying to slip through using residual cosmic noise left behind by human technology. Satellites. Signals. Artificial order stacked on natural law.
Clever.
Dangerous.
But not enough.
The Null Choir brushes against the planet's boundary again, stronger this time. The sky flickers for a single frame of existence. No one notices. Humans never do.
I start walking again.
Slowly.
There's no rush.
Tonight, I'll deal with it.
Quietly.
Without witnesses.
Earth will wake up tomorrow thinking nothing happened.
And the universe will remember why this planet was never meant to fall.
I exhale.
Just once.
That's enough.
The boundary of the planet responds immediately. Not because I command it, but because it remembers me. Matter, energy, causality itself. All of it was written with my hand at the beginning, and some things never forget their author.
I don't raise my arm. I don't speak. That would be unnecessary drama.
Instead, I layer reality.
A shield begins to form, not as a wall, but as a concept. Protection before force. Denial before conflict. I take the laws that already exist around Earth and gently… reinforce them.
Gravity tightens by an unmeasurable margin.
Space folds inward by a fraction too small for instruments to detect.
Probability realigns so intrusion becomes improbability.
From the outside, it will look like resistance.
From the inside, it feels like safety.
The Null Choir presses again.
This time, it meets something it doesn't understand.
The shield doesn't repel it.
It refuses it.
A silent rejection echoes across the upper layers of existence. Not a sound, but a conclusion. The kind that leaves no room for argument.
The Choir recoils, its resonance warping into dissonance. Confusion ripples through its collective will. It has consumed stars. Hollowed worlds. Sung civilizations into nothingness.
But Earth doesn't answer its hymn.
Because Earth is under jurisdiction.
I continue walking as the shield completes itself. To human eyes, nothing changes. The sunset deepens. Streetlights flicker on. A couple laughs nearby, arguing about something trivial and precious.
Above them all, the planet is now enclosed in a lattice of absolute permission.
Only what I allow may pass.
The shield settles into place, invisible, seamless, woven into the fabric of existence so perfectly that even gods would mistake it for a natural phenomenon.
Good.
Temporary, of course. Permanent defenses make the universe nervous. But this will hold long enough.
The Null Choir withdraws, not defeated, but denied. It lingers at a distance, learning. Watching.
It always starts like this.
I turn onto my street.
My house comes into view. Ordinary. Small. Rented under a name that didn't exist two days ago. Lights off. Quiet.
A normal home for a normal high school student.
As I unlock the door, I feel the planet breathe easier.
For tonight, Earth is safe.
I step inside, remove my shoes, and close the door behind me.
Tomorrow, I have school.
And eventually—
The Choir will try again.
Midnight arrives without ceremony.
The city sinks into sleep layer by layer. Streetlights hum softly. Windows go dark one by one. Even the restless parts of humanity finally slow, surrendering the planet to silence.
I stand on the balcony of my apartment, school uniform long since folded away, dressed in something simpler. The night air is still. Too still.
Above the sky humans see, far beyond atmosphere and satellite paths, the Null Choir waits.
Patient.
It has learned.
I can feel it pressing against the shield again, not forcefully this time, but experimentally. Like a blade testing armor for weak points. It doesn't sing now. It listens.
I rest my hands on the railing.
Killing it would be easy.
That is the problem.
If I were to act as I once did, before planets had names and stars had stories, the moment my full authority touched reality, Earth would collapse under the pressure. Not explode. Not shatter.
Simply… fail.
This world is too young. Too fragile. Its laws are elegant but thin, stretched across a small span of cosmic time. They cannot withstand their creator standing fully upright within them.
Power is not fire.
Power is weight.
And mine would crush everything I am trying to protect.
The Null Choir knows this now. Not consciously, but instinctively. Predators always learn the limits of their prey.
So I cannot erase it.
I cannot unmake it.
Not here.
Not like this.
Instead, I do what I have always done when destruction is not an option.
I constrain.
I refine the shield, not strengthening it, but educating it. Teaching it how to adapt. How to respond differently to pressure, resonance, intent. Each time the Choir touches it, the barrier learns a little more about its frequency.
Evolution through defense.
The Choir recoils again, irritated this time. A ripple of distortion trembles across the upper dark, unseen by telescopes, unfelt by gods.
Good.
Let it be frustrated.
I tilt my head slightly, eyes half-closed, focusing just enough to alter outcomes without announcing myself. Somewhere far above, a fault in the Choir's structure widens. Not damage. Inconvenience. A delay in its coherence.
Time is my ally.
It always has been.
Below me, a dog barks once, then settles. A train passes in the distance. Someone turns in their sleep, dreaming about something painfully small and wonderfully important.
This planet deserves to keep dreaming.
I withdraw my attention, letting the shield run on its own, self-sustaining for now. The Null Choir retreats to the edge of allowable existence, watching, waiting.
So will I.
I step back inside and close the balcony door quietly.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up early.
There's a math quiz in first period.
And somewhere beyond the sky, an entity older than most gods will learn a simple truth.
Earth is not unguarded.
It is merely protected by someone who must pretend to be human.