The words echoed perfectly in his mind, polished and warm.
"Hello, my name is Tanaka Kenji, but please call me Kenji. I transferred from St. Mary's International, where I was a starting pitcher for the baseball team. When I'm not on the diamond, I enjoy manga and video games. I'm honored to join this class and hope we'll have a wonderful year together."
Reality was less generous.
Kenji stood frozen at the front of Classroom 1-B, thirty pairs of eyes dissecting him under fluorescent lights. The air hummed with the scent of new textbooks and floral perfume... too much floral perfume. Kuoh Academy's recent shift to co-ed meant girls outnumbered boys five-to-one, and every gaze felt like a spotlight. At St. Mary's, he faced roaring crowds from the pitcher's mound without flinching. Here, silence was his enemy.
This wasn't supposed to be my life.
The memory flashed: his sisters' twin smirks as they waved his transfer papers. "You'll thank us, Kenji! So many pretty girls~" A prank? No. This was sabotage. They'd weaponized their parents' trust, yanking him from the all-boys baseball powerhouse where scouts knew his name, and dumping him here.
His fingers whitened around the chalk. No field. No cages. No echoing crack of bats or coaches' shouts. Just manicured gardens and Gothic architecture where a diamond should've been. He'd checked every map, every brochure. Nothing. A school without baseball was like a sky without sun: functional, perhaps, but fundamentally wrong.
The teacher cleared her throat. A clock ticked. Three seconds stretched into eternity.
Desperately, he scratched his kanji onto the board: 田中 健二. The characters felt foreign, like tombstones for the speech he'd rehearsed. His throat tightened. That perfect introduction, the one where he'd sounded confident, whole... Dissolved like sugar in rain. All that escaped was a clipped, hollow shell.
"Tanaka Kenji. Nice to meet you."
A stiff, mechanical bow. Twenty-eight bewildered stares.
He slumped into his seat, the wooden chair unforgiving. Inside, his thoughts raged.
Butchered it. I sounded like a robot reading a death certificate. They'll think I'm a statue. Or worse, rude. Stupid sisters. Stupid school. Stupid...
His hand drifted to his bag, fingers brushing the worn leather of his Mizuno glove. The familiar ridges of the stitching grounded him. Somewhere beyond these suffocating walls, a ball was spinning toward a mitt at neck-breaking speeds. And he wasn't there to throw it.
The introductions dragged on. Kenji slumped lower in his seat, not looking up and tracing the grain of his desk with a fingertip.
Not that I think they're below me, he corrected himself bitterly. They're just... better at this. All of them.
One after another, his classmates rose with practiced ease. They painted vivid pictures with words. "I'm Suzuki Aiko from Kuoh Middle! I grow prize-winning orchids!" "Honda Taro, former captain of Shiroi Junior High's kendo club! I aim to revive Kuoh's team!" Hobbies, hometowns, dreams, they spilled them like coins from a purse, bright and polished. Even in his self-imposed fog of resentment, Kenji's mind involuntarily cataloged them.
Yamada-san: volleyball, wants to be a chef. Nishimura-kun: robotics club, builds drone cameras.
Their competence was a quiet knife twisting in his gut.
Then, the girl beside him stood.
Not stood, unfurled.
Her chair scraped back like a battle cry. Every head snapped toward her as she marched toward the podium, spine rigid as a spear, crimson cloak flaring like a banner. Snickers rippled through the room. Kenji blinked.
That cloak... Is that regulation?
It was thick wool, military-cut, clasped at her throat with a tarnished silver brooch shaped like a snarling lion. Over a school uniform. Kuoh's dress code clearly meant nothing to her.
She reached the front, whirled to face the class, and planted her feet shoulder-width apart, like a general surveying her troops. Sunlight from the window ignited her long silver hair into a cascade of molten steel. Her eyes, wide and blazing ruby-red, swept the room with unnerving intensity.
"GREETINGS, CITIZENS OF THE CAPITAL!"
Her voice wasn't loud. It was a broadcast. It vibrated in Kenji's molars, bounced off the chalkboard, and silenced the last giggle instantly. It wasn't just volume; it was theatre. The kind of voice that belonged on a stage, not in a stuffy classroom.
Kenji's simmering self-pity evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
Who... what is this?
She held herself with the gravity of a conquering hero, yet she looked sixteen. The cloak, the stance, the sheer, unhinged certainty radiating from her... It was like watching a cosplayer crash a UN summit. Utterly absurd. Utterly captivating.
"I am LYRA ALAMILLA!" she declared, the name echoing. "Though in the realm beyond the Veil, I am known as Lyra of Exelia, Scourge of the Shadow Legions and Keeper of the Crystal Heart!" She paused, letting the titles hang in the stunned silence. A boy in the front row choked on his spit.
Kenji stared, mouth slightly open. His carefully rehearsed, discarded speech, playing baseball, video games, felt like childish scribbles compared to this epic proclamation. He worried about sounding boring. She sounded like she'd stepped out of a fantasy novel. His own disastrous introduction suddenly felt distant, trivial. How could you feel embarrassed about muttering your name when this was happening three feet away?
Lyra slammed a fist over her heart, the brooch gleaming. "I hail from the besieged city of Argent Spire, where I led the Dawnwardens against the Eternal Night!" She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper that still carried to the back row. "My quest brought me to this... academy...", she said the word like it was a baffling, slightly grubby artifact, "for the Crystal Heart whispers that a great evil stirs within these very walls! A darkness only I can thwart!"
Kenji slowly closed his mouth. A tiny, hysterical thought bubbled up. He was no longer the weirdest person in Class 1-B. He was just the quiet guy sitting next to the walking boombox.
The stunned silence following Lyra's declaration of being the "Scourge of the Shadow Legions" hung thick and heavy. Twenty-nine first-years stared, utterly frozen. A pencil clattered to the floor near the window, the sound absurdly loud. Even the usually unflappable homeroom teacher, Ms. Sato, blinked rapidly behind her glasses, her polite smile momentarily slipping into wide-eyed astonishment. She cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally sharp in the quiet.
"Ah... thank you for that... enthusiastic introduction, Alamilla-san," Ms. Sato managed, her voice straining to maintain its characteristic sweetness. Her knuckles whitened slightly where she gripped her attendance sheet. "Now, if you could please... write your name on the board for your classmates? Just your actual name will suffice." The subtle emphasis on "actual" was a tiny lifeline thrown to the bewildered class.
Lyra whirled back towards the teacher, her silver hair fanning out like a banner caught in a sudden gust. Her ruby eyes blazed with righteous fervor. "But of course, Esteemed Trainer of the Future Troops! Your wisdom guides this fledgling battalion!" She gave a sharp, military-style salute that made her tarnished lion brooch glint. "Lady Lyra of Exelia shall fulfill your command with utmost diligence!"
Kenji watched, morbidly fascinated, as she snatched a piece of chalk from the tray. The mundane act of taking chalk felt incongruous with the way she held it, like a knight drawing a sacred blade. She spun to face the board, her crimson cloak swirling dramatically.
What followed was less "writing" and more "valiant assault." Lyra attacked the board with ferocious concentration, her brow furrowed in epic determination. The chalk screeched violently, sending shivers down spines and raising goosebumps. She stabbed, slashed, and dragged the poor stick across the green surface. Fragments of chalk dust rained down everywhere.
The resulting characters were... unique. ライラ・アラミラ emerged, but the kanji looked like it had been carved by a tiger. The lines were jagged, uneven, some strokes comically thick, others vanishingly thin. The 'ラ' at the end of her surname tilted precariously, threatening to topple over. It possessed a certain chaotic energy that perfectly matched its creator.
Kenji squinted.
Definitely foreign. I could get that from her name alone, but her inexperience with writing confirms this.
His baseball-obsessed mind flickered through international players he followed.
South American? Spanish?
The name, combined with her silver hair, crimson eyes, and that utterly bizarre cloak, painted a picture of someone profoundly out of place. Just like him, but cranked up to eleven and dipped in glitter. He felt a strange kinship in their shared alienation, though hers was wrapped in delusions of grandeur while his was wrapped in resentment over a missing baseball diamond.
"BEHOLD!" Lyra declared, stepping back and gesturing grandly at her handiwork, a cloud of chalk dust puffing around her. "The sigil of the Hero of Exelia, etched upon the Annals of this Academy! May it strike fear into the hearts of the encroaching darkness!"
Ms. Sato closed her eyes for a brief second, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Thank you, Alamilla-san. That was... very clear." The strain in her voice was palpable. "You may take your seat."
Lyra gave another crisp salute. "The honor was mine, Esteemed Trainer! The Dawnwardens stand ready!" She marched back to her seat, her cloak snapping with each step, radiating an aura of triumphant accomplishment. As she sat down beside Kenji, she shot him a fierce, conspiratorial grin, as if they were fellow warriors sharing a secret victory.
Kenji could feel the weight of the stares. Not at Lyra anymore, no, the class had already categorized her as a fascinating, untouchable disaster. The pitying glances were laser-focused on him now, and the two unfortunate souls bracketing her other side and her front. Good luck, you're going to need it, their eyes screamed. He slouched lower, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.
Yeah, yeah. Pity the poor schmuck next to the walking anime convention. Reasonable.
But then, something bizarre happened.
As Ms. Sato resumed class, Lyra Alamilla transformed. The flamboyant hero posture melted into something unnervingly... attentive. She sat ramrod straight, hands folded neatly on her desk, ruby eyes fixed on the teacher with an intensity usually reserved for spotting enemy generals on a fog-shrouded battlefield. She didn't fidget. She didn't whisper. She didn't even seem to breathe too loudly. When Ms. Sato asked a question about the syllabus, Lyra's hand shot up like a spear, though mercifully, she didn't bellow the answer. She just... waited. Patiently. Respectfully.
Kenji blinked, stealing sideways glances.
What the hell? Is this the same person?
Five minutes ago, she'd declared war on classroom darkness. Now she was the picture of academic diligence. The sheer whiplash was giving him mental whiplash.
Did she flip a switch? Is there a 'Hero Mode' and 'Student Mode'? Is the cloak secretly power armor with an obedience module?
She genuinely seemed to view Ms. Sato as a superior officer, the "Esteemed Trainer of Future Troops." And that made her terrifying in a whole new way. A chaotic force willingly channeled was far more unpredictable than simple chaos.
What kind of cursed academy did my sisters throw me into?
Kenji's internal monologue wailed.
First a baseball desert, now a silver-haired cosplayer soldier who might actually be competent? Is the gym teacher secretly a dragon? Is the cafeteria lady a disguised demon lord?
His existential crisis was interrupted. Lyra's hand shot up again, a model of textbook-perfect form.
"Esteemed Trainer!" Her voice, while still carrying that inherent theatrical resonance, was modulated. Respectful. It was still loud enough to make the kid in front of her flinch, but it lacked the world-shaking boom. "Lady Lyra of Exelia petitions thee for strategic intelligence!"
Ms. Sato, to her immense credit, only blinked twice this time. "Yes, Alamilla-san?"
Lyra rose smoothly to her feet, her crimson cloak settling neatly behind her. "I ask thee, Esteemed Trainer, if there exists within this academy's ranks any battalion worthy of honing the skills of a seasoned hero such as myself? A crucible where valor is tested and tactical acumen refined!"
Kenji stared.
Battalion? Crucible? Val-what now?
It would have taken him minutes to decode that into normal speech.
Ms. Sato, however, seemed to possess an internal Lyra-to-Japanese dictionary. She didn't miss a beat. "Ah, extracurricular activities! Of course." She adjusted her glasses. "We have several options that might suit your... particular talents, Alamilla-san. There's the Kendo Club, The Tea Ceremony Club, and the Calligraphy Club. Or perhaps the Gardening Club."
Kenji's mind raced.
Kendo? She will say some stupid shit about honor. Tea Ceremony? She will break something, no questions asked. Calligraphy? Her name looked like it was written during an earthquake. Gardening? She'd forget about the poor plants.
None of them screamed "suitable for Lyra." (Okay, maybe the Kendo Club, but he was pretty sure she is too chaotic for such activity...)
Lyra listened intently, her head tilted like a bird of prey analyzing its options. The gears of her heroic delusion were visibly turning. Kenji could almost see the epic fantasy montage playing behind her ruby eyes: clashing kendo shinai transforming into glowing blades, tea whisks becoming wands of power, rose bushes morphing into thorned guardians.
He sank deeper into his seat, a cold certainty settling over him. Whatever club Lyra the Hero chose, his fragile hope for a quiet, baseball-less anonymity was about to be declared an enemy of the state and soundly crushed.
During lunch, I will strangle my sisters.