4 Elara

Richard strained to keep his eyes open, the brilliance before him almost too intense to bear. A radiant luminosity, so vivid it seared his vision, compelled him to squint, until gradually, his eyes acclimated to the incandescence. In the blink of an eye, the brilliance vanished, leaving Richard in disbelief.

Richard didn't believe in what he's seeing. In front of him, sat in a chair, he's seeing a fifteen years old boy. He has black hair, light skin, his left eye of a grayish color and the right one is of a deep blue color. The pair of different colored eyes give him a quite unique aura, but despite from the eyes, everything in him is common. 

The boy wore a plain gray cloak that enveloped his form, denoting his status as a freshman in the academy. Beneath this cloak lay a figure attired in a simple white shirt and black pants. The fabric hung loosely over a slender frame, revealing the remnants of a childhood marked by deprivation. As the cloak fluttered, exposing the unadorned clothing beneath, the boy stood with an air of gratitude, his gaze fixed on Richard's bewildered countenance.

— We come from entirely different worlds, yet you are just like me. Yet, I wish I were more like you. — The boy uttered. Although Richard comprehended the words, he struggled to understand the inexplicable circumstances unfolding before him. Attempting to articulate a response felt akin to being silenced by an unseen force. The boy, undeterred, offered a warm smile, sprinted towards Richard, and enveloped him in a heartfelt embrace. Resting his head on Richard's shoulder, the boy exuded a comfort not commonly found in the arms of one who had appropriated his body.

— Thank you! The once composed boy was now overcome with tears, and Richard, caught in this surreal exchange, regarded him with a mix of sympathy and fury. In every world and at every turn, individuals like them were destined to navigate life's tumult alone. Failure to do so resulted in consequences Richard couldn't fathom accepting.

As Richard reached out, his fingers eager to clasp the boy's hand, an otherworldly force seemed to seize control. The very fabric of reality rippled and folded, like the pages of a book swiftly turning. In that split second, the vibrant tableau of existence dissolved into an inky abyss.

The transition felt like awakening from a dream, but it was a dream woven with threads of reality. The vibrant hues of the scene—black hair, the grayish and deep blue eyes, the modest attire beneath the cloak—all blurred and dissipated, replaced by an all-encompassing darkness that swallowed the details of the vivid tableau.

It was as if the tangible world, so vivid and real moments before, had slipped away, leaving Richard to grapple with the unsettling void that now surrounded him. The profound blackness clung to his senses, disorienting and perplexing, like ripples in a pond erased by an unseen hand.

The abrupt shift left Richard suspended in a surreal limbo, where the memory of the boy's gratitude and the warmth of their shared moment lingered, but the tangible reality had unraveled, leaving only the echoes of that fleeting connection in the enigmatic darkness.

The disoriented fog of waking slowly lifted, and Richard found himself back in the familiar surroundings of the old, musty dorm room. The damp air clung to his senses, the scent of mildew and the oppressive humidity that characterized the room felt oddly comforting in its familiarity.

— Where is that boy? — Richard muttered, casting his eyes about, searching for any trace of the vivid scene he had just experienced. Yet, the dorm room, with its worn-out furniture and faded walls, revealed no hint of the enigmatic connection he had shared with the boy.

— Was it a dream?" He questioned aloud, grappling with the disconcerting clash between the tangible and the ethereal. The room provided no immediate answers, leaving Richard in a state of bewildered uncertainty. A deep breath failed to dispel the remnants of the vivid encounter. As realization set in, Richard's eyes widened. His shoulder, still wet, bore witness to the fact that the ethereal connection he had felt was more than a mere figment of imagination.

— It wasn't a dream! — he exclaimed, the steadiness of his breath crumbling into erratic gasps. Confusion etched across his face, a stark reflection of the anguishing lack of immediate answers. In an attempt to anchor his racing thoughts, Richard reached for a journal that belonged to the old Richard, a tangible link to the past. Flipping through its pages, he traced the progression of the previous occupant's emotions.

"This is my first day in school, it's like I'm dreaming. The class will begin in six days, I'm really anxious…" The hopeful anticipation colored the initial entry, reflecting the dreams and aspirations of someone embarking on a new chapter.

"I found some people on my way to the library, they looked and laughed at me… I hope my classmates are more welcoming." The tone of optimism began to crack on the third day, exposing the vulnerability beneath the surface.

"I don't understand, what did I do wrong? Why do they all seem to hate me?" The sixth-day entry cast a darker hue, revealing the descent into confusion and despair.

"I hate them…" The repetition of bitterness echoed through subsequent pages, the words etching deeper into the fabric of the journal. Each iteration intensified the anguish, portraying a spiral into self-loathing. The final page, however, marked a departure from the established pattern. It held only two entries, a stark deviation from the usual four.

"What's wrong with me?" The last desperate question adorned a page marred by liquid stains, each dot a silent witness to the weight of unspoken struggles. The chilling resolve in those last words resonated with Richard as if the very ink on the page held the essence of despair. The weight of each letter seemed to press upon him, carrying the burden of the previous occupant's anguish. As he absorbed the sentiment, a profound sense of hopelessness settled over him, and the sorrow etched in the journal became a palpable force.

In those moments, Richard felt the grip of relentless isolation, the same that had shackled the boy who wrote those words. The ink seemed to bleed emotions—frustration, pain, and the bitter taste of perceived failure. The somber surrender to the judgment of others became an echo in Richard's own consciousness, as if the room around him had transformed into a chamber of profound melancholy.

It was as if the very air whispered the silent cries of someone who had lost the battle against the cruelty of the world. Richard, now immersed in the emotional landscape of the journal, could almost taste the bitter resignation that lingered between the lines, a bitter residue left by a soul who had given up on the possibility of things ever getting better.

In the unfolding scenes, Richard witnessed a shaky hand laboring over the journal, penning the words with a heavy heart. The warm tears that fell, staining the pages, mirrored the profound emotional toll. The pain from physical wounds, the fever-induced delirium, all played their part as the boy teetered on the precipice of life and death.

"I can't do anything right, I just wanted to be the one in control. This world is too unfair." The poignant last words, etched in the journal, encapsulated a soul's final plea against the harshness of existence. Sometime later, Richard emerged from this profound encounter, awakening to the weight of memories that painted a vivid portrait of despair and resignation.

— So, that's what happened. — Richard is still with those overbearing feelings in his chest, he doesn't understand how that boy could go through something like this. Before he thought of Gavin and his friends as just kids, but now he seemed to understand that they didn't suffer enough.

"Maybe that's why I'm here. This is bigger than just some translations." While he saw everything that happened to that boy, some of the questions he has been thinking finally got some answers. More questions popped up, but Richard is glad enough with the current outcome. It was already noon, and as Richard ventured out, the same corridor he traversed yesterday felt different today. A noticeable decrease in the number of people gave the once-bustling pathway a serene quality. As he strolled, his gaze caught two familiar figures.

Gavin, having remarkably recovered without a trace of previous wounds, stood confidently engaged in conversation. The efficiency of the healers surprised Richard for a moment. Gavin's dwarf stature was as pronounced as ever, with his vibrant red hair adding a touch of flamboyance. Beside Gavin, the bunny girl from yesterday was present, and her appearance seemed to have undergone a transformation in Richard's eyes.

Initially, she appeared uninteresting, but today, a closer look revealed a subtle charm. Short black hair framed her face, and her bunny ears added an endearing touch to her overall demeanor. Red eyes, tinged with a hint of weariness, spoke of challenges faced in this unfamiliar world. The contrast between Gavin's flamboyance and the bunny girl's understated elegance created an intriguing scene in the quiet academy corridor.

— You still refuse to be my servant? — The dwarf talked in despise and looked at the girl who was taller than him, but he wasn't afraid of the difference in heights. He was about to grab her arm, but he felt someone holding his wrist.

The tension in the corridor escalated as Gavin, the dwarf with an air of arrogance, found himself confronted. A voice, dripping with contempt, reached his ears. — Hey, loser, you thought you could run from me? 

Gavin tried to extricate himself from the tightening grip on his wrist, but before he could react, a powerful blow collided with his face. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, and the heat of humiliation burned on his cheeks. The spectators, drawn to the commotion like moths to flame, filled the once-empty corridor, turning it into an impromptu arena.

Richard's face contorted with a mixture of disdain and unresolved anger as he unleashed another brutal strike on Gavin. The force of the blow found its mark in Gavin's chest, the sickening thud reverberating through the corridor. Gavin crumpled under the assault, gasping for air as his body doubled over in pain. The sheer impact of the attack left him struggling to draw breath, each attempt accompanied by a wheezing sound that underscored the severity of the beating.

The force of the blows seemed to have temporarily robbed him of the ability to breathe properly, intensifying the physical and visceral toll of Richard's relentless assault. The nauseating layer added to the unfolding spectacle was not just the remnants of Gavin's stomach contents but also the unsettling soundtrack of his labored breaths, a stark reminder of the brutality inflicted in that corridor.

The girl, a witness to the sudden eruption of violence, stood frozen in shock. Richard's features, usually calm and composed, were twisted by a profound hatred that glared from his eyes. Each strike seemed to carry not only physical force but also the weight of the emotions stirred by the painful revelations in the journal.

The corridor, once quiet, now buzzed with the perverse energy of the gathered crowd. The air was thick with tension as Richard, fueled by a mix of personal frustrations and the raw emotions from the journal, continued to vent his anger on the unconscious Gavin. The scene unfolded as a visceral display of one boy's unresolved turmoil unleashed upon another, etching itself into the memories of those who bore witness.

Amidst the cheers and jeers of the onlookers, Richard seized the doubled-over dwarf, using him as an unwilling mop to wipe the mess from the floor. The act, grotesque and degrading, further fueled the crowd's enthusiasm.

— Next time, think twice before messing with me. — With a final act of disdain, Richard spat on the unconscious Gavin, leaving an indelible mark of shame. The beating, fueled by the raw emotions stirred by the journal's painful revelations, became a spectacle that etched itself into the collective memory of the academy corridor.

Richard walked away, but heard something behind.

Richard walked away, the echoes of the commotion fading behind him, but a gentle tug on his sleeve arrested his departure. — Wait. — Startled, he turned to face the source, discovering the same bunny girl whom Gavin had harassed just moments before.

The corridor echoed with the remnants of the recent confrontation as Richard paused, looking at the girl with a mix of curiosity and concern. — Do you want something? — he asked, his voice carrying a tinge of empathy.

— Actually, how should I call you? — Richard's voice, laced with empathy, cut through the lingering tension in the corridor. The subdued lighting played on the nuances of their expressions, emphasizing the gratitude reflected on the girl's face as she responded to his question.

— I'm Elara, thank you. — Her voice was a melody, and her smile radiated warmth, akin to the gentle touch of the sun. Richard couldn't fathom why someone so kind would be the target of bullying.

— Don't worry, he won't mess with you again, kid. — Richard's hand instinctively reached out to stroke Elara's hair. She stood there, unsure of how to react, her face turning as red as a tomato. The unexpected gesture brought back memories of her big brother's comforting presence.

— I'm not a ki...— She stopped abruptly, biting her tongue just before finishing her sentence. Amused by the slip, Richard couldn't help but laugh.

— Okay, my bad. — He tried to stifle his amusement, but seeing the embarrassment on Elara's flushed cheeks, he couldn't contain his laughter. The awkwardness of their first interaction hung in the air, blending an unexpected camaraderie with the lingering tension of the recent confrontation.