Chapter 1
Part 1
Morning had settled over Gruse with an almost indecent normality.
The weather was neither beautiful nor unpleasant. A pale sun hung behind a thin veil of clouds, casting a diluted light over the settlement district, where the buildings were modest and tightly packed. The great skyscrapers of the central city could be seen in the distance, their upper floors occasionally disappearing into the mist. From here, they seemed less like buildings and more like distant monuments belonging to another world.
People moved along the streets with the unhurried rhythm of a city accustomed to itself.
And among them walked a boy who seemed entirely unaware of his surroundings.
He was reading.
Not a textbook. Not a newspaper. Not even anything related to school.
A novel.
The book in his hands was worn at the corners, its pages slightly yellowed from repeated reading. His eyes moved steadily across the lines, and every few seconds his expression changed almost imperceptibly—an eyebrow lifting, a faint tightening around his mouth, a momentary smile.
Beside his left arm floated another book.
It was roughly the size of a medium novel, suspended in the air without touching him. It moved with him naturally, keeping pace with his body as though an invisible thread connected the two.
It was called a Boc.
There was nothing remarkable about the sight.
In Rey, floating books were as ordinary as shoes.
Every person possessed one.
Some books were tiny enough to resemble notebooks. Others were thick and heavy, almost resembling encyclopedias. Their covers came in every imaginable color and design. Some were plain. Some were ornate. Some were scarred and battered from years of use.
They were not considered magical objects.
They were simply part of life.
And behind them stood something much larger.
The Cruix.
A colossal book said to be large enough to fill an entire stadium, the Cruix governed the principles by which every other book existed. Its influence was so deeply woven into society that most people rarely questioned it.
Every person had a book.
Every book gave its owner a power.
And every power came with a price.
A buff.
A negative effect.
The greater the buff, the worse the negative effect tended to become.
People had grown accustomed to this balance. They complained about it, joked about it, feared it and occasionally exploited it.
But they never escaped it.
The boy walking down the road seemed particularly unconcerned with any of this.
His name was Arthur Kura.
He stood at roughly one hundred and sixty-two centimeters, with an average build and an ordinary, pleasant face. There was nothing intimidating about him. If anything, he looked like someone who could disappear into a crowd without being noticed.
At that moment, however, he was completely absorbed in the novel in his hands.
The author was Firzo.
Arthur had already read several of his works, but this particular novel had captured his attention in a way the others had not.
He stopped for half a second at a paragraph.
His eyes narrowed.
Wow.
This is deep.
He continued walking.
He did not notice the person approaching from behind.
He did not notice the footsteps.
He did not notice the hand being raised.
And then—
THUD.
Something struck the back of his head.
Hard.
Arthur's entire body jolted forward.
For one instant, his veins seemed to contract beneath his skin. His face reddened as he slowly turned around, the novel still open in his hands.
"Hey, freaking ghost! What's up?"
The boy standing behind him grinned.
It was Carlas Olivera, one of Arthur's friends and a student at the same school.
His own book floated beside his left arm.
Unlike Arthur's, Carlas's book was completely black. Its surface was dull and strangely plain, without even a visible title on the cover.
Arthur looked at him.
"Hey, bro."
He rubbed the back of his head.
"Why did you hit me so hard?"
"Because you looked like you were going to get yourself killed."
Arthur blinked.
"What?"
"You were walking down the road while reading."
"So?"
"You weren't even looking where you were going."
Arthur glanced at the street.
There were people walking around them. A bicycle passed several meters away. A delivery vehicle turned at the intersection.
He shrugged.
"I have enough strength to take down a truck."
Carlas stared at him.
"It's not an truck. It's just a truck."
Arthur's expression became blank.
"What?"
"Fix your grammar first, you moron."
Arthur stared at him for another moment.
Then he sighed.
"Stop freaking around. Let's go."
They continued walking.
Their school was only a few streets away.
Gruse Public High School.
The building itself wasn't particularly impressive. Compared with the skyscrapers dominating the central districts, it looked almost modest. Yet its reputation extended far beyond the settlement.
It was one of the most prestigious public schools in the city.
Years ago, it had been considered mediocre at best. Its academic results were poor, its facilities inadequate and its reputation worse.
Then the government invested heavily in education.
Teachers were recruited. Facilities were rebuilt. Scholarships were introduced. The school received funding that transformed it almost beyond recognition.
Within several years, its results had risen dramatically.
Now some of the city's brightest students studied there.
Arthur and Carlas entered through the main gate.
Students passed them from every direction.
Books floated beside nearly every student.
Some were small.
Some were enormous.
Most were approximately the size of ordinary novels.
Their covers varied wildly—blue, white, crimson, silver, brown, green, black. A few students had books covered in strange patterns. Others possessed completely plain ones.
Nobody paid particular attention to them.
It would have been like staring at someone's shoes.
"Good morning."
"Morning."
"Hey."
"Good morning."
Arthur and Carlas greeted nearly everyone they knew as they crossed the school grounds.
Then Arthur opened Firzo's novel again.
Carlas watched him for several seconds.
"Seriously?"
Arthur continued reading.
"You're doing it again."
No response.
"Arthur."
Nothing.
Carlas leaned closer.
"Looks like you're reading an adult scene."
Arthur's eyes remained fixed on the page.
"Your eyes are practically lusting."
Arthur finally looked up.
"Yes."
Carlas raised an eyebrow.
Arthur calmly closed the book halfway.
"But not for girls."
A pause.
"For philosophy."
Carlas stared at him.
Arthur opened the novel again.
"Anyway…"
"My sister Alia is coming back in a few days. From the asylum."
Carlas thought
They reached their classroom shortly afterward.
Students were already filling the room.
Conversation drifted through the air in overlapping fragments. Chairs scraped against the floor. Someone near the window was arguing about homework. Two students in the back were comparing their books, carefully keeping them from colliding.
The floating books remained beside their owners.
Always present.
Always watching.
Always part of the ordinary world.
Carlas sat down and immediately joined several friends who were talking nearby.
Arthur sat at his desk.
He opened Firzo's novel.
And disappeared into it.
His eyes moved across the page with almost manic concentration.
Around him, the classroom continued to breathe.
People laughed.
People argued.
People whispered.
Books floated.
Morning passed.
And Arthur read as though nothing in the world could possibly be more important than the sentence in front of him.
---
The teacher came in a few minutes later and began teaching as if nothing unusual had happened.
Arthur was still reading.
He had hidden the novel beneath his desk, occasionally lowering his eyes whenever the teacher turned toward the blackboard.
Carlas glanced at him.
His black eyes seemed almost to glow beneath his dark, wavy hair, which shifted slightly whenever he moved his head.
How freaking careless.
Yet somehow, Arthur was still good at studying.
Carlas frowned.
Is it natural affinity after all?
arthur looked toward the teacher again.
Then—
Bzz.
Arthur's phone vibrated inside his pocket.
He ignored it.
Bzz.
His eyebrows twitched.
Still, he kept reading.
Bzz.
Arthur's expression finally changed.
If this is some bullshit from Carlas again, I'm going to take his soul out of him.
He slowly took the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen.
A message.
Not from Carlas.
It was from the orphanage.
Arthur stopped reading.
He hadn't been there for two years.
He had left when he was sixteen. Now he was eighteen.
For a long time after leaving, he had carried an uncomfortable guilt with him. He had felt as though he had taken everything he could from that place and simply walked away. He had eventually started working part-time, trying to live without depending on anyone.
His eyes moved across the message.
Lucas is missing. It has been one month.
Arthur's fingers stopped moving.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then the veins in his neck tightened.
His expression changed so suddenly that even Carlas noticed.
Arthur stood.
"Sir."
The teacher turned.
"I need to go to the bathroom."
The teacher looked at him for a moment before waving his hand.
"Go."
Arthur walked out.
The moment he reached the corridor, he broke into a run.
He reached the first-floor window.
Jumped.
His shoes struck the ground.
And then he disappeared.
Arthur began running.
Not like an ordinary person.
Power moved through his body.
He pushed himself harder.
Faster.
The world around him became a blur.
Buildings.
Roads.
Traffic.
People.
Everything passed him in fragments.
His speed climbed until he was moving almost as fast as a rapidly passing train.
He couldn't think properly anymore.
His thoughts were becoming blurred by the sheer speed.
His breathing grew heavier.
Sweat began running down his face.
Then down his neck.
Then across his clothes.
He kept going.
He couldn't stop.
Not now.
Not when Lucas had been missing for an entire month.
The orphanage was on the other side of the city.
Eventually, Arthur reached it.
He stopped.
His entire body was covered in sweat. His clothes were soaked through, and his chest rose and fell violently as he tried to regain his breath.
The orphanage stood before him.
A three-story building, attached to a middle school.
The same place he had left two years ago.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
Except that something clearly had.
A girl of about twelve stood in the courtyard, watering the flowers.
She had brown eyes and brown hair.
She looked at Arthur.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
She studied him for a few seconds, as if analyzing something he had not yet noticed himself.
Then she spoke.
"So you got the news."