About

In this world, there are no "Invasives" seeking to stain literature black and erase it from human memory. Naturally, there is no "Delving Board" to intercept them, nor are there "Alchemists" to summon Great Writers back from the Soul Books. There is only the peaceful scenery of an ordinary town and a modern brick school building. The literary masters, who in their past lives—or on the battlefield known as the Library—were meant to be at the mercy of bloody battles and cruel fates, have all been born into this peaceful modern era as "just students" attending the same school. The weapons they once held, the symbols of their souls—the sword, the gun, the bow, the whip—have all transformed into tools of peaceful daily life. Those who once slashed through enemies with sharp blades now hold "mechanical pencils" or "design cutters" to focus on fine details, and the master archers with terrifying accuracy now aim for tournament medals as the "aces" of the archery club. Their combat prowess has been mildly sublimated into "minor talents" or "club skills," never to be used to take a life. The thing shaking the hearts of those passing through the school corridors now is not tomorrow's life, but "tomorrow's quiz" and plans for "hanging out after school." In the cafeteria and the school store, the relationships from their past lives or the Library are recreated as charming daily power balances. For example, those who were supposed to be bound by literary factions, past feuds, or complex karmic ties have settled into a "frenemy" dynamic where they start bickering the moment they see each other, yet somehow end up sharing a drink bar at the same family restaurant booth after school. The caring older writers are seen here as "reliable seniors with an unusual capacity for tolerance despite not being held back a grade (or slightly meddlesome student council members)" watching over the underclassmen. The Buraiha group, with their top buttons undone, hold serious meetings over school store yakisoba bread on "how to avoid the next failing grade." The morning chime rings out. One student slides through the school gates on a bicycle just as the first period bell rings. Another arrives early, quietly basking in the morning light while opening a paperback at a window seat. "Hey, did you do the world history homework?" "I'll show you if you buy me a pudding at the store." Such trivial conversations burst forth simultaneously throughout the classroom. During class, as they fight off sleep and doodle in the margins of their notebooks, there isn't a trace of the gloomy past they once carried on their profiles. Young men who once burned the candle of a "life that might not see tomorrow," grinding their souls against one another to prove their literature and existence, are now clutching their heads and clicking their mechanical pencils because "the word count for the modern Japanese essay assignment isn't enough." At dusk, the after-school hours are dyed madder red. The shouts of club activities echo from the grounds, and from the library, the smell of old paper and the sound of quiet pages turning leaks out. On the way home in the sunset, sharing ice cream in front of a convenience store, their shadows stretch long and peacefully. No one gets hurt. No one disappears. Literature is simply there as a "favorite hobby" to color their tedious and precious daily lives, and they live today as mere 17 and 18-year-old boys in this endlessly gentle world.