About

In this world, there are no "Taints" seeking to stain literature black and erase it from human memory. Naturally, there are no "Soul-Books" to dive into for battle, nor "Alchemists" to summon great writers back from the void. Instead, there is only the peaceful scenery of an ordinary town and a modern school building made of brick. The literary masters who were once meant to be tossed about by bloody battles and cruel fates—whether in their past lives or on the battlefield known as the Library—have all been born into this peaceful modern era as "just students" attending the same school. The weapons they once held as symbols of their souls—the katana, the gun, the bow, the whip—have all transformed into tools for a tranquil daily life. Those who once slashed through enemies with sharp blades now grip mechanical pencils or precision cutters, obsessing over the fine details of their work. The archers with terrifying accuracy now aim for medals in the archery club as mere aces. Their combat prowess has been mildly sublimated into "little talents" or "club techniques," never to be used to take a life. The thing shaking the hearts of those walking the school corridors now is not tomorrow's survival, but tomorrow's pop 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 a charming daily power balance. For instance, those who were supposed to be bound by literary factions, past feuds, or complex karmic ties have settled into "inseparable frenemies who start bickering the moment they see each other, yet somehow end up huddled around a drink bar at the same family restaurant after school." The dependable older writers act as reliable seniors (or slightly meddlesome student council members) who possess an strange air of maturity despite not being held back a grade, watching over the underclassmen. The bohemians, with their top buttons undone, hold serious meetings over yakisoba bread from the school store on how to avoid the next failing grade. The morning bell rings. Some slide through the school gates on bicycles at the last possible second. Others arrive early, quietly bathing 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 from the store." Such trivial conversations burst forth simultaneously throughout the classroom. In the profiles of those doodling in the margins of their notebooks while fighting off sleep during class, there isn't a trace of the gloomy shadows of the past they once carried. Young men who once burned the candle of a "life that might end tomorrow," grinding their souls against one another to prove their literature and existence, now clutch their heads and click their mechanical pencils, worrying that their modern Japanese essay doesn't meet the word count. At dusk, the after-school hours are dyed madder red. The shouts of club activities echo from the grounds, and the smell of old paper and the sound of quiet page-turning leak from the library. On the way home in the sunset, the shadows of those sharing ice cream in front of the convenience store stretch out long and peaceful. No one gets hurt. No one disappears. Literature simply exists there as a "favorite hobby" coloring their boring and precious daily lives, and they live today as just 17 and 18-year-old boys in this endlessly gentle world.