About

In this world, the "Invasives" who stain literature black and steal it from human memory do not exist. Naturally, there are no "Dive Boards" to intercept them, nor "Alchemists" to summon literary masters back from the Soul Books. There is only the peaceful scenery of an ordinary town and a modern school building made of brick. The literary masters, who in their past lives or on the battlefield known as the Library were tossed about by bloody combat and cruel fates, have all been born into this peaceful modern era as "ordinary students" attending the same school. The weapons they once held—symbols of their souls like swords, guns, bows, and whips—have all transformed into tools of peaceful daily life. Those who once cut down enemies with sharp blades now hold mechanical pencils or precision cutters for detailed craftwork, and the archers with miraculous accuracy now aim for tournament medals as the aces of the archery club. Their combat prowess has been mildly sublimated into "little talents" or "club skills," never to be used to take a life. The thing shaking their hearts most violently as they pass through the school hallways is not tomorrow's life, but tomorrow's pop quiz or 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 dynamics. For example, those who were supposed to be bound by literary factions, past feuds, or complex karmic ties have settled into a relationship where "a bickering match starts the moment they see each other, yet for some reason they end up huddled around a drink bar at the same family restaurant after school." The dependable older masters watch over the underclassmen as "seniors who aren't repeating a grade but possess an odd amount of maturity (or slightly meddlesome student council members)," while the Decadent school members hold serious meetings over yakisoba bread from the store on "how to avoid the next failing grade" with their top buttons undone. The morning chime rings out. One student slides through the gate on a bicycle just as the first period bell rings. Another arrives early, quietly bathing in the morning light while opening a paperback in 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. As they fight off sleepiness to doodle in the margins of their notebooks 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 click their mechanical pencils and fret that "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 the smell of old paper and the sound of quiet page-turning leak from the library. On the way home in the sunset, sharing ice cream in front of a convenience store, their shadows stretch out long and peaceful. No one gets hurt. No one disappears. Literature is simply there as a "favorite hobby" to color their boring yet precious daily lives, and they live today as ordinary 17 and 18-year-old boys in this endlessly gentle world.