Where our corrupted dreams sprout

The classroom was abuzz with an uneasy energy, the faint murmurs of students punctuating the silence as a female teacher stood at the front, her placid smile unwavering. She scanned the room, her sharp gaze flitting between the faces of her students, each one wearing a different expression: confusion, mirth, unease, and even sadness. Her smile deepened slightly, pleased by the variety of reactions.

The soft, resounding thuds of textbooks closing filled the air as students finished reading the short story in their hands. The title, Demon of Dread, Feller of Nations, stood boldly on each cover. Its content—a grim tale of a demon that had laid waste to an entire kingdom for its own amusement, leaving the young prince to grapple with unimaginable horror—had divided the classroom. Some students seemed lost in thought, others visibly unsettled, and a few looked unimpressed.

The teacher folded her arms, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. She had carefully chosen this material, knowing it would provoke heated responses. Today's theme was chaos, and she intended to make the most of it. Her objective was clear: to stir debate, ignite emotion, and force her students to think critically.

Scanning the class for a speaker, her gaze settled on Ceryn—the class genius and, arguably, its most controversial figure. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight, often delivered with a sharpness that left no room for debate.

There he sat by the window, seemingly detached from the world around him, yet entirely magnetic. The sunlight pouring through the glass illuminated his raven-black curls and pale skin, casting an almost ethereal glow over his striking features. His emerald eyes, thoughtful and observant, seemed locked in a perpetual state of quiet calculation. Everything about him—from his lean, athletic build to his poised demeanor—radiated an unapproachable grace.

"Ceryn," the teacher called, her voice cutting through the classroom chatter. Instantly, all eyes turned toward him. "I trust you've read the passage and understood its themes. What are your thoughts on the story?"

Her smile widened ever so slightly. She knew what she was doing. Ceryn's words were bound to spark a reaction—one way or another.

He sighed softly, his long lashes lowering momentarily as if gathering his thoughts. Then, with a deliberate motion, he pushed his chair back, the metal legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor. Rising to his full height of 196 cm, he towered over the seated students, commanding their attention.

He dropped the story onto his desk, his piercing gaze sweeping across the room. Then, he spoke.

"It was undeniably beautiful," he began, his voice steady yet dispassionate. "The prince's character was the most well-written. His reaction to the carnage was logical, his descent into despair… poetic. His actions mirrored reality."

His words hung in the air for a moment, already stirring discomfort in some. Then, he continued, unflinching.

"The problem lies with the demon. It was far too simplistic. Evil without purpose or cause is hollow—pointless. Was the massacre for balance? A calculated move to end a war? Perhaps it sought to unite humanity under a common threat? These questions weren't answered. It lacked depth."

With that, he sat back down, his expression unchanging, as if he hadn't just shattered the room's composure.

For a moment, the class was silent, his words echoing like a distant thunderclap. Then, chaos erupted.

"What does he mean poetic?!"

"Is he justifying the killings?"

"Why is he analyzing a demon like it's a person?"

The room filled with murmurs and exclamations, the students' emotions boiling over. Some agreed with him, nodding silently, while others stared at him in outright disbelief. His lack of condemnation, his almost clinical detachment, unnerved them.

The teacher raised her hand, calling for calm. "Let's hear from a few others," she said smoothly, though inwardly, she smiled. This was exactly what she had hoped for.

---

The bell chimed not long after, signaling the start of the break period. The students dispersed quickly, the earlier tension lingering in the air. The teacher gathered her materials, content with how the discussion had gone, and exited the classroom.

Ceryn packed his things leisurely, unfazed by the glances still cast his way. Judging eyes didn't bother him; they never had. He walked toward the door, weaving through the crowd, and made his way to the rooftop—his sanctuary from the chaos of the school below.

When he reached his usual spot, he sat down, pulling out a piece of dry bread from his bag. The rooftop breeze rustled his hair as he prepared to eat in peace.

"I distinctly remember telling you the rooftop is off-limits to students," a voice interrupted.

Ceryn turned his head lazily, his emerald gaze landing on the intruder—his teacher, Myrille, who stood a few feet away with a playful smile. He blinked, studying her for a moment before replying dryly.

"And I distinctly remember the rules applying to practicing teachers as well. But who knows—I could be wrong."

Her laugh rang out, light and silvery, as she stepped closer. Most people found his bluntness irritating; she found it amusing. "You never fail to surprise me, Ceryn," she said, sitting down beside him. Her deep cerulean eyes sparkled with mirth as she peeked at the bread in his hand. "Do you actually like dry bread, or is there some tragic backstory I should know about?"

He didn't look at her as he replied, his tone as sharp as ever. "Like it? Hardly. It's a necessity. I don't have the time—or the patience—to prepare anything better. So I settle for convenience."

Her laughter came again, unrestrained and infectious. She opened her bento box, its aroma wafting toward him. "Well, you're in luck, mister convenience. I brought extra. Want some?"

Ceryn turned to her, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than usual. Her delicate features, her childlike face framed by snow-white hair, her vibrant blue eyes—it struck him, as it often did, how beautiful she was. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

"Sometimes I wonder if I put up with your constant interruptions because you're the prettiest woman I've ever seen—or because you remind me of a younger sister. I can't quite decide."

Her laughter stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing crimson. She let out a loud harrumph, focusing intently on her food. "For your information, I was going to share my food with you. But now, I'm reconsidering."

Ceryn smirked. "My queen, I humbly apologize for my disrespect. Please, spare me your wrath," he said, his voice dripping with mock solemnity.

She burst into laughter again, shoving a piece of food his way. "Here. Eat."

Their lighthearted moment was interrupted by a familiar voice. "Ugh, can you two just get married already? Watching this is painful."

They turned to see Asher—a slim, muscular boy with wild red hair and a roguish grin. His crooked nose, clearly broken from past fights, only added to his mischievous charm. Tattoos snaked down one arm, giving him an air of rebellious confidence.

"Oh, it's you," Ceryn said with an exaggerated sigh. "I was really hoping you died on the way to school today. Seeing you alive has completely ruined my appetite."

Myrille dissolved into laughter as Asher rolled his eyes. "I'd insult you back, but I'm too hungry to bother. Got any extras, Teach?"

She gestured for him to sit, and soon the three of them were sharing the meal, bickering and laughing as the rooftop breeze carried their voices into the open sky.