Trapped like an extra in a blatant cliche

"When the lines between reality and dreams blur, and the familiar turns strange, remember: it's not always the path that changes; sometimes, it's the traveler who transforms." —Excerpt from Volume 1 of The Reborn Hero.

A door clicked shut behind him, the soft sound reverberating in the silence, and with it, another tattoo on the back of his hand slowly began to fade away. Though it was just a small change, a subtle display of the power and peculiarities that this new world held, he felt like a lost child in an unfamiliar city. He couldn't deny, however, the fantastical weight of the experience.

"Well… that was awkward as hell," he muttered almost unconsciously. Walking alongside the demon girl had been too much for his simple, unprepared soul. He recalled those piercing eyes, like two sharp daggers, and the constant itch on his left wrist, both sensations so intense that he hoped to never experience them again. It was a relief that it was over, though the discomfort still lingered in every fiber of his being.

With a sigh, he scratched his arm and carefully observed his surroundings. He was in his room—or rather, in what he was now supposed to consider his room, his home. But no... not really; he shook his head. This was the boy's home, Brián's, a space familiar to his body but not to his mind. Still, he couldn't deny that the place felt cozy, comfortable in a way he hadn't experienced in a long time, like returning to your parents' house for Christmas.

The room was a modest studio, simple yet practical, with only the bathroom separated by a wall—no space for a kitchen or dining area. That was normal here, as everyone was expected to share meals in a communal dining hall. Even so, having a private bathroom was an unheard-of luxury, one he hadn't anticipated but was immensely grateful for.

The atmosphere was a blend of rustic and fantastical, with an ancient touch that could be felt in every corner. The furniture, along with the walls and floors, was made of a combination of polished wood and perfectly cut stone bricks, giving off a warm and solid impression.

To him, it felt like a small palace, a serene, harmonious space, a refuge where he could rest. He even wondered why this place, being just a single room, felt so much better than his old rented apartment. It even seemed bigger. Damn… that last thought depressed him a little.

Noticing the gleam of the polished wooden floorboards beneath his feet, he removed his shoes before stepping in completely. The habit of walking around barefoot, more driven by laziness than cleanliness, felt natural to him.

From the entrance, he descended two steps to the main level of the room. He observed the sturdy, well-made wardrobe, the wide wooden shelves anchored horizontally to the wall, and a small table beside a chair. There was a simple sofa and a bed next to a window, which seemed perfect for sitting and gazing outside due to its extra space. In that moment, he knew that the corner by the window would become his favorite spot in the room.

Of course, there was the bathroom. With a quick glance, he noted that it was small but sufficient. It had a shower, a mirror, a toilet, and a sink—everything he needed. Although the space was limited, he wouldn't complain. The room, overall, had an air of functionality that he deeply appreciated.

He scanned the space, noticing the small details he had initially overlooked. The bed was unmade, books were scattered haphazardly, and a few pieces of clothing lay strewn on the floor. There were writing materials everywhere: quills, ink bottles, and crumpled papers mixed with pencils and loose sheets. Yes, it was clear this was a student's room. A student who, like him, seemed to struggle against disorder in a futile attempt to maintain control.

He couldn't help but sigh at the thought of living in this place. In its own way, the room reflected a temporary home, a place where life had been paused. Yet something about the atmosphere invited him to stay, to take a breath. He looked at the bed, and without realizing it, he began walking toward it. With each step, his exhausted body felt heavier, and his eyelids began to droop.

Finally, his shoulders sagged, and he started to strip off his uniform. He loosened his tie, removed his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt with a gesture of relief. With a long exhale, he collapsed onto the bed, feeling the softness of the mattress embrace him. Suddenly, all his problems, all the worries that weighed on his mind, were relegated to the background. Sleep became the only priority, the only urgency.

He closed his eyes and let the room, his temporary refuge, envelop him in a rest as necessary as it was inevitable.

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Laughter... bursts of youthful, mocking, and shrill laughter made him slowly open his eyes. He was on the ground, covered in dirt stains, with tears streaming down his cheeks. His knees stung, and he noticed that snot was dripping from his nose, mixing with the dust on his clothes.

"Look, guys, Brián is crying. He's a crybaby!" one of the older boys mocked, his childish voice dripping with ridicule. "Haha, Brián, you fell, and now you're crying. Is this how you plan to play with us? You can't even keep up with that weak body of yours." Another voice, another child. The laughter of the group surrounded him, amplifying his shame.

Brián covered his face with his hands, trying to hide, wishing he could become invisible. He didn't want them to see him like this, so vulnerable, but the older kids were right, and that filled him with sadness. How could he deny the obvious?

The small park where he found himself, a communal area in the village where he usually felt safe, now became a stage for humiliation. "Crybaby Brián, crybaby Brián, can't do anything right," the kids chanted, repeating the nickname like a cruel mantra. Their words were sharp, tearing at his spirit and causing even more tears to escape from his eyes.

"Hey, you guys, what the heck are you doing to Brián?" A youthful and determined voice interrupted the commotion. It was a girl's voice, ringing like a bell of warning. The group of older boys stopped, and one of them muttered, "Crap, the bossy girl is here. The little protective girlfriend is back. Let's go before she tattles." With nervous giggles, they began to disperse, but not without giving Brián one last look. "We'll see you another day, baby Brián," one of them sneered before running off.

"Don't worry about those fools, they can't do anything to you now," the child's voice said. When Brián looked up, he saw a girl with shimmering hair and brown eyes gazing at him with kindness. She knelt beside him, offering her hand with a warm smile that made his cheeks flush. "Come on, get up. I'll take you to the Chief; she'll heal your wounds."

The boy hesitated for a moment, overwhelmed by the shame of being seen in this state, but he finally took the hand she offered. "Th-thank you, E-Emma," he murmured, stuttering. Emma smiled, squeezing his hand firmly. "It's nothing. But you have to learn to defend yourself. If you don't, those idiots will always bother you. Though, as long as I'm around, I guess you don't have to worry."

With a little effort, she helped him stand. Brián, still feeling the pain in his knees, wiped his tears and snot with his arm, further staining his clothes. "Does it hurt a lot?" Emma asked, inspecting him with concern. She knew he usually wore long pants, so she couldn't see the wounds, but his pained expression gave him away.

Brián nodded shyly, trying to hide his discomfort. "Yeah... a little," he said, looking down, but under Emma's skeptical gaze and the frown forming on her face, he couldn't keep up the lie for long. "Well, yes... yes, it hurts. A lot."

Satisfied that she'd gotten the truth, Emma nodded. "You know you can't lie to me; I know you too well," she grumbled, though there was a hint of affection in her voice. "Come on. The chief can heal you before your parents find out."

Without giving him time to argue, Emma grabbed his hand and led him through the village streets. As they walked in silence, some adults greeted them with smiles. Brián, overwhelmed by the firm grip leading him, allowed himself to be dragged along, though the warmth of Emma's hand in his gave him a small measure of comfort.

After a while of walking in silence, Brián mustered enough courage to ask the question that had been lingering in his mind for some time. "Hey, E-Emma, why do you always help me?"

The question, asked with the innocent curiosity of a child, made Emma's cheeks flush a light shade of pink. She averted her gaze, trying to hide her nervousness. "W-well... it's because it's my duty as the next chief of the village," she answered firmly, though in a barely audible whisper, she added, "And also because... because it's you, silly."

"Huh? Did you say something, Emma?" Brián looked at her, intrigued, but she quickly changed the subject, turning her gaze toward the path. "Look, we're here," she said hastily, stopping in front of a door. "Let's get you checked out, Bri—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Brián felt something strange. His ears were filled with a sharp ringing, and suddenly, the world was bathed in a deep red. He looked around, bewildered, as heat and the smell of smoke filled the air. What was happening?

A voice he barely recognized as his father's rang out, strong and urgent. "Brián, run! Don't look back. Take Emma and don't stop until you reach the next village. Run!"

Brián didn't understand. He looked at Emma, who was unconscious in his arms, and a knot formed in his stomach. What was this sudden change? What was this feeling of danger threatening to consume everything?

"What the hell...? What was this? What was...?"

Suddenly, he woke up with an overwhelming sense of panic, hitting him like a wave of icy water. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and his heart pounded in his chest, almost painfully. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking to his skin, and a shiver ran down his spine. He felt a strange discomfort; the sticky sensation made him nauseous. In the darkness of the room, something indefinable and terrifying hung in the air, enveloping him with a sense of dread he couldn't understand.

The images from his dream still swirled in his mind like elusive shadows—the demon girl, he was sure it was that person, that girl. Why had he dreamed of her? Had she cursed him? Every time he tried to think about it, his thoughts dissolved into a whirlpool of fear. His hands trembled, and his entire body vibrated with anxiety. Thinking was impossible; his mind was trapped in a storm of sensations he couldn't control.

He jumped out of bed, his bare feet hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud that echoed in the stillness of the room. The darkness wasn't a hindrance; with clumsy movements, he made his way to the bathroom, fumbling for the light switch. When he finally found it, a warm, orange light flickered on, casting dancing shadows on the walls. He barely had time to adjust his eyes to the light before a sharp wave of nausea rose from his stomach.

Unable to stop it, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. Bile surged up his throat, and with a shudder, he began to vomit. The sound echoed in the silence of the bathroom, and each retch made him feel weaker and more vulnerable, as if he were emptying something more than just the contents of his stomach. When he finally finished, he rested against the edge of the toilet, trembling. With disgust and shame, he flushed the toilet, turning his gaze away from the miserable sight.

He struggled to stand and moved to the sink, turning on the faucet and drinking in long gulps, trying to soothe the burning sensation left by the acid in his throat. However, the water couldn't fully erase the bitter taste he felt. When he closed the tap, he looked up at himself in the mirror.

The image staring back at him startled him; his bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them looked strange. Desperation was etched into every line of his face, distorting it, turning it into a mask of fear and pain. He raised a trembling hand to his face, barely able to recognize the person he saw in the mirror.

He opened the tap again, splashing cold water on his face in a futile attempt to clear his mind, to erase the anguish. But the weight on his chest remained. His hands still trembled, and the panic was a knot he couldn't untie.

Without thinking any further, he opened the shower door and turned the knob. The water hit him instantly, cold and harsh, but he didn't care. He stepped in, half-dressed, feeling the water soak through his clothes and fall onto his back, icy and brutal. The cold was a constant sting, but it seemed to calm him, numbing the whirlwind of emotions inside him. He stayed there, head bowed, letting the water cover him as his clothes clung to his body.

Minutes turned into eternity, each second stretching longer than the last. The cold bit at his skin, but he clung to it as if it were an anchor keeping him in the present. Finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, he turned off the shower and stepped out, dripping and shivering. The cold air in the bathroom made the wet clothes feel even worse, but he didn't care. He let himself collapse onto the floor, leaning his back against the sliding shower door, and closed his eyes, trying to regain control of his breathing and his mind.

The trembling subsided, but the feeling of emptiness and the tightness in his chest remained. He knew there was something deeper in that dream, something that had shaken him to his core. Even though the cold water had calmed him, it wasn't enough to erase the horror that vision had left behind.

He stayed there, on the bathroom floor, soaked and vulnerable, not knowing how to face what he had seen or how to rid himself of the fear that had taken root in his chest.

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Change of Perspective.

Emma Tarkard was not having a good week. In fact, it was a disaster, and yesterday had been the peak of her stupidity. She had treated Brián in the worst possible way, taking out all her frustration on him, and even going as far as shouting those horrible things and, to top it off, hitting him.

And yet, even after seeing him collapse in front of her, after having to carry him to the Academy's infirmary, she had remained obstinate. She was still the same, unable to admit when she was wrong, and much less willing to acknowledge that part of it was also her fault.

She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead, letting the back of her head rhythmically hit the cold surface of the enchanted wooden door. Over and over, she told herself it wasn't entirely her fault; he was to blame too. He wouldn't stop following her, seeking her out, chasing her with that same look as before, one that reminded her of everything that had happened, everything she had lost. Sometimes, she just wanted to disappear, to be left alone and not have to relive that tragedy in her mind. But every time she saw Brián, the memories returned, whispering her weakness, showing her pain again and again.

She felt a tremor run through her hand and quickly clenched it into a fist. She forced herself to believe that it wasn't solely her responsibility. He had contributed, right? Of course, he had. That had to be true, it just had to.

She looked at the floor, while her head kept tapping against the door, the echo resonating through the stone and polished wood hallway. The weight of her training clothes pressed down on her, different from the uniform but more fitting for the grueling training that awaited her. But today, even her strength didn't seem enough.

"The strongest of the house. Accepted into the prestigious Seraphim Academy, located in Astaroth, the neighboring city of Eldoria's capital." "What a sick joke," she muttered to herself. "You can't even control your life; you're a fraud." A bitter laugh escaped her lips as she scolded herself under her breath. "What's the point of all this strength if you can't even fix things with the one person who might actually understand you? The only person who knows what happened, who's just as trapped in that miserable past as you are. And yet... you just go and hurt him even more with your eloquent nonsense."

The tapping against the door stopped when the enchanted wood creaked a few meters away, and another door opened carefully. There he was, Brián, the boy with the greenish-blue hair and tired gaze, the same one with whom she shared such a painful history.

She lowered her eyes to her wrist, where the shared tattoo they both had began to itch, as if reminding her of the childish promise they'd made in their moments of innocence. They had sworn that, upon reaching adulthood, they would marry. How naive they had been, thinking that a simple pact could protect them from the world.

She looked up and scanned the boy from head to toe, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the fatigue written in the bloodshot whites, his pale skin, his messy hair—a reflection of someone who had spent the whole night awake. Anxiety was carved into his movements, and Emma felt a hollow ache in her chest. She knew what he was going through; after all, the walls weren't as thick as they claimed. She had heard the sounds during the night. Her sharp glare softened—of course, he was suffering through that same hell, that pain, and that past that bound them together.

Their eyes met, but this time Emma held herself back. "You don't need to wear that awful uniform. You know we're training today; put on something comfortable and come down for breakfast," she said in a neutral tone before turning on her heels and heading toward the stairs at the end of the hall. She descended calmly, taking her time, each step a pause she used to quiet the storm raging inside her chest.

When she reached the dining hall, she noticed the stares. Groups of students watched her from their seats—rich, noble, young people who knew nothing about real suffering. Their whispers were as obvious as their approving or envious glances, depending on the case. Sometimes, the disdain in their eyes was so blatant that it made her blood boil. Why couldn't they just eat in peace and leave her alone? She was here to become stronger, not to mingle with these people.

"Ah, dear Emma, come, have a seat," called Beatrice, the dorm caretaker. Her voice was kind, one of the few Emma truly appreciated in this place. "Thank you," Emma responded coldly, though without meaning to. She felt compelled to add, "With your permission," in an attempt to soften her sharp tone.

"I'll bring you something shortly," Beatrice said with a warm smile that sparked a flicker of calm in Emma, but soon the guilt returned to overtake her. Emma nodded and took a seat at a distant table. The stares continued, and so did the whispers. "The Ice Queen is here," someone murmured. "They say she's reached the top ranks, and the teachers won't stop praising her."

She didn't turn her head. None of that mattered, or at least that's what she told herself, until she overheard something that did make her react: "If she's so good, I don't get why she lets that useless guy cling to her. I don't even know how that peasant got in here. What was the headmaster thinking?"

Gritting her teeth, she muttered, "Who the hell do they think they are?" Brián—he was someone worthy, the smartest person she knew, and he had earned his place here just as much as any of those fools who looked down on him. Soon, Beatrice returned with her breakfast, and Emma began to eat in silence, letting the clinking of knives and forks drown out the whispers, those ignorant and cruel comments.

She waited for that fool to find her, to sit next to her, and start bothering her like he always did. But when she saw him come down, his shoulders slumped and his hair disheveled, he didn't even glance her way. He simply sat at an empty table on the other side of the dining hall.

That was new, but not entirely negative; she'd have some time to herself for a while. She chalked it up to him having a bad day, just like she was having a bad week. Yes, soon, everything would go back to normal, just like always.

Sighing, Emma finished her meal and took her plate to the kitchen, mentally preparing for the next fencing class. As she left the dining hall, she heard more comments directed at Brián, words full of disdain and mockery that tightened around her chest like a claw.

"What a bunch of idiots," she murmured to herself. She couldn't say it aloud, not here, among all that nobility that looked down on what they couldn't understand. But in her heart, those insults echoed with force.