1

School usual noise filled the school. The Advanced Magical Theory lesson was just wrapping up.

"…and remember. If you want to succeed, you have to work hard," the teacher said, picking up his enchanted chalk and adjusting his glasses with a tired flick of his wrist.

(Only a few will understand the joke.)

"Whose?"

A voice called out from the back—Edwin, obviously—and the class erupted into laughter. Even the teacher let out a chuckle, despite himself.

He shook his head as he stepped out, mumbling, “Kids these days.”

Everyone was laughing. Some slapped their desks. A few repeated the punchline as if saying it again made it funnier. “Good one, Edwin!” they said.

Everyone except me.

Black-haired, brown-eyed me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the joke. I did. Edwin’s timing was perfect, and in another life I probably would’ve laughed too.

But I can’t.

Why?

I have a condition. It’s called Apathy Emotionalis. It’s a neuro-affective disorder that severs the emotional feedback loop in the brain. Simply put, I don’t register positive emotion. No joy. No thrill. No awe. I can recognize those states in others—empathy isn’t completely gone—but internally? It’s like trying to watch fireworks through soundproof glass: you know something is happening, but you feel none of it.

The condition doesn’t inhibit logic or memory. Just… delight.

So no happiness. No surprise parties. No warm fuzzies. No laughing at jokes, not even the objectively funny ones.

You probably think that sounds unbearable.

It is.

And it’s isolating.

No one wants to hang around someone who doesn’t smile, who doesn’t laugh at their jokes, who doesn’t celebrate even when they ace a test or win a game. The jocks leave me alone. The nerds, too. The normal kids, the edgy ones, the men of culture, the quiet goths in the back. Heck, even the bullies decided it wasn’t worth their time.

So yeah, I’m alone.

The bell rang, snapping me out of my totally-not-pathetic self-reflection. The classroom emptied in a wave of voices and shifting backpacks. I waited a bit, letting the hallway clog up before I even stood. No reason to get swept up in the herd.

As I exited the classroom, the buzz of students filled the corridor like static. The walls shimmered faintly. Red Rose High. The school was an expensive blend of tech and magic.

Red Rose wasn’t just prestigious. It was the school. The top 50% of teenage magic users in Japan fought for spots here.

So how’d someone like me—magicless, skill-less, emotionally stunted—get in?

That, is a long story.

The year is 2053.

Eighteen years ago, in 2035, Earth… expanded.

Literally. Overnight, new continents appeared—land masses that didn’t exist before. And with them came new races, new ecosystems, and a truckload of problems. It wasn’t exactly peaceful. The newcomers weren’t here to borrow sugar. There were wars, of course. But humanity, resilient cockroaches that we are, didn’t roll over.

We fought back.

And then… we evolved.

Not biologically. Mystically.

Magic woke up.

Some say it was always there, dormant, trapped beneath human consciousness. Others say it bled into our world from the newcomers. No one knows. But by 2038, humanity had collectively started displaying abilities. Powers. Spells. Gifts. And not just simple stuff. We're talking flame conjurers, gravity benders, spatial jumpers, bloodweavers—you name it.

It became part of society overnight. Governments collapsed, reformed, repurposed. Magic became the new social currency. The stronger your ability, the higher you climbed.

And then there’s me.

I have nothing.

No element. No aura. No special eyes or bloodline technique. No mutation. No awakened beast spirit sealed inside me waiting for its big character arc moment.

Just Nico Vale, seventeen, alone, and emotionally flatlining.

I paused before the last flight of stairs, the hubbub of students echoing down below.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Upper ShinToshi District D. Nothing fancy. 

As for my parents. They were portal engineers. Smart ones. Good people, I think. I can’t exactly remember how I felt when I heard they died. I probably cried.

At the bottom of the stairs were the shoe lockers. Still crowded. I waited again. I wasn’t in a hurry. Eventually, the crowd cleared enough for me to make my way to my locker. I opened it, and—

A white envelope fluttered out and landed on the tiled floor.

No name on the front. But I knew it was for me.

No one else receives anonymous letters in 2053. Messaging spells, holo-mails, and brain-beam communication made old-school paper a lost art. I picked it up and unfolded it carefully.

The handwriting was neat. Someone had clearly taken their time with this.

........Dear Nico Sir,
I am terribly sorry, sir, for bothering you. Miss Smile asked me to deliver this letter.

She told me to tell you that we have located the warehouse of you-know-who who has been smuggling you-know-what. She said the address is:

23 Crescent Lane, District D, ShinToshi.
11:30 pm is the time. She hopes you can be there as the show goes on.
I’m sorry once again. Thank you.
Yours,_______............
No signature.

I read it again.

And if I could feel satisfaction—or anything—I probably would have smiled.

But alas.

“Finally,” I said aloud to no one in particular, crumpled the paper, and tossed it in the nearby bin.