Shiki finally turned toward her seatmate.
Since she had entered the classroom, the youth had not spared her a single glance. His gaze was fixed outside the window, as if this classroom held no significance. His black hair was slightly disheveled, and his uniform was crumpled in several places—not out of style, but as a sign that he truly did not care.
He was the only person in the room who did not react to Shiki's presence.
Curiosity led Shiki to follow his gaze out the window. However, all she saw were the neatly manicured school gardens, green trees, and empty walkways. There was nothing special. A mundane view, something one could see every day.
"Hello."
Shiki greeted him.
The youth did not turn immediately. His body rotated slowly, as if reluctant to pull his gaze from the outside. His shoulders moved first, followed by his head—a slow, lazy motion that showed absolutely no interest.
His face appeared ordinary at first glance. Yet the longer one looked, the harder he was to ignore. His eyebrows were thick and tapered at the ends, giving a sharp impression. His eyes were deep blue, almost violet, yet too light to be called true purple. His gaze was flat, devoid of curiosity. His lips were pressed shut, with the lower lip slightly fuller, making his expression always look halfway to being bored.
A breeze drifted in through the open window, ruffling his hair and brushing against Shiki's face. Amidst the cool air, a faint scent of vanilla lingered—odd, considering the disheveled appearance of its owner.
Shiki frowned.
Since when was this window open?
The cooling system in Vespera's classrooms was supposed to close all windows automatically. Yet this window was wide open, as if the school rules chose not to apply to him.
"Hello," Shiki repeated.
"Yeah."
The answer was short. Flat. Not friendly, but not rude either—merely a response because one was required.
Shiki's brow furrowed. This was the first time someone had addressed her with such a tone. Even after answering, the youth turned back, staring out the window as if Shiki were no longer important.
As if to say: We're done.
A sense of amusement—and a hint of irritation—crept into Shiki's chest. She cleared her throat softly, then smiled. The smile that had always succeeded in melting whoever she spoke to.
"What's your name?"
This time, she was certain the result would be different.
However, all she received was a slight tilt of the head, a raised eyebrow, and a questioning look.
"Shouldn't you introduce yourself first?"
Shiki's smile froze for a moment. "You don't know who I am?"
"Am I supposed to?"
Silence intervened. Brief, but enough to make the air between them feel strange.
"You're an odd person," Shiki finally said.
The youth kept staring outside. "If you walk far enough," he said casually, "you're bound to meet odd people."
Silence again.
Then—
"Pfft..."
Shiki covered her mouth before her laughter could explode.
"Hahahahaha!"
Her laughter echoed, clear and unrestrained, causing the entire class to turn. Several students went silent. Even the homeroom teacher, who had just entered, paused at the threshold, staring at Shiki in bewilderment.
For the first time in two lifetimes, Shiki laughed not out of despair, nor out of victory—but because of something genuinely funny.
While all eyes were fixed on her, the youth beside her remained the same. His face was flat. His gaze was vacant. As if to say: Why are you making so much noise?
That was precisely what made Shiki laugh even harder.
"Shiki," the homeroom teacher cleared his throat, "we are starting the class session."
"Ah—sorry, sir," Shiki replied, still wearing a small smile.
She didn't pay much attention to the introduction session. She already knew almost every face in the class—either from old memories or from the future.
But when it was her seatmate's turn, Shiki turned to look again.
"My name is Mujun."
There was nothing more. No smile. No effort to draw attention. Those few words were spoken, and then he returned to staring at the window, as if the world had reverted to its rightful position.
Shiki suppressed her laughter.
Interesting, she thought. Very interesting.
The name Mujun made Shiki pause.
The name sounded... peculiar. In ancient dragon tongue, Mujun meant "contradiction." A word more often used to describe a mistake, a paradox, or something that shouldn't exist. It wasn't a typical name given to a Nagawira—especially in a dragon-descended culture that placed immense value on pride.
Most Nagawira chose names that signified glory, strength, or nobility. Even ordinary families tended to be cautious. A name was a prayer, and simultaneously a declaration of who they were to the world.
Naming a child Mujun felt like casting a burden upon them from birth.
Shiki had never heard the name before. Even in the Procession Tower—where she had spent years of her life—the name Mujun had never surfaced. That meant only two possibilities: either this youth died too soon, or he lived a life so small he was never recorded.
Yet, for some reason, Shiki's instincts rejected both possibilities.
She glanced at her seatmate once more. His sitting position was the same. His gaze was still fixed out the window. His expression remained vacant, as if the world never asked for his opinion, and he had no intention of giving it.
Strange.
Shiki had met many powerful people. Johan, the strongest spear user in the Procession Tower, hadn't even given her this feeling. Her instincts that had saved her countless times—whispered softly that Mujun was something precious.
Not necessarily strong. Not necessarily important.
But dangerous to ignore.
As the homeroom hour ended, Shiki was still thinking of one thing: how to approach Mujun without driving him away.
She had met all types of people. The despicable, the cruel, the noble, and those who feigned holiness. Their faces always left a trace—be it greed, fear, or ambition.
But Mujun left nothing.
His gaze was flat. His tone was dry. Even his presence felt like an empty space. Neither cold nor warm—just indifferent. As if whatever happened in this world didn't truly touch him.
With her Dragon's Eye, Shiki could see through falsehoods. She could read people by the way they stood, breathed, and looked. But in Mujun, she found no lies—and that was precisely what bothered her.
He was empty. Too empty.
So, Shiki sent a brief message to Andrea.
Initially, she didn't expect much. If the information was complicated, she might have to ask Thompson for help—and that would mean diverting focus from the search for the violet-eyed man. She was reluctant to do that unless absolutely necessary.
Yet, less than an hour later, a reply arrived.
Shiki opened her phone, ignoring the homeroom teacher's sharp gaze. Mujun's data unfolded neatly on the screen. Too neatly.
Born to a family of entrepreneurs. His parents died in an accident when he was an infant. No other family. All assets were managed by a clean family lawyer—no embezzlement, no drama. Mujun grew up with every need met.
No trauma. No painful memories. He didn't even remember his parents' faces.
His school history... ordinary. Not outstanding. Not problematic. Never a victim of bullying, nor a perpetrator. His grades were stable. His social relationships were adequate—easy to talk to, but close to no one. Not lonely, but not attached either.
His life was flat.
So flat that Shiki almost yawned while reading it.
"Did I misjudge him?" she murmured softly.
She turned. Mujun was still in the same position. Staring out the window as if there were something there—something only he could see.
Shiki offered a thin smile.
Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps her instincts were wrong.
But one thing was certain: approaching Mujun would not be difficult.
"Mujun," she called out while standing up. "Class is over. Come with me to the cafeteria. My treat."
Her tone did not ask for permission.
"Okay," Mujun replied shortly, rising from his chair without even a hint of surprise.
Just like that. No drama. No questions.
And without Shiki realizing it, she had just pulled someone into her orbit—someone who didn't look special at all, yet felt too strange to let go.