Chapter 5: End Here, Begins There

Kiyotaka Ayanokōji POV*

I stood in silence at the bus stop, watching the distant lights of the city flicker as if they were mirages on the horizon. This was it—the road to freedom. Or at least, that was the idea. The faint hum of the approaching bus broke the stillness of the night, its headlights piercing through the dark. The bus came to a slow halt, doors creaking open with a hiss, inviting me aboard.

I stepped on without hesitation, scanning the nearly empty seats. Only a few passengers occupied the space, each lost in their own world. I found a seat near the back, away from the few scattered souls, and sat down. I let my gaze drift to the window, but I wasn't really looking outside. I was focusing on the nothingness.

As the bus rumbled along the road, my mind wandered, drawn into a question I'd been asking myself for some time.

"Are people equal or not?"_

Society these days seemed obsessed with the idea of equality. Everywhere you looked, people were calling for men and women to be treated equally. Others demanded an end to inequality altogether. They pushed for higher employment rates for women, universal access to cars, and found fault even with the smallest societal norms. People even advocated for equality for those with disabilities, urging society to stop using terms like "disabled people." Children were being taught that everyone is equal.

But was that really true?

Men and women have different roles because they have different abilities. People with disabilities are still disabled, regardless of how they're labeled. All of this "equality" is meaningless if no one actually pays attention to it._

The answer was clear to me. *No.*

People are not equal. We are inherently unequal beings. There are no truly "equal" people.

A great man once said that God did not make anyone above or below another person. But even then, it didn't mean everyone was truly equal. Most people forget the rest of the passage. The part that says: _Everyone is equal at birth, but then why are there differences in jobs and status?_ In other words, equality is nothing more than a fantasy.

It is a convenient lie that society perpetuates to avoid confronting the reality of human nature.

As I sat there, the bus moving further away from the facility, I knew this journey wasn't the beginning of freedom. It was simply another part of a path carved by inequality, a path shaped by those who understood its truth.

I soon drifted off into sleep, unaware of how much time had passed. When I woke up, the bright sun was streaming through the windows, and I heard a voice nearby.

"Don't you think you should give up your seat?" A woman's voice, firm but polite, cut through the hum of the bus. She sounded like she was in her late twenties.

I blinked and glanced to my side. A younger woman, dressed like a salarywoman, was standing next to an elderly lady who was clearly struggling. The cane in her hand and the subtle tremble in her legs suggested a deeper issue—perhaps arthritis or peripheral neuropathy. But what caught my attention was that the young woman wasn't speaking to me.

Her attention was fixed on a blonde-haired high school student, sitting in the priority seat just across from me. He was tall, well-built, and wore a school uniform. He looked perfectly healthy, yet there he sat, in the one seat meant for those who needed it most.

"You there, can't you see the old woman is having trouble?" the salarywoman continued, her voice laced with frustration.

But the boy didn't budge. Instead, he leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He seemed... uninterested, maybe even amused. "That's a pretty crazy question, lady," he replied, casually recrossing his legs. "Why should I give up this seat to an old woman? There's no reason for me to."

The woman bristled, clearly caught off guard by his bluntness. "Isn't it just common decency to offer your seat to someone elderly?"

But I could already tell her efforts would be in vain. This guy wasn't the type to give up his seat out of obligation—or anything, really.

"I don't understand," the boy said coolly. "Priority seats are just that—priority. There's no law that says I *have* to move. Whether I stand or sit is up to me. Are you going to give up *your* seat just because I'm a younger guy?"

His tone was sharp, almost mocking. He wasn't angry, not exactly—just indifferent. Like he was above it all.

The salarywoman's frustration only grew. "What kind of attitude is that towards your elders?"

"Elders?" he laughed, though there was no warmth in it. "Sure, you've lived longer than me. I won't argue with that. But what makes you think that automatically makes you superior? Being older doesn't give you a right to be rude."

It was clear now—this wasn't just a simple exchange. The boy wasn't going to move, no matter how much she pushed. His words, harsh as they were, held an edge of unshakable conviction.

"Wha…! You're a high school student!? Honestly, just listen to what adults say!"

"It's fine, it's fine…" The old woman's frail voice tried to calm the situation, gently waving her hands to defuse the tension. But the office lady was fuming, her face flushed with anger as she continued her verbal assault on the boy. It seemed like she was moments away from completely losing her temper.

In that moment, I couldn't help but sympathize with the old woman—not because of the seat, but because of the attention this entire scene was drawing. If I were in her position, frail and unable to stand for long, I wouldn't want to be the center of attention. The argument between the office worker and the student only made the situation more humiliating for her. Her small gesture of calm was being drowned in a sea of frustration.

The boy, however, didn't care about any of it. "Apparently, the old woman has better hearing than you do. Well, maybe there's hope for Japanese society yet. Enjoy the rest of your life, lady."

He flashed a smug, condescending smile before putting in his headphones and cranking up his music loud enough for the rest of the bus to hear faint traces of the song. The office worker clenched her fists, clearly on the verge of exploding, but she bit her tongue.

I sighed. In a way, I understood where the boy was coming from, though he was undoubtedly in the wrong. Morally, at least. But here's the thing: morality itself is subjective. It's not an absolute truth but rather a choice we make. Sure, in the context of society, morality plays an important role in maintaining order. However, when you break it down, morality is just another social construct.

Take the concept of justice, for instance. Rape is universally considered immoral, and murder, too, is widely condemned. But the majority of people accept that a rapist being killed is somehow justified. By strict moral standards, murder is wrong—no exceptions. But when it comes to punishing a rapist, many would say that killing them is fair. The moral compass suddenly swings the other way.

It's a contradiction. Morality is like a line drawn in the sand. On one side, you have moral actions; on the other, immoral ones. And in the middle? Consciousness. Human consciousness is the key factor that separates us from animals, supposedly allowing us to distinguish right from wrong. Yet, consciousness itself is a double-edged sword. It gives us the ability to rationalize and justify our actions, regardless of where they fall on the moral spectrum.

Take animals, for example. Hamsters. They'll sometimes eat their own babies when stressed. From a human perspective, that's horrifying and deeply immoral. But for the hamster? It's survival. There's no moral question for them—just instinct.

Dolphins are another example...

If you've ever heard the horror stories of what dolphins get up to in the sea, you might think they're immoral. But they're animals—they don't operate by human moral standards. Yet, according to Herman's experiment, some dolphins are capable of self-awareness. So, does that mean we should hold them to a moral standard? It's a paradox. But then again, humans are supposedly moral creatures too, right?

If that's the case, how do you explain World War I, World War II, the Holocaust, terrorism, police brutality, racism, school shootings, and countless other atrocities? If humans are truly moral, why does history tell a different story? The truth is, humans aren't inherently moral. Far from it.

And if you need more evidence, just look at chimpanzees. The closest relatives to humans, and yet they can be as ruthless as we are. Morality isn't something we're born with—it's something we create to feel like there's order in the chaos.

"Sorry…"

The office lady's voice trembled as she apologized to the old woman, clearly fighting back her tears. I sighed quietly. I could sympathize with the old lady. She hadn't asked to be humiliated in public like this, especially not over something as trivial as a bus seat. Just as I was about to offer my own seat, fate had different plans.

"Um… I think the lady is right."

A new voice entered the conversation. To my surprise, it came from a girl standing next to the office worker. She wore the same school uniform as mine, and bravely directed her words at the boy.

"This time, a pretty girl, huh? Seems I've got luck with women today," the boy smirked, clearly unfazed.

"Miss, it looks like it's been hot for a while. Why don't you give up your seat? You may think it's none of your concern, but I think it would contribute to society."

With a snap of his fingers, he leaned back, as if entertained by her words.

"Contribute to society? That's an interesting way to put it," he mused. "Giving up seats might be seen as contributing to society, but I'm not interested in that. I only care about my own satisfaction. Besides, in this crowded bus, why single me out? If someone truly cared for the elderly, they wouldn't worry about who's sitting in a priority seat. They'd give up their seat, plain and simple."

Despite the girl's genuine intentions, her plea didn't move the boy in the slightest. His smirk stayed firmly in place. The office lady and the elderly woman stood there with bitter smiles, unsure of how to respond.

But the girl didn't back down.

"Everyone, please listen," she said, her voice steady. "Can anyone give their seat to this old woman? Please—anyone."

There was such compassion and determination in her words that it was impossible not to notice. Her sincerity was clear, but I could sense the tension rising in the bus. I quietly decided against raising my hand now. I would have offered my seat earlier, but with the way things had escalated, it would look like I was doing it to impress her. That was the last thing I wanted.

The passengers around us averted their eyes, pretending not to notice the situation. A few had guilty expressions, but no one moved. Except for the girl sitting beside me.

Among the chaos, she sat there, completely unfazed, her face expressionless. When I looked at her, our eyes met for a brief moment. I could tell she didn't even consider giving up her seat. She, like most of the others on this bus, had no intention of getting involved.

Then, finally, someone else cracked.

"Oh, here you go!" a woman near the front of the bus stood up, unable to withstand the mounting guilt.

"Thank you!" The brave girl smiled warmly, bowing her head in gratitude before guiding the elderly woman to the empty seat. The old woman thanked her profusely, sitting down with a sigh of relief.

As I watched the scene unfold, I folded my arms and closed my eyes, contemplating the dynamic at play. Soon, the bus arrived at our stop.

The students disembarked, including me, and I was greeted by the sight of a large, imposing gate made of natural stone.

Advanced Nurturing High School.* This was it.

I took a deep breath—here I go, the beginning of my new life. I was just about to take the first step when—

"Wait a second."

The voice halted me. I turned around, realizing it was the girl I had sat next to on the bus.

"You were looking at me earlier. Why?" she asked, her gaze firm and unyielding.

I blinked. What? Was it illegal to look at someone now? Maybe she had just gotten creeped out or something. Yeah, I could apologize for that.

"Oh, sorry. I was just interested in the book you were reading and tried to see the cover but couldn't. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," I said, keeping my voice steady. I was about to turn and leave, thinking that would be the end of it, but the raven-haired girl wasn't finished.

"I don't accept that excuse," she said flatly.

I paused mid-step and glanced back over my shoulder. "Eh? What's that supposed to mean?" I tried to inject some emotion into my voice, but it came out as flat and monotone as always. That was just how I spoke.

"You weren't looking at my book. I'm certain we made eye contact for at least a second."

Oh, sorry. I wasn't aware making eye contact was a crime now. What was this girl on about? Honestly, I was just wasting my time here.

"Okay then," I said dismissively, before turning around and walking away, ignoring the persistent voice calling after me.

As I walked away from the girl, her gaze lingered on me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Whatever she wanted, it wasn't worth the time or energy. I had bigger things to focus on.

Ahead of me, the school gates loomed tall, carved from natural stone, imposing and pristine. Students flowed through like a well-oiled machine, their uniforms blending into a sea of monotony—soon enough, I would be just another piece of this puzzle. That was fine. For now, blending in was exactly what I needed.

I wasn't here to stand out. My purpose was simple—three years of freedom, away from *that* sterile room, that cold, lifeless environment. I wanted to live among people, to see how it felt to make friends, maybe even fall in love. I wanted to know how a normal teenager was supposed to act.

And if that didn't work out? Well… there was always another option.

The memory of an old conversation resurfaced, and with it, a familiar itch in my right palm. I glanced down at the scar there, a thin, faded line cutting through my skin—a reminder of the deal I had made with *him*. It had been years ago now, but the weight of that agreement still lingered.

I had asked my father about the boy. His cryptic answer involved something called *Project Rubis*. The name stuck with me, and for the better part of those years, I had taken to calling the boy *Rubis*. His real name? Far too long and complicated for me to bother with. Not that it mattered. Maybe Rubis had forgotten about me entirely by now.

Or maybe he hadn't.

Either way, that life wasn't for me—not yet, at least. For now, I'd play the part of the ordinary high school student. If this didn't pan out, if I didn't find what I was looking for… I could always go back. Back to Rubis, back to a life without distractions or frivolities.

But for now, I'd just take the next step.

After the bus ride and that whole ordeal, the entrance ceremony was hardly any better. It was the usual drawn-out affair, with the principal and other students exchanging forced pleasantries, and an excess of standing around. Honestly, it felt like a waste of time. But beyond that, it marked the beginning of the real challenge for a first-year: making friends.

The next few days would decide the trajectory of school life for most students. If you made friends now, things could be smooth sailing. Fail, and you'd likely be stuck in a miserable rut for the next three years. As much as I wanted to avoid trouble, making friends was a necessary step.

I'd even practiced the night before—yes, *practiced*. Socializing wasn't exactly something that came naturally to me, given the way I'd lived up until now. In the sterile environment I'd come from, friendships were nonexistent, and being here, on my own, was like stepping onto a battlefield without armor.

I rehearsed scenarios in my head: bursting into the classroom with an enthusiastic greeting or maybe sliding a note to someone with my contact info. Both felt ridiculous, but practice was supposed to make things easier, right?

Well, now that I was here, sitting at my designated seat near the window—one of the best spots in the room, at least by high school standards—I had second thoughts. Looking around, the classroom was still only half full. Some students were studying the materials in front of them, others were chatting with friends or familiar faces. It hit me that maybe this whole "friendship" thing wasn't for me. But then again, how could I say that without giving it a shot? It wouldn't be fair to judge before trying.

I scanned the room, sizing up my potential classmates. The first person who caught my attention was none other than the girl from the bus—the one who had bravely stood up to blondie. She was moving around the classroom, her energy practically radiating off her in waves. There was something bubbly about her, a warmth that seemed to draw people in. She was undoubtedly going to be a central figure in the class.

I overheard someone mention her name: Kushida Kikyō. Her name intrigued me. The kanji for Kikyō meant "Chinese bellflower," and somehow, it suited her. She was bright, cheerful, and her presence rang through the room, much like the sound of a bell. Her physical appearance matched the name too—vibrant, noticeable, almost like a flower in full bloom.

But with that came another, less savory side. Some of the boys were clearly paying more attention to her than was appropriate, casting lingering glances in her direction. Whether she was oblivious to it or simply ignoring them, I couldn't tell.

While she seemed like a great candidate for a first friend, something about her made me hesitate. She was *everyone's* friend, and being around her would draw attention—attention I didn't want or need. That would be too much trouble, and trouble was exactly what I wanted to avoid.

Maybe, after all, making friends wasn't as straightforward as it seemed.

I shifted my attention to another classmate, this time a boy with blonde hair and brown eyes. He seemed to be at the center of attention, though for a different reason than Kushida. While she attracted the admiration of the guys, this boy had drawn the interest of several girls, their glances and hushed whispers making it clear that he was quite popular. Not surprising, given his good looks and the easygoing smile he wore.

It didn't take long for me to catch his name from a conversation nearby—Hirata Yōsuke. His name, like Kushida's, was interesting. The kanji for *Yō* meant "ocean," and *suke* could be translated as "herald" or "forerunner." Fitting for someone who seemed to lead social circles with ease, almost like a gentle wave pulling everyone into his orbit.

But much like with Kushida, I could tell that Hirata wasn't an ideal choice for a first friend. He gave off the same vibe—friendly with everyone, too approachable. Getting close to him would mean being sucked into a large group, possibly even becoming a part of the social spotlight, and that wasn't something I wanted. I wasn't here to get caught up in the popular crowd or be dragged into unnecessary drama.

So, for now, I mentally scratched him off the list too. I needed someone more low-key, someone who wouldn't bring too much attention my way. Blending in was still the goal, and sticking close to Hirata or Kushida would achieve the opposite.

"Oh, it's you," came a sharp voice from beside me. I groaned inwardly. Of all the people who could've ended up next to me, it had to be her—the raven-haired girl from the bus. Sometimes coincidences are just cruel. She dropped into the desk beside mine, her presence a dark cloud already.

"That's a pretty heavy sigh for someone who hasn't even started the semester yet," she remarked dryly. "I feel like sighing after seeing you again."

Great. So we're both thrilled.

Trying to make the best of the situation, I introduced myself. "I'm Ayanokōji Kiyotaka," I said, skipping the formalities. There was no point in pretending this was a pleasant encounter. She didn't even bother to look at me, completely ignoring my attempt to break the ice.

Well, this was going smoothly.

"And your name?" I asked, ignoring the fact that she'd just iced me out.

She clicked her tongue in irritation before responding in the same curt tone, "Do you mind if I reject your greeting?"

Wow. First, she shot down my excuse on the bus, and now she wasn't even interested in introductions. That's two strikes, Raven Girl.

"Alright then," I said, glancing at the nameplate on her desk. *Horikita Suzune*. Her name was made of two kanji—Suzu for "bell" and Ne for "sound." Fitting, in an ironic way, considering how she wasn't exactly ringing with friendliness.

"So, Horikita," I continued, ignoring her earlier rejection, "since you won't tell me your name, I'll just call you Reivun gāru—Raven Girl. Sound good?"

Her eyes narrowed at me, clearly unamused. "Call me whatever you want. Just don't expect me to entertain pointless conversation."

Well, that was easier than I expected. It was clear she had zero interest in talking to me, or anyone else for that matter. Honestly, that was fine by me. I wasn't exactly here to make friends, and if she was going to keep to herself, then this arrangement might work out better than I'd thought.

"Works for me, Raven Girl," I replied, leaning back in my seat.

Horikita didn't say anything in return. She just turned her focus to the materials on her desk, as if I wasn't even worth acknowledging anymore. And so, an unspoken agreement was born: we'd coexist in silence, bothering each other as little as possible.

That was a deal I could live with.