The fate of the entire class—those currently putting their lives on the line on the battlefields of the Demon Realm—is now wrapped within my flesh.
Every injury inflicted upon this body is transmitted, intact, to the other side. A small papercut on my finger here on Earth will slice open their skin over there. Even a mere stomach cramp from poor digestion is enough to make humanity's vanguard across the world double over, clutching their bellies, helpless before the enemy.
But this power comes with a price. A System Panel hovers before my eyes, waiting for me to complete mundane tasks to pump raw power directly into their muscles. And the ultimate rule: as long as my chest still heaves with breath, the Grim Reaper has absolutely no right to strike any of their names from the list of the living.
Things didn't start easily, right before summer break of eleventh grade.
During recess, I dragged my feet looking for the shoe that had been hidden. The sharp pain in my side still throbbed—the aftershock of Tung's punch. He had dragged me out for entertainment in the middle of the schoolyard, right in front of countless indifferent eyes. I used to fight back, used to struggle, but now, there was only a numbing resignation.
I found it in the restroom at the end of the hall. The shoe Mom had given me for my birthday lay upturned in the toilet bowl, submerged in yellow filth.
My ten fingers clenched tight, then released in hopelessness. A sigh slipped through my gritted teeth. I bent down to pick it up. Dirty water dripped onto the tiled floor; the stench shot straight up my nose, making my stomach spasm. I wanted to retch, but my empty stomach—having been robbed of breakfast money—had nothing left to expel.
Under the faucet, I tried to scrub away the grime clinging to the fabric. My eyes were glued to the murky water swirling down the drain. My vision blurred. Water flowed over my hands, while hot, salty tears rolled down my cheeks.
Without thinking, I swung my arm and hurled the shoe against the corner of the wall.
A heavy splat rang out. Dirty water splattered onto the white tiled wall, leaving behind dark, runny streaks. The shoe lay there, distorted and twisted on the wet floor. I stood frozen, staring at the "corpse" of my birthday gift, a choked sob rising in my throat, impossible to suppress.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The school drum hammered down, tearing through the silence of the restroom. The sound jerked me back to cruel reality. I hurriedly wiped away the stream of tears, stuffed the sodden shoe into a hidden corner behind the trash can, and buried my head as I ran back to class.
The closer I got to the classroom, the louder the noise pounded against my eardrums. The moment I stepped through the door frame, the atmosphere seemed to sag. Dozens of pairs of eyes locked onto me—scrutinizing, mocking, waiting for a good show.
Out of habit, I lowered my head, shrinking into myself, trying to shuffle quickly to my seat like a shadow.
Suddenly, a blinding purple light slapped me right in the face. My eyes burned as if someone had thrown hot sand into them. instinctively, I threw my hands up to shield my eyes, a sharp pain shooting through my sockets.
I gritted my teeth, rubbing my eyes while cursing silently in my head: "What kind of sick prank is Tung pulling now?"
But no laughter echoed in response. The space fell into absolute silence.
I slowly peeled my eyes open, peering through the gaps between my fingers. The classroom was empty.
Backpacks still sat on desks, some notebooks lay open mid-page, a spilled water bottle dripped onto the floor drop by drop. But the people had evaporated completely. No Tung, no classmates, no one at all.
Cold sweat broke out, streaming down my spine. I spun around, frantically searching for a sign of life. At the end of the hallway, the homeroom teacher was sauntering over, laptop tucked under his arm, calm as if preparing to teach Math class.
I screamed, scrambling toward him like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
And then, the real hell began.
A massive investigation exploded that very night. Then, I became the number one suspect in the most mysterious disappearance case in history.
The media tore into it like starving vultures. My face was plastered on the front page of every newspaper, blown up on news broadcasts, spreading across every corner of social media. Millions of strangers competed to dissect and judge me, turning me into the centerpiece of the wildest conspiracy theories.
"GIVE ME BACK MY CHILD!"
The scream ripped through the air, sharp as a razor.
The police station doors had just opened, and I was immediately drowned by a chaotic sea of people. Camera flashes blinked incessantly, blinding me, while dozens of microphones were thrust into my face like spearheads.
The police were forced to release me. After forty-eight hours of continuous interrogation, they found absolutely no evidence to charge me. Security cameras were broken, no strange fingerprints, no motive.
Suddenly, the police barricade was breached. An older woman broke through the arms trying to hold her back. She collapsed right in front of the tips of my shoes. Two thin, trembling hands clutched tight to my pant leg, squeezing so hard her fingernails dug into my flesh through the fabric.
"Young man... please..." Her voice shattered, lost in sobs. "Give Lan back to me... I beg you..."
My nose stung. I bit my lip until it bled, trying to swallow the bitter lump of bile back down my throat. The resentment compressed in my chest for days exploded like a time bomb.
I screamed, my voice hoarse and trembling:
"What can a sixteen-year-old kid do? Where do you think I hid over forty people? In my pockets? I'm a victim too!"
My scream had barely ended when a hard object tore through the wind toward me.
Thwack!
Stars exploded in the corner of my right eye. A brain-freezing pain shot straight down to my neck, making me stagger. Warm blood immediately gushed out, flowing over my eyelid, staining my blurry vision red. Goosebumps rose all over my body—a primal reflex to fear and pain.
Through the veil of tears mixed with blood, I saw a pot-bellied man wearing a stained, yellowing white tank top. His right hand clutched a liquor bottle, his left scooped up a handful of rocks, frantically throwing more in my direction.
"Beat him to death!"
The officers rushed in to pin him to the ground, but it was too late. Like a spark falling into a fuel depot, his action ignited the mob's fury. Sharp rocks began to whiz through the air like rain.
I knew I couldn't run in time. Instinct told me to find cover, but reason screamed a different command.
I dropped to my knees, wrapping my arms around my head, using my skinny back as a human shield to cover the woman still kneeling on the ground. She looked up, her red-rimmed eyes wide, staring at me, stunned into silence. The first rocks began to thud against my back.
BANG!
A deafening shot tore through the chaotic atmosphere. The acrid smell of gunpowder assaulted my nose. The mob, previously burning with momentum, suddenly froze, silent as if the power had been cut. Those who were aggressive just moments ago now looked around nervously; a few shadows began to slip quickly into the crowd to flee.
The pain from my eye socket had turned into numbness. Blood ran down, soaking a patch of my white shirt, sticky and metallic. The world before my eyes began to wobble, spinning like a broken film reel.
"Medic! Call an ambulance, now!"
The police officer's shout sounded distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well. They hoisted me up by my armpits, dragging me toward the specialized vehicle. My legs turned to jelly, no longer feeling the ground.
In my daze, I felt another trembling hand supporting my arm. It was that woman. Panicked, she helped the police push me into the back seat.
The car door slammed shut. Through the thick glass, the last image I saw before darkness swallowed everything was her distraught face, eyes wide watching the car roll away, no longer filled with resentment, but only fear and utter remorse.
My heavy left eyelid struggled to peel open.
A strange, milky-white ceiling hit my solitary line of sight. The pungent smell of antiseptic shot straight into my olfactory senses, cold and harsh. I was in a hospital. The right half of my face was numb, a thick layer of gauze completely covering my injured eye.
A weight pressed down on the back of my left hand. I glanced down.
It was Mom. Her head rested on the edge of the bed, her rough hand still gripping mine tight, knuckles white even in sleep. Since the day Dad died, this woman had used those thin shoulders to prop up the sky for our family. Her worn-out factory uniform was still on her body; the sour smell of sweat mixed with machine oil settled into every wrinkle by her eyes.
She was exhausted.
I gritted my teeth, flexing my core to sit up. Pain from the bruises on my back flared up as if someone were hammering my spine. I stifled a groan, slowly peeling the thin blanket covering me off. Every movement made my muscles protest in agony, but I ignored it. My hand trembling, I gently draped the blanket over Mom's shoulders, which were curled up from the cold.
The trial ended faster than I expected.
With dozens of videos from the press and reports from the police, those people had no way to deny it. They chose to pay a massive settlement in exchange for their freedom. Mom agreed.
That money was enough for her to throw that oil-stained factory uniform into the trash. She returned to office work, to a desk job that was physically lighter. Now, whenever she came home, her shirt no longer smelled of sour sweat, but carried the faint scent of paperwork and air conditioning. Seeing the color return to Mom's face, I felt a weight lift.
But the door to my room remained locked tight.
I imprisoned myself within four walls, cutting off all contact with the outside world. I feared crowds, feared noise, feared even the sunlight. Mom understood. She didn't pry the door open, didn't interrogate me. She simply, silently respected the boundary of silence her scarred son had drawn.
My social anxiety didn't improve; it was only festering in the dark.
I buried my head in online games like an addict, trying to use the virtual world to fill the emptiness. But every time I glanced at the date on my phone screen, my stomach knotted. The first day of school was crawling closer like a hanging death sentence. Just the thought of having to step out the door, to endure those scrutinizing looks, made me nauseous.
So I chose to lie still. Eating haphazardly, sleeping fitfully, letting my body stick to the soft bed like a lump of dead weight.
Until this afternoon, that dull silence was torn apart.
A purple light—identical to the one that had swallowed the class years ago—suddenly flared up in the void. It didn't fade but coalesced into a holographic screen hovering in mid-air, blocking my lethargic line of sight. Red text flashed, cold and ruthless:
[SYSTEM WARNING] Host Condition: Critical Weakness. Cause: Severe lack of exercise and nutrition. EFFECT ACTIVATED: All Hero Party stats reduced by 30%.