June 3rd, 418 E.V.

  Summer break arrived like a tsunami, sweeping through the nation as Primary and Secondary Schools released their students from academic rigors. In Ocarina, where Heinemann Academy stood as the city's sole prestigious institution, the final bell's ring unleashed a flood of youths onto sun-drenched streets. For most, summer break manifested as a brilliant spectacle. The fervent flame of youth ignited the port city, their energy mingling with warm sunbeams to create an illusion of perfect contentment. Everywhere, life bloomed in vibrant display—students crowding thrift shops and amusement parks, filling libraries with whispered conversations, gathering for impromptu Thaumaturgy demonstrations. To those who saw only pleasure at the tunnel's end, Ocarina had transformed into paradise.

  But this happiness was nothing more than a carefully crafted ruse.

  Beneath the Tachyon Empire's gilded surface festered an abyss, its maw ravenous for those who dared peer too deeply into its depths. Those unfortunate enough to be swallowed by this darkness found no escape, their voices joining a chorus of the silenced. Here dwelt the bloodied remnants of the oppressed, the putrid roots of societal corruption—all of it sealed away in a chasm that seemed both impossible to flee and hopeless to illuminate.

  It was into this very abyss that a certain Irregular found himself staring right at.

  For others, June 3rd marked the first day of national paradise, where innocent flowers would bloom and drink deeply of life's pleasures. But for Acacia, it was something else entirely: his final day of freedom. His flower would not bloom with the others. Instead, it would wither, joining countless others that had wilted to make way for society's chosen blossoms. Tomorrow brought judgment, an exodus from his mortal coil—an execution that would finally set his soul adrift.

  And like everything else that vanished into the abyss, no one would know of his death.

  Rather, no one would care. The IPA had granted the Irregular three final days of freedom, though “freedom” rang hollow in its irony. Had he been a Thaumaturge, he would have returned home under constant surveillance, his every movement tracked by government personnel, death hovering over each potential infraction. But for an Irregular, Tachyonia Primaria held different provisions. Those on death row were deemed "no longer human"—a designation that carried layers of morbid meaning, but whose practical effect was perhaps crueler still: the government saw no need to monitor those they considered already dead in spirit.

  This allowed Acacia to receive three days of complete liberty—or what passed for liberty within carefully drawn boundaries. It used to be five days, but the officers taking care of his case pushed up the date to tomorrow for reasons they refused to directly elaborate. He couldn't leave Ocarina's borders. His legal rights had been stripped away like dead skin. Each night, he was expected to return to his cell an hour before midnight, with death as the price of tardiness. A bitter joke, really, that Irregulars enjoyed more freedom than regular subjects, if only in their final moments.

  Despite this, the boy stayed in his cell for the first two days.

  Three years he had lived in Ocarina, and in all that time, not once had he felt the warmth of belonging. How could he? He was an Irregular—a fundamental rejection of the Empire’s pristine vision. In a world of advanced technology and powerful reality benders, what use was there for someone who couldn't even grasp miracles? He had survived, yes, scraping by on blue-collar jobs and education, but survival wasn't living. And tomorrow… well, tomorrow waited with fangs open wide.

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  Perhaps that was why on the third day, he finally stepped outside—not from any change of heart, but simply to taste fresh air one last time before the end. The port borders were just beyond the marketplace; he hated traversing that densely packed space, but it offered the quickest route to his destination.

  He never realized how beautiful the city was, but today, his cursory glances soon turned to an introspective examination of the port town. Perhaps in the face of death, one notices more details of life than before.

  The sky was unbelievably beautiful. It was gems of blue proliferating the bright horizon in seemingly infinite numbers. Detached wisps of white cloud drifted like stray thoughts across that vast expanse. Staring upward made Acacia feel paradoxically small yet expansive as if he simultaneously understood everything and nothing about his place in this world.

  He glanced earthward.

  Perhaps a few years his junior, children darted through Ocarina's bustling marketplace streets. He watched them with a scholar's fascination, noting how freely they moved through the crowd. Their faces showed no trace of malice, their laughter untainted by hardship—at least in this moment. They simply existed, unburdened by the weight of their own existence.

  Further along, Heinemann students congregated in their pristine uniforms, marking territory among market stalls. They traded jokes and casual touches, their circle complete and closed—equals acknowledging equals. Acacia recognized them as the popular crowd, the ones who had never spared him a second glance in school halls. Their smiles seemed to radiate such pure light that it burned through corruption itself, and despite everything, he felt envy's thorns twist in his chest. Friendship. Such a simple thing to yearn for, yet he knew his hands would never truly clasp another's in honest companionship. Some dreams were better left as mere pipe dreams.

  "Hey, has anyone heard from ____ yet?" A girl's voice cut through the market noise—one of the popular ones. Acacia nearly choked on air. That name.

  "Nope. Bastard's not even at his house. Parents are busy too, so we can't ask them. Even the maids have no clue," came the rough reply from one of the boys.

  "I hope he's okay... it's not like him just to vanish—"

  "Not like him? Hah!" Another boy cut in, tone bearing confidence fueled by familiarity. "You should've seen him during last year's turf wars. He'd disappear for weeks, then show up to demolish everyone at Ithaca. Don't worry so much. He's probably out there right now, hunting for new competition. Worst case, we can always ask his little lackeys that follow him.”

  "I've been itching to test myself anyway. Those idiots he keeps around might be good practice. Can't believe how ___ has them wrapped around his finger!" replied the rough-voiced boy. "___ this, ___ that, 'save me ___!' Pathetic!"

  "Like anything bad could happen to ___. That's impossible, right? Though people were talking about assassination attempts since he is a noble..."

  Honestly, if you tried to kill ____ of all people, you’d have to be a pretty bad person down to the core. I’d have a lot of questions for whoever raised you.”

  He ran.

  He couldn't stop running. If he stopped, then the inferno of guilt behind him would surely devour his very soul. His feet carried him without direction or purpose, each step like landing on knives of flame. Every cell in his lethargic body screamed in protest, but he couldn't stop. Their casual words echoed in his mind, each syllable a fresh torment. None of it was real. They weren't really talking about him. He couldn't—wouldn't—accept it. But if he stopped, everything would be over. What they said wasn't real. They weren’t talking about He couldn't accept it.

  Look, Acacia really didn’t like Gio… but he didn’t him, right?

  That lie couldn't possibly be true. It wasn't that Acacia denied Gio's death—that reality was immutable. What his mind refused to accept was the possibility that he, Acacia, had killed Giovanni Narma. After all, wasn't delusion kinder than reality? Wasn't a comforting lie the better choice when truth threatened to break oneself? He desperately wanted to prove them wrong, to show the truth he believed in his bones. But he'd forgotten society's most fundamental law: truth was whatever those in power decided it should be. He knew this, deep in the marrow of his being, even as his conscious mind rebelled against it.

  Giovanni Narma was dead, and he was the prime suspect.

  It didn't matter that he had no memory of dealing the killing blow—society needed its scapegoat, and an Irregular made the perfect sacrifice. And so, in the eyes of his world, he became what they needed him to be: a cold-blooded murderer.

  His body's exhaustion finally granted him moments of cruel respite. Bitter irony led his stumbling feet to the very place where this fruitless tale had begun: Ocarina's gutters. In a dim alleyway, he slammed his palms against a dead-end wall, struggling to force air into burning lungs. Sweat drenched him from crown to sole, its pungent scent a reminder of his own unsightly desperation. Eventually, his legs gave way and he slid down, back pressed against rough stone. The wall became his bastion—the only protector left to an Irregular in a luckless world.

  No answer came. None ever would.