He was dreaming.
The room he was in was small, cramped, with mice skittering across the cobblestone floor, the sound of rushing wind outside, the smell of musk inside.
Ariyama Saato, wearing an attire fit for a homeless street beggar, took one step forward, then fell through the floor, through the ground, through reality.
Dreaming of falling through the world, his breath non-existent and his physical form flickering like a dying light bulb, flaking away like old, dried-up paint.
And yet, he was weightless.
Without a worry in the world.
At this moment, as nothing more than a speck of dust in a roaring sandstorm, a drop of water in the vast ocean, Ariyama was perfectly calm.
Not that he could've been anything but that, as the soft ringing in his ears kept his brain active, and the weightlessness of his body made him feel like passing through a soft mattress, over and over.
He was calm, but not because there was an absence of panic. Rather, that panic was washed away from him, not removed, just locked up. Just out of reach of his mental fingers grasping at the lock.
Most people may think an absence of panic is good, which it is, but when that aspect of your human nature was trapped and caged in a spot of reality, just out of reach, it made you feel empty.
And that was just how Ariyama felt. Empty. Like a slice of his soul had been lopped off and thrown away.
"Give it to me…"
His voice sounded distant, even though it was his own, emanating from his own vocal chords. It was like being attached to a speaker and having your words transmitted back to you from various distant points. Still, it made him feel emptier. More and more of his own being was turning on him, ripping free from their confines of his physical body.
Ariyama began to scream.
Something happened, and that portion of his soul, which had withheld his panic for so long finally reattached. But at that moment, Ariyama wished it had stayed away from him forever more.
The panic seized his heart like a vice, crushing it like massive fists mashing it into paste. His breathing, which had also made its return, came out in wretched heaves of breath, his dry wheezing the only sound he could hear now, as the wind rushed in to fill his ears with an assault of soul.
As he was falling endlessly, he saw millions upon millions of golden coins falling alongside him. Each one boasted a face of a person he knew, their features locked into a look of despair, towards him.
Then came his mother's voice, seething with silent fury, followed by his father's, bellowing with dramatic rage.
"You disappoint me. You are nothing without what your father gave you. You are no son of mine."
"You disappoint me. You are nothing without what I gave you. You are no son of mine!"
Finally, Ariyama Saato could hear his own screaming. It was a terrible sound, a cry of pure exaltation and fear from a ruined throat, stretching his vocal chords till they snapped and thrashed each other.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeit–
Suddenly, there was a flash - a blinding flash - of light. Of light that filled Ariyama's vision and cascaded him with heat. A nice heat, not like a shower of bubbling magma, but not unlike a mother's embrace. The warmth raced through his veins, heating his skin and making his frozen features finally collapse into a vague smile on his face.
And finally, as the fear of death had gripped his heart and threatened to divide his consciousness into millions of disjointed pieces, Ariyama Saato finally woke up.
His brain hadn't fully turned on yet, but he still sat up, the futon pulled up to his chin now falling to pool over his waist. Dropping his head to try and flatten his wild bed head, Ariyama let out a yawn. It felt good to release his pent-up stiffness in that single action.
To add to the effectiveness, Ariyama stretched his arms high above his head, arching his back as he did so, feeling his vertebrae pop satisfyingly.
Then, finally crawling out from under his futon, his head still spinning slightly, Ariyama got to his feet.
His room in the Ariyama household was a bespoke thing. The house itself was styled like a gothic mansion, with lots of angular and pointed architecture, circular windows and highly-intricate designs etched into the pillars outside.
Ariyama's father was a wealthy man, mainly thanks to his less-than-legal business practices from before Ariyama was born, seventeen years prior.
Ariyama wasn't too sure of the process Father had gone through, but he knew that at the very least, his old man had thrown quite a few people under the bus in order to amass his wealth.
It was a weird subject for him.
On the one hand, Ariyama felt a little guilty on behalf of all those people who'd lost all their reputation or credibility due to the machinations of Ariyama Gotou. But on the other hand, he knew deep down that there really wasn't any need to be sympathetic to those people. First off, they were likely all sleazy businessmen too, because he didn't believe his father was the type of person to just sabotage any random dude. And second, what could he do now? His father was off in some foreign place, probably amassing even more wealth through more underhanded means. And while he was doing that, Ariyama was still at home with his mother, Harumi, and his pet turtle, Iggy, and going to school, spending time with friends, living his life…
It wasn't as if he was in any state to try and stop his father, even if it was the 'right' thing to do. Did that make him selfish? Yeah, it probably did. But nonetheless, Ariyama wasn't a complete idiot, so he was well aware that an average seventeen-year-old who likes to workout and play basketball was no match for a business tycoon, like his father.
He decided that was enough contemplation on the issue. If his ideals had already been set in stone, what need was there to continue preaching them, to himself no less.
Instead, Ariyama started off with his usual morning routine, which began with a quick ten-minute exercise. He did his push-ups, squats, sit-ups, and before he knew it, his barely-clothed body was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, collecting in excess over his brow and his collar. Not a half-bad way to wake yourself up after a night of plaguing nightmares.
With an exhausted yawn, Ariyama dropped to his butt, crossing his legs and leaning back, his palms pressing into the cold, hard floorboards. His breath was still coming out quick and sharp, so he let his body cool down and his breathing reset, before sitting back up and staring across his room at the mirror on the wall.
His room was, as he said, a bespoke thing. An oddity. An irregularity, even. Even though the rest of his house was all gothic and dark, his room only showcased those features with the dark walls, gray wooden floorboards, and giant circular window that took up nearly the whole wall opposite the door. Everything else - which was funnily enough, all the things he himself had added to the room - showed off a more typical Japanese-styled house. From the futon laying out from the left wall, to the prayer shrine opposite that, to even the basic, slightly-cracked mirror that Ariyama was facing right now. Next to the mirror was a wardrobe on the right and a small cabinet on the left.
That cabinet. Ariyama had never been able to open it, ever since his family moved to this house as an upgrade from their old one, over a decade ago. Whenever he'd asked his father, the man had said that it was to be locked for a very important reason, and made Ariyama promise to not attempt any funny business.
Ariyama had come up with a genius plan to throw the cabinet down the stairs from the second floor a couple years back, but had found the cabinet bolted to the floor with fierce-looking metal bolts, which had locked it in place and left it immovable for the rest of its days. Not to mention the fact there was a big golden lock on its front, but Ariyama had failed to locate a key to use. If anything, he assumed his father kept it on him, as it was likely the only way to unlock the secrets of his mysterious chest.
But if he'd wanted Ariyama to stop snooping around his stuff, why had Father let him have this room, on the second floor, on the left at the very end of the hallway?
Once again, more useless thoughts. His father would go out to travel for months on end, usually not even returning until it was an important event, like Christmas or a birthday. But even then, there had been years where his 'work' had left him unable to return home in time for Ariyama's birthday. So as a lame excuse of a compromise, he had sent a single card, which read 'Happy Birthday, my son'. That was it. He was his father after all, so Ariyama couldn't ever truly 'hate' him, but as the months and years passed on, and his mother became more and more distant, it made Ariyama realize just how little his father cared for his family.
At first, Ariyama thought the man did all of these less-than-legal activities for the benefit of the family, but now he had finally realized the truth: that bastard had only ever done it for himself. As to why Mother had even married him and gotten pregnant with his kid, Ariyama couldn't even begin to guess.
Grumbling to himself, Ariyama gave his jaw a sharp tap with his fist, as if to ward away all those bad thoughts. He needed to get dressed, eat, and head to school before his mother scolded him in that passive aggressive way he hated so much.
Filled with a new drive, he returned his attention to the mirror, vaguely making out his own face in its dusty surface. His black hair was still a little on the messy side, as it always was, with his pale skin making him look a little scary. Apparently, his pale skin was some condition he got during birth, but no research he did led him to the truth. Just another thing his parents wouldn't tell him. It was almost funny, the way that summed up most of his life.
'Never getting the answers he was searching for'.
Still, banishing the thought from his mind, Ariyama fixed his gaze to meet his own onyx black eyes from the perspective of the mirror, his pale skin almost ghostly in its reflection.
"Geez, what a mess…"
Ariyama mumbled to himself as he rose to his feet once again. Looking down at his sparse attire of just a pair of shorts and a wrinkled vest, he really wondered if he could pass for a homeless person if he dirtied himself up and sat out on the street. That was a thought that a 'rich kid' likely never conjured, but hey, Ariyama never used the money at his disposal anyways, always settling for the most reliable option, which just so happened to be the cheaper one.
He quickly made his way out of the bedroom, crossing the narrow hallway into the door opposite his bedroom; into the bathroom. The room inside was coated in bright white tiles which was always a flashbang compared to the dark and gloominess of the rest of the house.
Not wanting to waste time, Ariyama quickly went about brushing his teeth and attempting to fix his bush of hair. After a lot of trial and error, he gave up and settled with just the brushing. He finished up, gave his face a wash, then headed back to his bedroom. Inside, he went straight to his wardrobe. Even though he had the funds to accumulate an array of fancy clothes, he really didn't want to stand out, and instead he selected the most basic things to wear on a regular basis. That was one of the reasons why he was so glad his school, Sasura Academy, had a strict uniform rule.
Black trousers, a crisp white shirt, a button-up blue blazer with silver cufflinks and buttons, basic black shoes and a neat black tie to finish the outfit.
Perfect and equal for everyone, save for those people who left their ties loose or their shirts untucked, but Ariyama was nothing if not tidy, so a simple dress code wasn't too taxing on him. And so, he got dressed quickly, careful to do up his tie the proper way he'd been taught, one of the only skills his father had given him through his whole life.
Now cleaned and dressed, Ariyama made his way to the stairs at the end of the hallway, carefully tiptoeing past his parent's bedroom. His school opened at 7:00, early enough for morning clubs, and the first class started at 8:30.
Right now, the clock over the landing read 7:05 Ariyama hoped his mother was still asleep, in order for him to eat a quick breakfast and bolt out the door ASAP, yes.
But also because he knew how his mother acted.
He guessed time away from her husband had made her more… jaded, to say the least. So when she gave him a hard time and raised her voice more and more often, Ariyama knew to hammer that thought into his mind, again and again.
No, it didn't make it right for her to be so aggressive all the time, but it sure as hell made Ariyama more durable against her verbal onslaughts, thanks to that knowledge.
So, he quietly made his way downstairs, then into the kitchen. It was behind a counter that connected it to the living room, which itself led out into the main hallway where the front door was. The kitchen had all the essentials, from cutting boards to a multitude of knives and cutlery, to cupboards stuffed with food and a fridge with tons and tons of beverages and frozen snacks.
Ariyama knew he should probably get a move on if was to get to school in time, so he quickly slapped together a half-assed breakfast, consisting of jam on soft toast, a bowl of porridge with a drizzle of honey, and a glass of cool milk. Most of the meals he put together himself were more Western than anything, but if it filled him up, he wasn't too vexed at whatever it was, really.
Scarfing down his meal, guzzling on his milk, Ariyama checked his phone for any messages from the school or from friends. In his inbox, he found the usual notices from the school, announcing new clubs and workshops for students to sign up for, or messages from his teachers detailing his test scores. They were all fairly average, if a bit above average. It really depended on the subject and how interested Ariyama was in it.
If he wasn't interested in it, why bother getting a good result? Sure, it made the teacher of that subject get all pissy at him, but if they all demanded respect from him that they didn't earn, like all teachers did, then Ariyama would just reject them and give them even less respect than usual.
Now that his breakfast was all gone, Ariyama quickly deposited the bowl, plate and glass into the sink before running them over with a quick bit of water.
He checked the time again; this time is read 7:19
Had he really needed to rush so much so quickly? He had plenty of extra time, so what use was there to rush?
Making sure he had all the essentials packed in his bag, then strode across the room and entered the door on the left wall. Its hinges wheezed across the floor, the door was pushed open, Ariyama stepped inside.
The room was fairly large, with no windows save for the small gap high up on the wall opposite him.
The rest of the room was taken up by equipment.
All sorts of equipment, from a punching bag that hung off the ceiling by a chain, to a row of mannequins wearing flimsy body armor, to a rack of all different types of wooden swords and other non-lethal weaponry.
This was Ariyama's training room.
His father never wanted this extension to the house to be made, but a young Ariyama had managed to convince him, even if he was quaking in his shoes as he tried. After that, his father never liked him going in here at all, nor did his mother.
But his father was gone now, and likely for the next good while, and his mother was asleep.
Ariyama had found that this was the best time to get a bit of training in, to ensure he didn't get an earful from his mother each time.
Stretching his muscles, feeling his vertebrae pop in his back again, Ariyama entered the room and quickly went about picking up a long wooden sword from the rack. It had a rectangular-shaped hilt and its blade ended at a right-angle triangle shape.
Taking some space off to one side of the room, standing in a guarded stance before one of the training mannequins, Ariyama Saato breathed.
Just as he had taught himself to do for the past five years.
A slight bend in his knees, his elbows kept close to guard his ribs, his hands gripping the smooth wood of the handle, the blade pointed up and out, set at a diagonal angle.
The mannequin before him was less than imposing, but it had been manufactured to properly imitate the structure of a medium-build, adult man's body.
Ariyama cast just a glance over the unnecessary details etched into the dummy, from the slight mold of abs, to the raised pecs, and the shape of the Adam's apple in its throat. He felt sick.
Even when his father had agreed to build the extension – the one time in which Ariyama had actually wanted to use his family's fortune for something – he refused to go with what Ariyama had called 'a simplistic approach'.
"You are of the Ariyama family. Now, you shall allow nothing but the best of quality".
What followed was a painstaking two weeks of work done by some manufacturer paid by his father, the finished designs for the mannequins being way more detailed than Ariyama had ever wanted.
After that, Ariyama never used his family's money for anything. The one time he wanted something for himself, his father went out of the way to make it overly-complicated.
Not to mention all those poor families in Junou, struggling while they were spending their money like it was infinite.
At first, he had thought it was just that his father had wanted to spoil him, making sure to produce the best quality items for his son. But it quickly became apparent that all he was doing was keeping his own self-esteem high. All that money, and he needed to use it to make everything as perfect as possible.
What better way to figuratively laugh in the faces of all the people he'd wronged in order to gain his wealth?
Flexing the muscles in his jaw in fury, Ariyama steadied himself again with a breath, leveling the point of the wood sword with the neck of the mannequin.
And with one sharp inhale, he shifted forward, the tip spearing the dummy in the throat. Ariyama instantly visualized the dummy being alive and swinging a similar sword, arcing right for his head.
He ducked the invisible swing and parried with a slash to the torso, then a left step and a cut to the face.
He moved again, and again, cutting and ducking and slashing and dodging, feeling the impact of wood on rubber through his fingers and hands.
And he kept going, he wouldn't stop. Never.
Gasping, his face slick with sweat, Ariyama finally fell to his knees, the sword clattering out of his hands.
"Too… too much. I pushed myself too far again…"
He always did that, after all.
That was even the reason this room was made in the first place.
Ariyama had thought that, if he couldn't make his own path in school, due to his notoriety of being nothing more than 'daddy's money', he'd do it forcefully.
None of the school's clubs had worked out for him, so he had thought the best course of action was to do it at home. Hence him getting his father to build this extension, all for himself.
He had once thought of a career in something physical, like a gym trainer or martial arts instructor. But like most things in his life, Ariyama Saato just couldn't find the affinity required to focus on such things.
But, at the very least, this room had kept him relatively fit and refined for the last five years. He didn't do any sports or attend any clubs, so this was the only thing keeping him from becoming an unhealthy recluse.
Ariyama took a moment to stand, and dried his damp face with a towel he always kept close by. He left the sword in his original spot on the rack, then swiftly exited the room and reentered the living room.
Looking at the time, Ariyama nearly doubled over.
'7:58'
Had he seriously been training for that long? A dull rush of panic filling his veins, Ariyama made like the wind, collecting his school bag that he prepared the night before, and heading for the front door.
Unlocking the door and stepping out into the fresh morning air was like stepping into an ice cold bath after traversing a desert.
Ariyama just stood there for a moment, rolling his head back and breathing in the relaxing aroma of the air, the trees surrounding his house swaying slightly in the breeze, whatever leaves they had left rustling alongside them. It was early November, only a little into his second term in his second year at the highschool, so it was nice to be settled into his role as a senior to the first year students, not to mention the obvious refreshing morning air that always accompanied him to school each day.
Regardless, it was now nearly eight, so Ariyama steadied himself and began his long walk to his school.