Charisma

After eating and drinking his fill, Satoru returned home, his steps slow and deliberate as if savoring the calm after a long day.

He opened the door to his modest seventh-floor apartment and let out a contented sigh.

The simple setup—complete with a kitchen, bathroom, and living room—wasn't much, but it was his own little sanctuary.

He dropped his bag onto the floor, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room, and flopped onto his bed, feeling the mattress sink beneath him.

For a moment, he lay there, arms stretched out, eyes closed, reveling in the comfort that wrapped around him like a warm embrace.

The rent, at 700 yuan a month excluding utilities, was steep for someone with only a part-time job, and Satoru knew he couldn't keep this up for long.

He needed to find something that paid more, something that would allow him to breathe a little easier each month.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he tried to let his body relax, to soak in the temporary relief his bed offered.

Just as he began to drift into a light doze, his phone screen lit up with a sudden brightness that pierced the darkness behind his eyelids.

His brow furrowed as he reached for it, blinking away the drowsiness. The screen displayed a notification of a bank deposit—1,500 yuan.

Satoru's eyes widened in surprise, his mind quickly shifting from his earlier worries to this unexpected windfall.

Before he could fully process the information, his phone began to ring, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room.

He glanced at the screen and saw "Uncle Rodger" displayed in bold letters.

With a small smile, Satoru sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and answered the call.

"Hello, Uncle Rodger," he greeted, his voice warm and respectful, a subtle shift from his usual tone that indicated how much he cared for the caller.

"Ah, Satoru, it's the beginning of the month, isn't it? I almost forgot to send your allowance. Did you get the money I just transferred?" Uncle Rodger's voice was deep and steady, a comforting presence that always seemed to ease Satoru's worries.

Satoru glanced at the screen again, confirming the deposit.

"Yes, I got it, Uncle Rodger. But isn't 1,500 yuan a bit too much? I mean, I have a part-time job now..." he trailed off, scratching the back of his head as he spoke, unsure if he should be questioning the generosity.

"Too much? Nonsense," Uncle Rodger's tone was firm, a gentle reprimand.

"It's always been this amount. Just focus on your studies for now, don't stress about money. Getting into DxD University shows you have the potential I've always believed in."

Satoru felt a lump form in his throat, a mixture of gratitude and the weight of responsibility.

"Well... I just don't want to be a burden," he murmured, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the bedspread, a nervous habit he'd picked up over the years.

"You're not a burden, Satoru," Uncle Rodger insisted, his voice softening slightly.

"I know you want to help, but the best thing you can do now is focus on your education. You can repay me later by doing well and making something of yourself."

Satoru nodded, even though Uncle Rodger couldn't see him. "I definitely will," he promised, his voice firmer now, determination settling in his chest.

"Good. That's what I like to hear," Uncle Rodger replied with a chuckle. "Alright, I've got to get back to work. Talk to you soon."

"Okay, take care," Satoru said, waiting until the line went dead before slowly lowering the phone, a small smile lingering on his lips.

He sat there for a moment, lost in thought.

Uncle Rodger—Rodger G. Davidson—had been a constant in his life since he was a child, the one who had taken him in from the orphanage and given him a chance at a better life.

Though the Davidsons were often away on business, their support had never wavered.

He remembered the early days when he would return to the orphanage after school, the other kids teasing him about his "rich uncle," but he never minded. To him, Uncle Rodger and his wife were more than benefactors; they were his family.

After hanging up, Satoru lay back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

His mind was a whirl of thoughts, the weight of the day pressing on him despite his earlier rest.

He felt restless, unable to drift back into the peaceful slumber he craved.

"System," he whispered softly into the quiet room. In response, a translucent blue screen appeared in front of his eyes, hovering in mid-air like something out of a video game.

This panel had first appeared when he was in middle school.

At the time, he had thought it was just a vivid dream.

But after numerous checks and experiments, he accepted it as a bizarre reality.

He even tried showing it to others, but, as he had suspected, no one else could see it but him.

He had initially thought he was destined for greatness, like some protagonist in a fantasy novel. However, the panel proved to be more of a curiosity than a boon.

Apart from displaying user information, all other sections remained frustratingly blank or locked.

The only part that seemed active was the "User Info" section, which offered little of use.

Aside from normal stats, three numbers stood out, forming a strange triumvirate: an intelligence score far above average, a stamina score significantly below average, and a perplexing charisma score.

"Charisma: Black or White," he read aloud, still puzzled by the description.

There was a yin-yang symbol next to the charisma rating, but unlike the traditional symbol, there were no dots of the opposite color in the center of each swirl.

Satoru had his own theory—maybe it meant he was average-looking, neither handsome nor ugly, just somewhere in the middle.

He didn't dwell on the charisma score too much, though. To him, romance seemed like a distant concept, something not meant for him.

Besides, he managed his social interactions just fine, and that was good enough.

"Come to think of it... I still haven't written down the idea I had yesterday," Satoru suddenly remembered, a spark of inspiration lighting up his tired eyes.

Motivated by this thought, he sat up from the bed, stretching a little before moving over to his desk.

The wooden chair creaked under his weight as he settled into it.

He powered on his computer, the faint hum of the machine filling the quiet room, and navigated to an icon shaped like a tomato on his desktop.

A few quick clicks brought him to the writer's creation page.

Satoru had always had a mind overflowing with ideas—fantastical, outlandish, and everything in between.

It was this overflow that had led him to start writing a novel.

It wasn't published yet; it remained a personal project, a secret world that existed only on his hard drive.

Even so, he had already amassed nearly a hundred thousand words of drafts, all stored neatly in folders, each waiting for their moment to come alive.

Tonight, he decided, would be the night he finally shared a piece of his world with others.

He would finish his writing session and then release a few chapters to test the waters, to see if anyone else would find his stories as captivating as he did.

Hours slipped by like grains of sand in an hourglass, the steady clatter of the keyboard the only sound breaking the silence.

Before he knew it, it was already ten o'clock in the evening. Satoru leaned back, his fingers sore but his heart light.

He had completed his writing goal for the night, and with a deep breath, he clicked the "publish" button. His novel was live.

Yet, as the minutes ticked by, the initial excitement began to wane.

The novel, freshly published, seemed to have little impact.

It was as if it had been swallowed by the vast ocean of the internet, its ripples barely noticeable amidst the countless other stories.

No comments, no likes, no immediate feedback—just a deafening silence.

Satoru wasn't surprised by this outcome, though.

He had always been a realist, grounded in his expectations. He knew that success in writing was not something that came overnight.

It required a deep foundation in literature, an innovative and engaging premise, and most importantly, relentless effort and patience.

It was a gradual process, a slow build that only a few had the fortitude to see through.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the reality settle in without disappointment. "If it's meant to be, it'll shine eventually," he thought to himself.

And if it didn't, well, he was content just creating, just letting his passion guide him.

Writing for the love of it—wasn't that a form of success too?

Feeling the weight of the day catching up with him, Satoru yawned and turned off the computer, the screen fading to black as he set his phone alarm for the next day.

The moon hung high in the sky, a silvery disc that illuminated the night with its gentle glow, accompanied by a tapestry of stars.

Together, they cast a soft light over the city, a comforting presence for those who had yet to find their way home.

The cool night air drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of fresh dew and the distant hum of the city settling down.

To Satoru, there were moments when the city's night felt like a delicate girl, the playful evening breeze her lullaby, sung softly at the window to coax every grown child into a peaceful sleep.

This quiet, this tranquility, reminded him of the title of his novel—"When the Star Flowers Bloom Brightest."

It was a story that spoke to these silent moments, to the beauty found in the calm and the quiet, when the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Tonight, there were no sudden bursts of inspiration to disturb him, no restless thoughts pulling him back to his desk.

He could finally let go, drift off, and sink into a dreamless sleep, where peace awaited him like an old friend.

"Goodnight, stranger," he whispered to the darkness, a faint smile on his lips as he closed his eyes, letting the gentle rhythm of the city's lullaby carry him away.