Weakness

According to Imperial Secondary School's regulations, if a student had a reason to skip out on Lunch Hall permission needed to be granted first by either the administration office or a teaching staff. Of course, a healer's pass was also accepted.

But, although there was an empty seat in the eating room dedicated to Year-6 students, none seemed to care. They were used to it by now. This seat's owner was Durman Bluhzy, after all, the arrogant asshole who thought himself too good to mingle with those he deemed beneath himself. And so, the eating room was filled with chatters, the sound of chewing and cutlery clattering faintly acting as background to the harmonious atmosphere.

A voice tinged with disappointment said suddenly, "…He's not here today either." But the voice was too soft. It was barely audible when louder ones spoke simultaneously.

Still, the boy seated across from her paused mid chewing. A thick, liquid-like yellow substance dripped from two pieces of bread barely holding together onto his hands, down his wrists, before ending their course on the marble floor. The boy raised his head slightly. His striking dyed-red hair that was cut into spikes all around caught the light as his gray eyes landed on the petite brunette, who snuck furtive glances at the empty seat like a lovelorn idiot.

The boy stared at her for a moment. His thick brows furrowed. Then, as if his face had never displayed an expression of "Who the fuck is this new dumbass?", he went back to ravenously devouring his homemade lunch. This time, however, he brought one of his legs down from the bench. The abrupt motion and the echoing thud that followed startled the students closest to him into choking on their food.

The brunette watched him with a questioning gaze, but he only continued to chew on his bread gloomily without meeting her gaze.

"Staring is impolite," the female student beside her reminded quietly.

The brunette froze. An awkward smile made its way to her gaunt face as she thanked the young lady.

A few minutes passed, and the harmonious atmosphere remained unchanged. 

Staring at the white grains of rice on her plate, the brunette couldn't shake off thoughts of the mysterious boy named Durman Bluhzy, much less the questions that arose as a result of the behavior of the slovenly boy sitting directly in front of her.

One might think such an attitude was simply in his nature–based on his mannerisms and how he sported their school uniform like some street delinquent while his face and knuckles were swollen and covered in bruises. Only, Larizzia had a feeling his mood must have plummeted upon hearing her accidental utterance of the words that had been plaguing her mind for the past few weeks.

Determined to not bring shame to her parents, Larizzia had applied herself to memorizing every single rule of her new school, which happened to include the requirement that all students ought to report to their respective eating rooms during lunch breaks. However, from what she'd noticed since she joined Imperial Secondary School a month ago, although the student named Durman Bluhzy attended all the classes they shared without fail, he never approached the Lunch Hall Building. He never even reported to the staff responsible for Year-6's eating room either, and no one seemed bothered at all.

Wasn't he breaking rules?

Shouldn't he be sanctioned?

Was he granted special permission for some reason?

…Did he never feel lonely?

But the only answer she received whenever she asked about him was, "Don't concern yourself with that." If not the exact same line, she'd get variations of it, that is, during the rare instances where all her questions about him weren't blatantly ignored.

While Larizzia's curiosity about Young Lord Durman rapidly skyrocketed, the spiky-haired boy finished stuffing his face like a famished beast, licked the melted cheese off his fingers, forearms and the plate—causing goosebumps to rise on the skins of his disgusted grademates—before storming out of the eating room like a hurricane. 

With his tattered backpack slung over his shoulder and both hands stuffed in his pockets, the boy grumbled under his breath, "Tch, as if that arrogant bastard deserves anyone worrying over his pampered ass…"

At the same time, hidden from sight under a flight of stairs, a lonely figure was curled into a ball, his face distorted in pain while his clothes were drenched in sweat.

Durman stubbornly clenched his molars as he forced himself to take slow breaths.

Being a member of the aristocracy, he learnt from a very young age that all of his weaknesses could be used against him and his family, so he made it a point to ensure no one would find out about them.

Conrad's weakness was his obsession with cute animals. 

Martel was basically a poison dealer. 

Kreven watched illegal slave fights to the death to entertain herself. 

Duncan had committed various transgressions (to not say crimes) that were covered up by his parents. 

So why the fuck did he, of all people, have to be allergic to fucking magic—the main energy source that ran this whole entire planet?! No, no, no. Better yet, how the hell could he have forgotten he was allergic to it in the first place?! 

Frankly speaking, Durman would have preferred it better if that boy had actually been a demonic magician, though the very first of his kind.

Because of the seriousness of this weakness, asking for help from outsiders was too risky to be a conceivable solution. After all, what was the use of being helped now if it meant he would be thrown into similar situations on a regular basis in the future. On purpose.

Fuck, didn't this mean that he was basically allergic to life?!

Durman scratched at his neck. His veins gradually turned black under his fair skin. 

He gasped for air as his throat alternated between closing up and opening at irregular intervals.

Durman shut his bloodshot eyes tightly. The feeling of his heart burning was both familiar and unfamiliar. 

How many years had it been since he'd last been through this? Seven years? Eight, maybe? 

What came next? 

The feeling of being boiled alive? …With his heart feeling like it was being roasted on an open fire?

Durman tried to move but realized his muscles had grown stiff.

Ah, it just dawned on him.

First came the full-body paralysis, then the loss of his voice along with his eyesight. His sense of smell would follow right after. In the end, it was not unlike being imprisoned in his own body without any of his senses active. Well, none of his senses except for that of touch—which would amplify to the point that even a light breeze would be unbearable. Sadistically enough, he would also be fully aware of the pain, with a perfectly functioning mind, once the burning sensation started.

Who the hell thought up this messed up allergy? They seriously had to have taken special, advanced courses in Torture Mastery!

Durman's body trembled uncontrollably. 

Was it possible to feel hot and cold at the same time?

He remembered, now. The last time it happened, he was bedridden for three months. His 7-year old body had been too frail to withstand the pain, so Healers were called to help alleviate some of it through a transfer. But it had still been too much for him to bear. His mind shut off and he remained in a comatose state after passing out a few hours after the reaction started.

Durman didn't remember what triggered it that first and last time, but now that he recalled how it felt and was currently in the midst of experiencing it again, he could only sincerely pray for that boy to be found in time.

As soon as Durman realized why his symptoms were vastly different from the ones described by that teacher, he decided to flee from what was left of that building. The cute junior was so exhausted he'd ended up falling asleep in his arms, thick layers of ash and dust serving as blanket to the both of them. 

Durman didn't have the heart to wake him up. His magic had also not fully stabilized yet and, honestly, Durman doubted it would improve without additional help. So, he bit his lips and used his last shred of strength to carry him outside–and Heavens knew how happy he was to realize the little cutie weighed like a feather. 

Durman made sure to choose a place he would be easy to spot from the upper floors. He then bundled him up from neck to toe in his own blazer and shirt to cover him up since his uniform had been turned to rags.

At least his tear-stained face was no longer blue. His lips and cheeks were regaining a rosy hue by the time Durman left him under the shades of that Tree of Life.

The teacher in charge of Cutie's last class better have a good fucking explanation.

In a time where he was all alone and painfully aware of his limbs gradually going rigid while his senses shut down one after the other, Durman resolutely decided to focus his mind on cursing his life choices—and those irresponsible idiots that failed to teach that cute little junior the basics of magic control—instead of thinking of the agonizing pain.

Shielded by four walls away from any other form of life, dark blood oozed from the teenager's facial orifices. The black veins bulged up against his now ghastly-white skin, spasming like slithering bugs beneath the surface.

Before his vision turned entirely black, the last thought that came to Durman's mind wasn't the curses he'd been forcing himself to think up on behalf of that Cutie whose fate now rested on whomever would see him first. Rather, it was one single thought. A thought that caused a drop of blood—lighter both in color and density—to roll down the side of his face from one open eye.

"Will Father be sad if I end up dying here?"

His split lips hooked up slightly into a self-deprecating smile.