🔁 ARC2: The Normalization of the Price

The stretcher rounds the corner and slips out of sight.

The blood left on the floor still hasn’t dried. Dark red lines stretch under soles, mixing with powdered rubble and catching a dull shine. No one pays it any mind. It only gets stepped on, smeared, reshaped.

...Don’t look.

And yet I can’t look away.

Something in my chest is crushed tight. I try to breathe in and it snags halfway. The back of my throat stings.

—No.

Not now. Don’t think. If I think, I stop. If I stop, it ends here.

"Next—are you ready?"

A voice snaps over. Light. As if someone being on that stretcher a moment ago has already stopped mattering.

The work continues.

There’s a sound beyond the rubble. A dull impact—gon. Someone drops, someone signals. People gather, measure the spacing, decide where the magic will be placed.

The usual procedure.
The usual distance.
The usual angle.

Each time magic is used, there’s a feeling that collects—surely—deep inside the body. It shaves away. Little by little. And still, for certain.

No one says it out loud.

"If it’s only that much, it’s not a problem."

More voices started saying it. Not a warning. Not comfort. Just the tone of checking a fact. The more experienced, the flatter it sounds.

"Yeah, we’ve had that before."
"It’s within the average."

Numbers are called. Values line up. Conditions are shared. There are no names. No feeling. A person is handled as a result.

Someone whose movement lags by a beat.
Someone who stops meeting anyone’s eyes.
Someone who skips a step.

All of it is “common.”

No record remains. It doesn’t become a problem.

Before I know it, I’m inside that air.

I start to feel like the group’s average is more reliable than my own senses. A personal unease is vague; collective experience looks certain.

"You’re still on the lighter side."

When it was said to me, I didn’t deny it. There are people who’ve been carved away more. I’m not unable to stand. My voice isn’t gone. I can still use magic.

Then—maybe it’s fine.

Judgments, without anyone noticing, align.

No one urges a decision. No orders. No force. Just the same standard shown again and again, and matching it is the easiest thing.

"Everyone’s done it this way."

Those words function as correctness. I can’t find a reason to object. Speaking doubt makes you stand out—just a little.

So the mouth closes.

Another stretcher comes in.

The body is convulsing. The eyes are open, but unfocused. The mouth moves, and no sound comes out. Blood seeps from fingers that rake the floor.

"...Isn’t the shaving a little too deep?"

A low voice. Almost just a check.

"We’ve had about this much before."
"It’s within the standard."

Numbers are called.
Continuation is decided.

Magic is layered over magic.

This time, there was no voice. Only the eyes, looking this way.

...Don’t look.

And the moment I thought it, it felt like our eyes met.

It looked like they were trying to tell something.
I didn’t think it was a plea for help.
Only that something—was there.

But before I can think about meaning, the work ends.

"Finished."

The convulsions stop, and the values stabilize.

"Survival—barely."
"Well, it held."

That’s the whole evaluation.

The stretcher is carried away.
The blood on the floor stretches again.

My chest tightens hard.

...No.
Don’t think now.

If I think, I stop.
If I stop, I get left behind.

"Next one’s coming!!"

That voice slams into my back.

My body steps forward on its own.

No, no, no.
Don’t think. Move. Move.

My feet move.
My heart is fast.
My breath is rough.

...Here, the ones who think before they move are the ones who break.

And now, I understood it clearly.

The world has already started running.
It won’t wait.

I didn’t want to be left behind.
That was all.

So— I ran.

— Lumi🪄💕