Highschool Of The Dead: Dead Man’s Tale.

If asked whether he was excited for high school, Kozen would have said yes without a moment’s hesitation. It was a crucial item on his mental checklist: have a better high school life. 

Reflecting on his previous life in highschool, he summed it up in a single, lackluster word: Meh.

Back then, he had drifted through the days with minimal interaction. He hadn’t made many friends, hadn’t joined any clubs, nor had he participated in extracurricular activities. Instead, he had remained safely ensconced within his own bubble—a sphere of solitude that was secure and undisturbed but undeniably dull. 

Kozen straightened up, adjusting the straps of his backpack with a resolute pull.

This time, things would be different.

As he stepped onto the campus, his senses heightened, taking in the buzz of student chatter, the slamming of lockers, and the distant calls of teachers corralling students. 

Kozen’s first day of high school was unfolding in a manner far removed from the vibrant, inclusive experience he had envisioned. 

“Hey blacky, why don’t you sit in the back, you’re blocking the board?” 

The words, sharp and unwelcome, were directed at him from a boy across the room whose smirk was as pointed as his comment.

Kozen paused, his posture rigid as he processed the words. 

He wondered, Why did this school have so many bullies?

He chose to remain silent, dismissing the remark with a nonchalant shrug. His imposing stature made physical confrontation unlikely, but the verbal jabs were a different kind of battle.

If a bully can’t beat you physically, they’ll try to break you mentally.

As he was settling his thoughts, another jibe flew across the room. 

“Oi, fatty, you smell,” a girl said mockingly to Kohta, who visibly stiffened at the comment. Kozen observed Kohta’s struggle to maintain composure, the hurt evident in his eyes despite his best efforts to appear unaffected.

Kozen sympathized deeply. He recognized the pain of transitioning from one hostile environment to another—the boy had moved from being bullied in middle school to facing similar challenges in high school. Out of the frying pan into the fire. 

Kozen pondered his next move, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Despite his mental age and experiences far surpassing those of his peers, direct confrontation over petty insults seemed an unreasonable cause for suspension, especially on his first day. 

“Don’t worry, man, these girls have their smell destroyed by cheap makeup,” he whispered to Kohta, who now had a slight smile, but their low exchange didn’t go unnoticed. 

Soon enough, a voice from the back boomed, repeating Kozen’s quip for the whole class to hear. The room swiveled their attention towards them.

“That’s rich coming from a guy who smells like fried chicken,” retorted the same antagonist, a smirk plastered on his face as if his comeback was a stroke of genius designed to impress his girl. Kozen couldn’t help but snort at the absurdity; the attempt at humor was so base, it was actually funny.

Kozen found it almost absurd how the verbal jabs, so sharp and venomous in the eyes of his peers, seemed merely laughable to him. 

You all wouldn’t last in a COD lobby, he mused internally, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched the flustered boy and the infuriated girl scramble for a retort. It was like watching children play at a game whose rules they barely understood; why should he bother engaging on such a trivial level?

Just as the tension in the room seemed ready to spike again, the classroom door swung open. In walked their homeroom teacher, a striking figure who commanded immediate attention.

The man was dressed sharply in a black pinstripe suit that outlined his very thin frame. Underneath the suit, he wore a crisp white dress shirt paired with a yellow tie. He wore black-framed glasses and his brown dress shoes clicked against the floor as he moved.

“Good morning, class,” he announced, his voice clear and commanding as he surveyed the room through his glasses. “My name is Koichi Shidōu, and I am going to be your homeroom teacher for the year.”

The girl from before, tears welling in her eyes. “Koichi sensei, can you please help me?” she implored, her voice quivering with feigned distress.

Mr. Shidōu responded with what Kozen perceived as a distinctly insincere smile. 

“Of course,” he said, the smoothness of his tone almost too polished, too rehearsed. His smile might have fooled anyone who wasn’t paying close attention, but to Kozen, it was clearly a mask.

“These two are bullying me,” the girl accused, pointing directly at Kozen and Kohta. The accusation hit the duo like a physical blow, his shock mirrored by Kohta. 

“Is that so?” Mr. Shidōu asked, his voice calm, but his eyes—sharp and assessing—fixed on Kohta and Kozen. Kohta seemed to shrink under the scrutiny.

“No, sir, the girl is lying,” Kozen interjected, his voice firm as he stood. 

“Well then, why don’t we ask everyone else?” Mr. Shidōu suggested, turning to address the entire class. The response was immediate and overwhelmingly against them; the entire class sided with the girl.

“Sir, you have to believe us,” Kozen pleaded, his frustration mounting as he faced the teacher again.

“In what? That everyone in class is lying but you two are telling the truth?”

Kozen opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, his teeth gritting in frustration as he realized the futility of arguing.

“Now, for your punishment, you two are going to maintain a squat position for the rest of the class.” 

Taking a deep breath to steady themselves, the duo made their way to the back of the classroom. Snickers and giggles from their classmates. The duo positioned themselves into the required squat: legs parallel to the floor, thighs aligned with their knees, backs straight, and eyes forward. 

As the class resumed its activities, the undercurrent of their peers’ whispers was almost palpable. Kohta, struggling to maintain his composure, finally whispered to Kozen, “Why?”

He remained silent, his mind racing. The question echoed in his thoughts, amplifying his confusion and frustration. 

Why were they targeted by everyone in the class, literally on the first day?

It didn’t make sense. 

As he pondered, his eyes unintentionally met those of the girl who had accused them. She shot them a smug smirk, clearly pleased with herself. Kozen’s response was instinctive—a death glare that was sharp enough to make her shrink back into her seat, her smirk fading.

“You know what, I think I changed my mind,” Kozen muttered under his breath, his voice tight with resolve. 

“On what?” 

“On being the nice guy,” Kozen whispered back. He wasn’t going to let these kids walk all over them without understanding that actions have consequences.

“What do you have in mind?” 

“You got a phone?” Kozen asked quietly. 

Author Note: More chapters on [email protected]/LordCampione.