Books were always an integral part of his life. What started as a journey to test his ability eventually developed into something he grew fond of. Some were academic, while a small portion were fictional novels. While he appreciated the scholarly insight he gained from educational books, there was just something about novels that he couldn't place his finger on.
Every chapter felt like a reflection of his own life sometimes. Having the comfort of being understood by ink and paper instead of flesh and bones was an interesting but insightful discovery he made about himself. There were times the situation got extremely eerie; it felt like the author reached out from the very book and into his mind. Nevertheless, he continued to read.
Some words felt like the odd pebble we would kick around on a journey, only to eventually lose track of it. But that doesn't mean we don't think about that rock. The company it provided on an arduous path couldn't be undermined, and the joy one would feel from finding the rock again was immense. This was how he felt about a certain set of words as well.
Those few phrases that were used felt like a needle gently pricked the heart. With such an analogy in mind, it felt like the written words themselves were a test to see if the reader could feel. Yet, he went back to these words, not out of ignorance, but out of acceptance. With such an acceptance came this overwhelming feeling of satisfaction, similar to finding something we thought we had lost, only to realize it had been with us all along.
This was exactly how Dio felt as he stood by the entrance of the infirmary, panting in desperation for another breath, soot and dust covered his entire body, and his eyes were fixated on a singular bed. His heart dropped from his throat and back to where it was supposed to be in an instant. If it felt similar to reclaiming lost words or phrases, why couldn't he muster any at the moment?
'Perfect memory my ass…'
With a weary smile and a teary set of eyes that specifically made him look like he was crying blood, Dio couldn't move past the entrance, his hands placed on both sides of the frames as he watched a bead of sweat splatter onto the ground.
After a few seconds of gripping his fists, a weak, choked sound escaped Dio's lips as he continued to take slow and reluctant steps. It felt like he was walking with his lower half submerged in water; his eyes remained stuck on Hina, who lay on the bed. She wasn't hurt anywhere, but whatever they did to knock her out was still lingering.
His hand trembled as it hovered over hers, "Hina…" a coarse but weak voice squeaked out; it was so alien he barely recognized that it was his own.
"Dio…." Her eyelids fluttered open slowly; she let out a groan and shifted her head towards him ever so slightly. Barely managing to pull his hand back, Dio looked at her with pure concern; his shoulders felt like they weighed more than usual. Thoughts of Alex flashed through his mind.
"I'm here…."
Unsure about what caused it, Dio deduced it to be the dryness of his throat and the excessive panting, but that wasn't the real reason his voice felt alien. Riddled with guilt and suffocating from the burden of being powerless, it felt like his own body rejected him.
There was a silence shared between them for a long time. She stared at the ceiling as Dio sat next to her, looking at her intently. There were other students here; they too were worried about their friends and came to provide them support.
"You look like shit," there was only so much that she could muster out at once; the dryness in her voice made it difficult to swallow.
"Do I have to call for help? I think the problem is spreading to your vision,"
What was this? Just what was this place for him to change so much, so constantly? It almost seemed out of character for him to be sitting here, patiently awaiting a response that a girl gave every few minutes.
"I don't remember much… I was being carried… somewhere… through the forest… until I was saved by adventurers… they were strong. So strong and so cool… Dio…" there was a long pause every few words. "I want to be like that…."
"Let's focus on what's important now: your recovery."
He was a hypocrite. Thoughts similar to Hina's festered in his head; from this moment on, there was a certain amount of struggle and adversity that Dio was expecting his way. He had made up his mind: the weight of powerlessness was heavier than carrying the burden of the world.
'Yeah… this is what needs to be done…'
Growing up with his head immersed in fiction, there were questions he had about the world. Queries like: why do people hurt others? Or why would they steal and not ask to share? The academic articles and books he read contained verses that could answer these questions to a certain extent.
"A world where people are not in pain or are not inflicting pain cannot be a good world. To comprehend light, we need darkness. There must be Chaos to establish Order."
Such words felt distant and cold now—social constructs that offered no comfort in this moment of raw guilt and pain. To tiny Dio, these constructs seemed like a revelation, but as he grew up, his own experiences, along with those shared by his loved ones, proved so much more valuable than the stupid books. Evil exists as a consequence of the means used to achieve the Good. And in most cases, people weren't aware of their position.
When two people stood face to face with each other, what was right for one was left behind by the other, and what was left behind was all the right for the other. Perspective was a mind-boggling concept that broke most analogies.
The question is, was it an obstacle or a tool?