Looking down,

 

The stairs are densely packed, so steep that one misstep could lead to a serious injury.

 

Walls old and covered with haphazard graffiti.

 

Cigarette butts and trash strewn about carelessly.

 

Looking up,

 

All traces of the uncomfortable, filthy world I had just witnessed were gone.

 

The stars, gathered together hand in hand, singing,

 

And the warm moonlight suspended in the darkness above.

 

I lived in the slums.

 

————-

 

The poor have few pastimes.

 

Hopping along the lines drawn in the parking lot.

 

Kicking around a worn-out, flabby soccer ball that’s lost its elasticity.

 

And if none of that felt right, simply looking up at the sky.

 

The reason my childhood memories are filled with those night skies is precisely because of that.

 

Being frail, I couldn’t join the other kids to play, and there wasn’t much to do at home either.

 

The science textbook given out by the social worker was read to the point of tattering.

 

I read the newspaper too. Though there were many difficult words and I couldn’t understand about half, even after several readings.

 

So I looked up at the sky instead.

 

Dreaming while I gazed at the sky.

 

The black night sky was a canvas just for me.

 

With imagination, I could paint anything freely without the cost of colors.

 

What if I had been born rich?

 

What if I could have tossed Choco Pies like Taemin in my class during the class president election?

 

What if I happened to find an abandoned magic lamp on the street…

 

The imaginations of my childhood all ended unfinished.

 

A scene where I became rich. Instead of Choco Pies, I tossed chicken during the class president election.

 

Walking through the shantytown, finding a magic lamp on top of a stray cat’s food bowl.

 

I simply couldn’t conjure up what should follow.

 

Trapped in imaginations of outrageous fortune, I, truly at a loss, just gave up.

 

Someone said that imitation is the mother of creation. Just like someone who has never seen a dinosaur can’t imagine one, I, who never possessed it, couldn’t imagine happiness.

 

I could only vaguely sketch a smiling face.

 

————-

 

Why do people hate one another? I was engrossed in this thought in middle school.

 

It wasn’t that I wanted to engage in philosophical musings.

 

It was out of curiosity, as I was getting beaten up daily by my ‘friends’ in class.

 

Sometimes for having no money, sometimes for not bringing supplies, sometimes for not having a mother.

 

They always muttered some reason while throwing punches, but they and I both knew those were lies.

 

That’s why I had to wonder about the real reason.

 

What could it possibly have been that made them torment a quiet kid like me so mercilessly.

 

If the bullying was senseless, then why can people hate others without reason?

 

From Noble mtl dot com

 

Since then, villains began to appear in my imagination.

 

Monsters who stole my shoes and left them in the bushes. Monsters who poked my back with thumbtacks during class.

 

Monsters who, after having emptied our barely there possessions, daringly stole my supplies and threw them into the toilet bowl.

 

The me in my imagination, chased by monsters, became rich, tossed chicken, or found a magic lamp.

 

But still, there was no happy ending. Even if I sent the monsters far away, they would always return someday.

 

I was losing in reality, losing in the dreams of a moonlit night, spending my days in constant defeat.

 

One day, it hurt too much.

 

I thought it was my body that hurt, but it wasn’t.

 

There were quite a few bruises on my body, but I was no longer in pain to that extent.

 

It was my heart that was aching.

 

As with a toothache, pain starts to be felt when bacteria have burrowed into the nerves.

 

Something essential in my heart was being worn away, slowly, until eventually, it reached a crucial part.

 

I cried out of fear and sorrow.

 

Once the precious part in the center of my heart was worn away, I would no longer be myself.

 

The moment I was no longer myself, the anger that I had been clenching would be released. I would swear and look for sharp objects to attack my so-called ‘friends’.

 

It wasn’t the fear of becoming a criminal.

 

It was the fear of having my humanity taken away.

 

Always, the first time is hard. The second time becomes manageable, and the third time becomes familiar.

 

At the moment of becoming a violent person in front of anger, I will become just like the monsters in my imagination.

 

No, I will become a being even less than a monster.

 

They have enough wealth to attend school without lacking, an environment where both parents are alive, and friends to play with in groups. But I had none of the three.

 

If even my humanity is taken away, nothing would really be left in my hands.

 

I had to protect my heart. I wanted to protect my precious heart at least.

 

I made an effort.

 

————-

 

If you observe very deeply, you can learn a lot.

 

The same applies to people. Some parts are incredibly complicated, but others are so simple they can be categorized.

 

I started to separate human types and study what action would be effective for which type.

 

Surprisingly, people do not appreciate unconditional devotion.

 

Even if they are treated well, occasionally, you need to step back to remind them of appreciation. People tend to be more attached to something they think they could lose, rather than to what they already have.

 

People care a lot about social gaze. You should use the gaze of others as a weapon.

 

Even the most violent thug loses momentum under the scrutiny of countless people.

 

So, to the people who hate me,

 

It’s more effective to make an indeterminate number of others hate them, rather than hating them myself.

 

Instead of living as I please, I have lived calculating everything with my head.

 

Even when I was sad, I laughed, and even when I was happy, I cried. While I catered to the moods of those around me, I also made those around me act for my benefit. Part of the ‘real me’ in the corner of my heart was frustrated, but it was better than being beaten.

 

Thus, I led a mechanical college life.

 

I joined a club, thinking it was a good environment to forge school friendships.

 

I even dated a girl, to establish a social standing. She wasn’t quite my type, but I foresaw complications if I rejected her confession.

 

She would’ve spread nasty rumors about me with venomous eyes. Thinking, “How dare he reject my confession?”

 

Then, on a day no different from the rest,

 

“How about trying TRPG? I saw it on YouTube, and I think I can do better.”

 

My girlfriend suggested.

 

I wasn’t interested, but I didn’t refuse.

 

She instructed me to create a character.

 

Without giving me any background, just saying it’s fantasy so put something together.

 

I came home and laid out a blank sheet of paper, pondering for a long while.

 

What kind of character am I supposed to create? There are so many subsets within fantasy; if I make this, do I have to act it out; what in the world is an opportunity attack? And so on.

 

After racking my brain, an idea suddenly struck me, and I scribbled with a pen.

 

I wrote four letters on the white paper. Barbarian.

 

My first TRPG, my first character, the Barbarian, embodied my desires.

 

What if… I wasn’t weak and was filled with courage?

 

If I was a manly man, splitting the heads of all the impolite people I encountered?

 

Wasn’t it an amusing thought?

 

Back then, perhaps I wanted to rewrite my unhappy childhood.

 

In hindsight, it wasn’t a good attitude. I say this again, but a character and the player should be separate.

 

A subpar GM and a subpar player coming together guaranteed a predictable outcome for the session.

 

Whenever an enemy appeared, my Barbarian character would split its head first.

 

Even if NPCs asked for dialogue or seemed to tell a pitiable story, I’d just roll the dice.

 

The GM suspiciously introduced too many overpowered NPCs.

 

Why were the empire’s prince and the northern duke showing up while investigating a mountain village mine?

 

My character was left with nothing to do. These handsome blokes were sweeping away the threats of the continent, leaving only the scraps for me to deal with.

 

And then it happened.

 

It was inevitable.

 

My first TRPG was a mess, but somehow, it gave me a peculiar feeling.

 

Perhaps it was nice to be moved by my heart rather than my head.

 

Or maybe…

 

Above the night sky of this moonville, through this game called TRPG, I thought I might be able to complete a story that I could never have imagined.

 

So.

 

So, I came to love TRPG.

 

In this tiny play unfolding on the paper, I wanted to find a story.

 

A thrilling and wonderful story that could compensate for all the miserable parts of my life.

 

————-

 

“What kind of story do you think it will be?”

 

“First, there should be romance. It’s fun when you put love into the session.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Struggles and hardships are always necessary. The protagonist must overcome hardships and grow.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“It needs humor. Humor can catch two rabbits at once. It’s fun in itself and if tragedy is attached, it enhances the flavor.”

 

“If I understand correctly, the GM is the role of the game operator. The player is the role of enjoying the game. Which one do you want to do⋯⋯?”

 

“I’d like to be the GM. Because, someone who is thirsty has to dig a well.”

 

“So you made the world.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay, I’ll help you. I’m also⋯⋯ looking for a story. Will you create a world for me later? If you have a conscience, since you’ve monopolized support fund⋯⋯.”

 

“Okay, I get it.”

 

On the railing in the moonville where you can see a full moon,

 

I hooked little fingers with Matopju.

 

————-

 

Fatal downside of confiding family history to others: Embarrassment when you come to your senses.

 

I couldn’t make eye contact with Matopju for about three days.