The Tenshiko Academy Headquarters was vast—too vast. The walls were an immaculate white, too clean, too perfect. The whole place felt sterile, like a world designed for gods but inhabited by monsters.
The air was crisp and dry, carrying a faint metallic tang—like the scent of blood long since scrubbed clean.
A long table stretched through the center of the chamber, the surface polished enough to see your own expression—though none of the people sitting around it cared to look at themselves.
At the head of the table sat Kenjiku, founder and master of the Academy. No one knew how old he truly was. His face never gave anything away. Cold eyes. Perfect posture. A man who had no need to raise his voice—because when he spoke, everyone listened.
His right hand rested near his chin, and on that hand was the black insignia of the Kageshiki—the kind of symbol that didn't represent rank, but domination.
Around him sat the ten "I" Rank Kageshiki—elite among the elite. Killers. Weapons. Survivors of a system designed to break people and rebuild them into something worse.
And then there was Souta.
He sat dead center, reclined slightly, one leg crossed over the other. His silver hair hid his eyes, but the smirk said more than any gaze could.
Watching. Waiting. He always was. Not bored—but amused.
Kenjiku finally spoke. Calm. Surgical.
"The topic is training. Do we believe it can still push our warriors further?"
A soft, unanimous nod followed. No hesitation.
Kenjiku leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. His voice stayed even, but something sharp crept beneath it.
"Then for the next two days, we implement a new method. Live-blade duels. No blunt edges. No safety nets."
Eyes narrowed across the table.
"Trainees will spar for three hours. Then they face each other—one-on-one. If either inflicts any injury—just a scratch—they win."
"If neither can injure the other within ten minutes... both win."
The meaning settled like a stone dropped in deep water.
This wasn't about combat. It was about instinct. Blood. How far they'd go when they think there's no second chance.
"We do not tell them the rules," Kenjiku added, voice dropping a note lower. "If they know, they'll hesitate. If they hesitate... they'll never evolve."
The table was silent.
What Kenjiku had described wasn't training.
It was predation.
Souta let out a short, dry laugh, like someone who'd heard a good joke.
"If I were the owner of this place, I'd shut the whole damn academy down."
Across the table, Koharu Yamaguchi glanced at him. Her tone was soft, out of place in the room—but not weak.
"I feel sorry for them. They don't even know what's coming."
Souta didn't look at her, just tilted his head with a deeper smirk.
"You made it through, though. Didn't you?"
Koharu's lips tightened, her eyes dropping for just a second.
Then came Saito Hideaki's voice—clean, precise, with all the warmth of a steel scalpel.
"You always say that, Koharu. If it bothers you so much, maybe you should've become a housewife instead."
"HEY! Shut up, Hideaki!! I'm nineteen, not ancient!"
Koharu slammed her hands on the table. Her face had gone red—part rage, part embarrassment.
Hideaki barely reacted. His expression didn't change.
"Didn't answer the question."
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing.
"If we end up with a broken 'X' Rank… someone unstable… it'll be chaos."
"I just want a sweet one," Koharu muttered, hugging herself.
"If they're insane," Hideaki said flatly, "at least it'll be entertaining."
"Don't say that!" she snapped.
Souta leaned back deeper in his seat, his grin unreadable.
"I already know mine will be... interesting."
Hideaki looked sideways at him.
"And how do you know that?"
Souta didn't respond.
Just smiled.
Meanwhile… The Lake
The lake was silent. Cold bit through everything—clothes, skin, bone.
Reika, Ishigo, and Daigo trudged through the mist, soaked and bruised. Their breath steamed in the frigid air.
Daigo stretched, cracking his knuckles. His grin was wide, borderline manic.
"That was WILD. I haven't felt this pumped in years!"
Ishigo grumbled, arms wrapped tight around himself.
"Do you ever shut up? You're loud, wet, and still bleeding."
"Cold's for the weak!" Daigo said proudly, throwing an arm around Ishigo, who immediately shoved it off.
Reika said nothing.
Eyes forward. Feet moving. Her silence wasn't tired—it was focused.
They reached their cabin. Reika unlocked the door and stepped inside. The warmth hit like a wave—but it didn't touch her. Not really.
She changed into dry clothes in seconds, her movements automatic.
A knock.
She opened the door.
A man stood there with a food tray. Nothing else.
"Eat well, Kagetsu-san."
Then he was gone.
She sat down. Steam rose from the plate—beef curry, rice, boiled vegetables. Milk.
It should've been comforting.
It wasn't.
She stared at the meal, then picked up her phone.
And that's when the voice came back.
Her mother's voice.
"We beat you for your own good."
Her hand tightened around the phone. Knuckles whitening.
Memories. Screaming. The smell of antiseptic and old blood. "Discipline." That was the word her mother used. "Training."
Pain dressed up as protection.
She breathed in. Deep. Slow.
Eyes sharp. Burning with something far colder than hate.
"I'll destroy everything if that's what it takes to become an 'I' Rank Kageshiki."
She picked up her spoon.
And ate.
Not for comfort.
Not for taste.
But because she needed strength.
And she would get it.
No matter what it cost.