The students in the room were still brimming with interest, their curiosity piqued not by the class schedule or who was teaching it—but by the opportunity to handle something steeped in centuries of history.
Some of them leaned in close to examine the bokken arranged on the wall-mounted racks, brushing fingers along the smoothed wood. One student admired the worn craftsmanship of a naginata replica and began whispering about how it was used by women of the samurai class. Another asked their neighbor about katanas and if they'd ever seen a real one in a museum. A few hovered near the display case, intrigued by the differences between the tachi and the uchigatana. For them, this was more than just school—it was a gateway into a world they'd only read about in manga, seen in period dramas, or studied in bits and pieces through textbooks.
Souta Nishizawa, now standing at the front of the classroom, had already taken command of the room.
His presence was sharp—almost too controlled. Though he wore a calm, instructive expression, his gaze flicked often toward the back of the room, never lingering long… but never truly leaving Timeo and Leo. To them, it was clear: he hadn't forgotten. He was watching.
Souta finally cleared his throat and addressed the class.
"Good morning, everyone," he began, voice smooth and measured. "As you know, today's rotation is focused on Traditional Weapon Handling. However, let me be clear—there will be no physical training or sparring today."
He paused to let the disappointed murmurs settle before continuing.
"Before you can understand how to wield something, you must first understand where it came from. Today, we'll focus solely on Japan's martial history—its warriors, philosophies, and the weapons that shaped its past."
He turned to the whiteboard and began writing deliberately as he spoke.
"Let's begin with the samurai, Japan's military nobility and officer caste, who rose to prominence during the Heian period and remained a dominant force until the Meiji Restoration in the late 19th century. Contrary to popular belief, the samurai were not simply swordsmen—they were scholars, poets, diplomats, and at times, ruthless enforcers of law and order."
He wrote the word Bushidō in large characters.
"This word—Bushidō, or 'the way of the warrior'—is the moral code the samurai lived by. It emphasized honor, loyalty, discipline, and death before disgrace. But these values were complex, evolving over time, and not all samurai lived up to them. In reality, the samurai class was both admired and feared."
He gestured to the rack of wooden swords.
"The katana, the most iconic weapon of the samurai, wasn't just a tool of war—it was a symbol of the soul. It was carried with its pair, the wakizashi, and together they formed the daishō, which marked a samurai's status and identity. But before the katana became widespread in the Muromachi period, warriors often used the tachi, a longer, more curved sword worn edge-down."
Souta paced slowly as he spoke, his tone remaining steady.
"Other weapons, such as the yari—a spear—and the naginata—a polearm favored by onna-bugeisha, women warriors—were crucial in battlefield tactics. Contrary to what many believe, the katana was not always the primary weapon in war. Most large-scale combat relied heavily on spears, bows, and formations."
He stopped, setting down the marker and turning to face the class again.
"Samurai trained from childhood. They practiced kenjutsu for swordsmanship, kyūdō for archery, sōjutsu for spearmanship, and many other disciplines. They studied literature, poetry, and calligraphy—because to command respect, they had to be more than just warriors. They had to be refined."
His voice remained calm, but his eyes briefly met Timeo's again—subtle, unreadable.
"By the end of the Edo period, the samurai class had begun to fade. The Meiji government abolished the feudal system, and the use of swords in public was outlawed. But their legacy… their image, discipline, and influence… continues even now, in ways most people don't realize."
He straightened his jacket and rested his hands behind his back.
"Today, you'll begin by taking notes on a brief timeline I'll provide. Then, we'll discuss weapon etiquette—how to respect what you're holding, not just how to use it."
There was a moment of stillness after he finished. The class had grown quiet—not out of fear, but attention. For all the tension beneath the surface, Souta knew how to command a room.
But for Timeo, Leo, and Marin… it wasn't just a lesson. It was a performance. One they weren't sure they could trust.
Timeo sat in silence, listening with full attention to every word Souta spoke. Even with the weight of suspicion pressing down on him, he didn't allow it to show. His eyes followed every gesture, every pause in speech, every carefully chosen word. He was watching not just the teacher—but the performance.
And yet, around him, the rest of the class seemed completely at ease.
The other students nodded along, scribbled notes, or leaned forward in interest, caught up in the fascination of history. They laughed quietly at Souta's lighter remarks, asked questions, and acted as if they were simply enjoying a well-taught lecture.
But Timeo knew better. Or at least, he believed he did.
That was what made it worse—none of them seemed disturbed. No unease, no questions, no glances traded behind his back. It was as if they couldn't sense anything beneath Souta's well-placed mask.
Leo, sitting beside Timeo, leaned forward slightly and whispered under his breath, his voice low and bitter.
"This is pissin' me off," he muttered. "Look at 'em… actin' like he's some damn hero. Either they're stupid, or they're just real good at pretendin'. No way no one else feels it. Somethin's off, and they're just eatin' up his act like it's gospel."
He clicked his tongue, eyes locked on the back of one student's head across the room.
"I swear, it's like we're the only ones seein' the cracks in his perfect little show."
His fists tightened beneath the desk.
"Creeps me the hell out."
Souta moved across the front of the classroom with the same composed rhythm as before, clasping his hands behind his back as he shifted the discussion away from weaponry and into something more layered—more elusive.
"There's one more concept I want to touch on before we wrap up today's lecture," he said, his voice calm yet steady enough to quiet the room again. "It's not tied directly to traditional combat or samurai warfare, but it is deeply connected to the beliefs and philosophies that shaped Japan's view of life and death."
He paused, writing a single word on the board in clean strokes: Shinigami.
"Shinigami," he said, turning to face the class. "The word itself translates to 'death god' or 'god of death.' It's a modern term, by historical standards, but the idea behind it goes much further back—rooted in spiritual folklore, ancestral fear, and the need to make sense of death as something more than just an end."
He walked slowly, eyes scanning the class. "Contrary to what pop culture might tell you, Shinigami were never clear-cut figures. They didn't wear black cloaks or carry scythes, at least not in historical records. Instead, they appeared more as concepts—unseen forces that influenced the dying, sometimes gently guiding a soul away, other times luring someone into death's grasp."
Souta let the silence linger for just a second.
"In early Japanese belief, death wasn't always feared. It was often seen as a transition. But over time, people started associating certain deaths—especially those sudden or unnatural—with spiritual interference. The Shinigami came to represent the invisible hand behind a death that didn't feel right."
He picked up a piece of chalk again, almost absentmindedly, and tapped it lightly against the edge of the board.
"In literature, these beings were often tied to fate. They didn't kill out of cruelty—but because the natural balance required it. Some stories say they were once human. Others, that they are born from the regrets of the dead."
He set the chalk down quietly and turned toward the class once more, his gaze steady.
"Why am I telling you this? Because throughout Japan's history, especially in warrior culture, there's always been a fascination with the line—that point where life ends and something else begins. To wield a weapon in the past wasn't just to fight—it was to stand on that line and look across."
He let his eyes pass over the class—until they landed squarely on Timeo.
"And sometimes," he said, pausing just long enough for it to feel intentional, "that line stares back."
A hush settled over the classroom.
Souta's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"You would know that, correct, Yamamoto?"
His voice was even. Almost too even. But the weight behind the words made the air feel heavier.
Every eye slowly turned to Timeo.
Something didn't sit right with Timeo. Not with that tone. Not with that stare. The way Souta spoke his name wasn't just casual familiarity—it was calculated, invasive. Like he was poking at something he wasn't supposed to know.
Even Leo and Marin glanced toward him, unease tightening in their expressions. Marin tilted her head slightly, confusion flickering in her eyes. Leo, however, narrowed his gaze at Souta, teeth grit, jaw clenched. He didn't like this. Neither of them did.
Timeo could feel it—whatever Souta had said… it was deliberate. It was personal.
And just then, before a single word could leave his mouth, something shifted.
No sound. No warning.
Only silence—and a drop in sensation. Like the air had been pulled out of the room.
Timeo blinked.
And the world around them changed.
The classroom, once warm and filled with the murmur of students and the faint buzz of overhead lights, suddenly fell still. Completely motionless. The chatter, the movement, even the breeze from the window—frozen.
The color drained from the world like paint being stripped from a canvas. Everything around them—desks, walls, posters, students—faded into stark black, white, and grey. A grayscale reflection of the room they had just stood in seconds ago.
Students sat in their seats, locked in time, mid-blink, mid-turn, mid-breath. One girl's ponytail remained frozen in mid-swing. A pen hung suspended above paper, a half-written sentence lingering mid-stroke. Even the dust in the beams of light was still, like flecks of ash trapped in glass.
Only four people remained untouched by this surreal shift.
Leo.
Marin.
Timeo.
And Souta Nishizawa.
Each of them still in full color, their bodies unfrozen while the rest of reality bent around them. A haunting contrast against the lifeless monochrome. Even their shadows moved unnaturally—more vivid, more alive, as if disconnected from the grayscale world they now stood in.
Leo slowly turned in place, eyes wide, his voice low and shaken. "What the hell…?"
Marin took a cautious step back, staring at the frozen students, her voice barely a whisper. "Everything… stopped?"
Timeo didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on Souta, who had not moved from his place at the front of the classroom. His presence now felt sharper, heavier—like he wasn't just standing there.
He was waiting.
And somehow… Timeo knew.
This wasn't an accident.
To be continued...