A tense hush fell over the grand hall as every demon's gaze locked onto the towering doorway.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Whispers rippled through the chamber like nervous sparks.
"He's here…""He finally arrived…""That presence—there's no mistaking it…"
The massive doors swung open with a low murmur of ancient magic, runes along their surface glowing faintly as if awakening.
Masakiro Malakar stepped inside.
His presence was calm—almost gentle—but it commanded the room without effort. He moved with effortless grace, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his simple white robes, fabric so clean it seemed to glow faintly beneath the enchanted lanterns overhead.
The fluorescent light flickered irregularly, casting shifting shadows across his moon-white hair, streaked faintly with silver. Each flicker made it shimmer like moonlight across polished steel.
A demon with majestic goat horns leaned toward his companion, eyes wide.
"That's him," he whispered, reverent. "The White One I told you about."
Beside him, a girl with flowing black-and-white hair, her eyes mirroring the same dual colors, nodded slowly.
"…He looks unreal," she murmured. "Like an angel that wandered into the Netherworld by mistake."
Masakiro's footsteps made no sound as he crossed the marble floor.
He stopped before the inner doorway, inhaled once—as though steadying something unseen—then reached forward.
With a gentle push, the door opened again.
And the air changed.
Tsuramo Malakar stepped inside.
He entered like a shadow given form, wrapped in robes of deep crimson and midnight black, fabric absorbing the surrounding light as if swallowing it whole. His crimson eyes swept the hall—measured, sharp, unreadable.
His hair, a rich crimson, fell in soft, wind-touched waves around a face carved with quiet authority—handsome, distant, and dangerous in a way that could not be ignored.
Every step he took was deliberate. Controlled.
He approached Mrs. Kurohana and stopped beside her with regal precision.
She spoke then—her voice soft, yet carrying the weight of centuries.
"Esteemed students," she said, wings folding neatly behind her."I present to you the heirs of the Empress."
Her gaze moved between them.
"Masakiro Malakar. Tsuramo Malakar.Sons of power born from influence that echoes through the ages."
A pause.
"I trust you will extend them the respect they deserve."
Tsuramo turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the classroom.
The room felt smaller.
The air tightened—caught between reverence and fear.
"Hello," Tsuramo said at last, his voice calm and steady, carrying unexpected warmth."I am Tsuramo. It is an honor to be placed in C-Mistlings Class. I hope we will get along."
The strength beneath his words was unmistakable.
Several students nodded instinctively.
Masakiro, standing just behind him, crossed his arms lightly and spoke next.
"I'm Masakiro," he said simply, voice dry but polite."…And whatever he said—that's what I meant too."
A few nervous laughs escaped the class.
Mrs. Kurohana smiled faintly.
"It's a pleasure to have you both," she said. "I am Mrs. Kurohana, your homeroom teacher. Should you need assistance, I will be available."
The brothers bowed once—together—then moved through the rows of seats.
As they passed, whispers followed like drifting mist.
"They're… calmer than I expected.""I thought they'd be terrifying.""…They kind of are."
They took their seats.
Silence lingered for a heartbeat—then quiet murmurs returned.
"I want to be friends with them…" someone whispered shyly."They look even better in person.""Do you think they're cruel?"
"Let's just survive the class first," another muttered.
Mrs. Kurohana stepped forward again, wings folding completely.
"Enough," she said gently.
She turned to the board, lifting her pen.
"Today's lesson is Second Level, CM Rank: Power Discovery."
The words etched themselves clearly across the board.
"This year," she continued, "is not about dominance. It is about understanding yourselves."
Her gaze swept the room.
"Some of you wield fire. Some manipulate shadows. Some think, deceive, heal, or listen to the world in ways others cannot."
She distributed neatly prepared files.
"Write your name, rank, and age. Attach a photo. Be honest."
She spread her wings once more—majestic, controlled.
"You are dismissed to discuss among yourselves. This is your first step toward discovering who you truly are."
With a single powerful flap, she ascended and vanished beyond the hall.
The classroom remained buzzing—changed.
Shadowreach Academy would never feel the same again.
Tsuramo rested one elbow on the desk, fingers loosely interlaced, crimson eyes half-lidded as he scanned the room without staring. He looked calm. Detached. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Masakiro leaned slightly toward him and murmured, barely audible,"You're doing that thing again."
Tsuramo didn't look at him. "What thing."
"The one where you pretend you don't notice everyone staring so hard they might combust."
A faint breath left Tsuramo's nose. "If they combust, that's not my fault."
Masakiro smiled. Small. Genuine.
Around them, students whispered—then hesitated.
Finally, someone gathered the courage.
A girl with small curved horns and soft violet eyes stood from the row behind them. She held her file tightly against her chest as she approached Masakiro's desk, stopping at a respectful distance.
"Um… excuse me," she said quietly. "Masakiro Malakar?"
Masakiro looked up immediately, expression open and attentive."Yes?"
Her shoulders loosened a fraction. "I'm Selene. I just wanted to say… welcome to CM class."
"Thank you," Masakiro replied warmly. "That's kind of you."
Encouraged, another student leaned forward—a boy with ash-gray skin and a thin tail flicking nervously behind him.
"Is it true," he asked carefully, "that you've been to the human realm?"
Masakiro paused, choosing his words. "I've seen it. Briefly."
The boy's eyes widened. "What was it like?"
"…Loud," Masakiro said after a moment. "And fragile."
A soft murmur rippled through the nearby desks.
Someone else spoke up, more blunt than the rest. "Are you really royalty?"
Masakiro nodded once. "By blood, yes."
"And… are you here to judge us?" the student asked, half-joking, half-afraid.
Masakiro shook his head. "No. I'm here to learn. Same as you."
That answer spread faster than fear ever could.
A few students relaxed. Some even smiled.
From beside him, Tsuramo finally spoke—quiet, controlled.
"If you keep interrogating him," he said calmly, "you'll miss the lesson."
Every head snapped toward him.
Tsuramo's gaze lifted—not sharp, not hostile—just present.
"…Sit," he added.
They did.
Masakiro glanced sideways at him. "You scared them."
Tsuramo replied flatly, "Good. Now they can focus."
Masakiro huffed softly, amused.
As the room settled, Masakiro leaned back in his chair and whispered,"You're doing better than you think."
Tsuramo didn't respond—but the tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly.
Around them, CM class resumed its uneasy rhythm.
Two brothers sat side by side—one quietly connecting,the other quietly watching—
and neither fully aware of how much the room was already beginning to orbit them.