Break time was ending.
The halls of Shadowreach Academy were thinning, voices fading into distant echoes as students returned to their assigned cages—classrooms carved from obsidian and spell-etched stone.
Masakiro walked ahead without hesitation, boots striking the floor with lazy confidence. His white hair glimmered faintly beneath the soulfire lamps, his posture relaxed—but his awareness sharp.
Behind him, footsteps stopped.
Masakiro didn't notice.
Tsuramo stood still at the classroom entrance, crimson eyes narrowing.
Something was wrong.
Not noise.Not movement.
A distortion.
Like reality itself had flinched.
A flash—silver-white—cut across the hall and vanished before the eye could fully register it.
Tsuramo exhaled slowly.
"…Illusion," he murmured.
He turned away from the classroom.
The corridor stretched long and empty, its walls breathing with ancient magic. Runes pulsed faintly beneath the stone, reacting to his presence.
Then—
The flash appeared again.
Closer.
Tsuramo stopped.
The air bent.
He felt it now—mana folded inward, compressed with surgical precision. This wasn't amateur trickery. This was practiced deception.
He closed his eyes.
Let the academy disappear.
When he opened them again, the world peeled back.
Layers shattered like glass.
A crimson pulse flared—
And Tsuramo lunged.
His hand snapped forward, fingers closing around something solid.
A sharp gust of wind exploded outward as the illusion collapsed.
A boy stood there.
Silver hair spilled down in loose, luminous strands, glowing faintly as if soaked in moonlight. His eyes—star-bright and far too calm—gleamed with mischief and intelligence sharpened by danger.
"…Wow," the boy said lightly. "You caught me."
Tsuramo released him slowly.
The boy didn't stumble.
Didn't flinch.
Just smiled wider.
Those eyes.
That mana signature.
Tsuramo's thoughts hardened.
Yamata.
Storm-callers. Illusion sovereigns. Wind demons whose magic rewrote perception itself.
"You're staring," the boy said. "Careful. That usually means fear."
"Who are you?" Tsuramo asked coldly.
The boy tilted his head. "You were thinking Yamata Clan."
Tsuramo's gaze sharpened.
"…So it's true."
"Yamata Kijin," the boy said, spreading his arms slightly. "Nice grip, by the way."
Silence pressed down.
"You know my name," Tsuramo said. Not a question.
Kijin's smile didn't fade. "You think loudly."
Tsuramo clicked his tongue.
"What class?"
"B-rank. Kagezake subgroup."
Tsuramo extended his hand.
When they shook, Kijin stiffened for a fraction of a second—his pupils contracting sharply.
"…That's not normal," Kijin muttered.
Tsuramo let go. "Neither are you."
Kijin laughed. "Fair."
He studied Tsuramo openly now. "CM class, huh? That's… interesting."
"That's my level."
Kijin nodded slowly. "Yeah. I believe that."
His stomach growled, loud and ugly.
"…Right. Food," he sighed.
"I have class."
"Unfortunate."
A sudden rush of wind tore through the corridor—
Kijin vanished.
Tsuramo stared at the empty space.
"…Yamata," he muttered.
"Tsuramo."
Masakiro's voice cut in like a blade.
Tsuramo turned.
Masakiro stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "You disappear for five minutes and come back looking like you touched a secret you shouldn't."
"I didn't," Tsuramo replied calmly.
Masakiro didn't believe him.
Back in the classroom, tension thickened the air.
Mrs. Kurohana hovered above the desks, wings casting long shadows across the students.
"Forms received," she said flatly. "No errors."
Virelia stood near the front, arms folded tight. A faint scorch mark smoked at the edge of one paper.
Masakiro squinted. "…Did something burn?"
"Barely," Virelia snapped.
With a flick of Kurohana's wrist—
The air split.
Eggs materialized midair and dropped onto the desks with dull, living thuds.
They breathed.
Scaled. Warm. Heavy with mana.
Gasps rippled through the room.
"These are not pets," Kurohana said. "They are trials."
She smiled thinly.
"Hatch them in two weeks. Fail—and you're removed."
Masakiro stared at his egg. "…It's watching me."
Tsuramo stared at his.
It was silent.
Too silent.
"Dormitory reassignment," Kurohana added. "Mixed classes."
Unease spread instantly.
Kaito Monk raised his hand. "When?"
"Now."
She vanished.
Virelia exhaled sharply. "Class dismissed."
As the room emptied, Masakiro leaned close.
"You vanished," he said quietly.
Tsuramo picked up his egg.
"…I met someone who shouldn't exist in this wing."
Masakiro smiled slowly.
"…Figures."
--
The Demonic Commons was loud in a restrained way—low conversations layered over the clatter of trays, the hiss of enchanted stoves, and the constant hum of mana flowing through the warded ceiling.
Kijin slipped in like he didn't belong.
Not because he was weak—far from it—but because he never stayed long anywhere.
He grabbed a bowl from one of the floating vendors, steam curling upward as the scent of spiced abyss broth hit his nose. Noodles writhed faintly on their own, infused with wind mana to keep them hot.
"Perfect," Kijin muttered, already eating as he walked.
A chair scraped.
Someone sat across from him.
"You're late."
Kijin didn't look up. "I always am."
The boy opposite him leaned back, arms crossed.
He was tall, broader than Kijin, with ash-brown skin etched faintly with glowing teal markings that pulsed slowly like a heartbeat. His hair was dark green, tied back loosely, with sharp undercut sides. His eyes—amber with slit pupils—watched everything.
A pair of short horns curved backward from his temples, carved with ritual scars.
"Still eating like you're running from death," the boy said.
Kijin slurped his noodles. "Habit."
This was Raigen Fūma.
B-Rank.Kagezake subgroup.Wind–Metal hybrid.
Raigen could compress air until it screamed—shaping it into cutting blades or reinforcing his body with invisible armor. When fully focused, his skin hardened like forged steel, etched with wind currents that redirected impact.
Efficient. Brutal. Loyal.
Unlike Kijin.
Raigen glanced around the commons. "Your class looks restless."
Kijin shrugged. "They always are."
At the surrounding tables sat the rest of the Kagezake subgroup—illusion specialists, scouts, ambushers. Most wore muted colors, cloaks lined with runic threads. Their magic was subtle, deceptive.
One girl with smoke-gray hair flickered slightly every few seconds—her illusion slipping unconsciously. Another boy sat upside down on his chair, boots hooked over the edge, casually vanishing and reappearing mid-bite.
Raigen leaned forward. "So. You finally showed yourself in CM territory."
Kijin paused mid-slurp.
"…Word travels fast."
Raigen smirked. "You slipped, didn't you?"
Kijin smiled lazily. "Maybe."
Raigen's eyes sharpened. "You met him."
Kijin exhaled slowly, setting the bowl down.
"…Tsuramo."
Raigen raised an eyebrow. "The demon lord's son?"
"That's what they call him."
"And?"
Kijin leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "He caught me."
Silence.
Raigen's fingers tightened slightly on the table.
"…You don't get caught."
"Yeah," Kijin said softly. "That's what scares me."
Raigen studied him carefully. "How strong?"
Kijin didn't answer immediately.
"…Heavy," he said at last. "Like standing too close to a storm that hasn't decided whether to move."
Raigen frowned. "And he's in CM class?"
"Mm."
Raigen scoffed. "That's a lie."
Kijin chuckled. "That's what I thought."
A pause.
Raigen's tone shifted. "You planning to disappear again?"
Kijin's smile returned—crooked, familiar.
"Run away?" he echoed. "From school?"
Raigen stared. "You do it every year."
Kijin tapped his spoon against the bowl thoughtfully. "Maybe after class."
Raigen's eyes narrowed. "Kijin."
Kijin grinned. "Relax. I said maybe."
He stood, stretching, wind stirring faintly around his shoulders.
"I just… might need to say farewell to someone."
Raigen followed his gaze—toward the distant CM wing.
"…Don't get attached," Raigen warned.
Kijin laughed softly. "Too late."
The wind shifted.
And just like that—
Kijin was gone.
Raigen sighed, rubbing his temples."…Trouble magnet."
Around him, the Kagezake members whispered uneasily.
Because if Yamata Kijin was considering staying—
Then something dangerous had entered the academy.