Room BA-24.
Black and White.
Of course.
Masakiro stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the room like it had personally offended him. Two beds sat opposite each other, perfectly aligned, like they'd been placed there to mock him.
One was pitch black—sheets dark as oil, frame matte and sharp. The other was blindingly white, pristine enough to look unreal.
He exhaled through his nose.
"They didn't even try to be subtle," he muttered.
Running a hand through his absurdly fluffy white hair, he stepped inside and dropped his bag onto the white bed with a dull thump. It bounced once, like it approved of him.
"Well," he said to no one, collapsing onto the mattress, "guess I'm sleeping on the 'chosen one' side."
He fluffed the pillow, dramatic and unnecessary, then stared at the ceiling as if expecting it to argue back.
The door creaked.
Not a friendly creak. Not an accidental one.
This was the kind of sound old doors made in horror stories—slow, deliberate, warning you that something had entered whether you liked it or not.
Masakiro lifted his head.
A figure stepped in, and the room seemed to dim around him.
Jet-black hair, wild and sharp, fell over one eye, casting the other in shadow. His presence dragged darkness with it—not aggressive, not loud, just heavy, like the silence before something went wrong.
His uniform was black on black on black, swallowing what little light the room had.
Kurokage Clan.
Shadow specialists. Assassins. The kind of demons teachers warned you about without saying their names.
Masakiro blinked once.
Then smiled.
"Oh—hey! You must be my roommate," he said brightly, swinging his legs off the bed. "Masakiro. White side enthusiast. Nice to meet you."
The boy's gaze slid over him slowly, assessing, unimpressed.
"I hope you're not lazy," he said flatly. "Otherwise, this will be unpleasant."
Masakiro's smile twitched.
"I prefer the term energy-efficient," he replied. "I conserve effort so I can be terrifying when it matters."
Nairo Kurokage didn't look convinced.
He moved to the black bed with precise, controlled motions, sitting down as if disorder itself offended him. Shadows pooled subtly beneath his feet, reacting to his presence like obedient pets.
"I dislike chaos," Nairo said. "And people who bring it."
Masakiro gently placed his egg on the white bed, adjusting it carefully, his tone light but his movements deliberate.
"Good news," he said. "I dislike boredom. So I think we'll balance each other out."
Nairo pulled out a pair of black headphones and slid them on without another word. Music hummed low—something slow, heavy, and cold.
The shadows around him settled.
A warning.
Masakiro sighed, flopping backward again. "Wow. So welcoming."
He glanced at his egg, lowering his voice. "It's just you and me, buddy. Pray you don't hatch into something that hates silence."
--------
The track field buzzed with movement.
Demons ran, stretched, trained—horned, winged, scaled bodies moving with unnatural grace.
To Tsuramo, it all felt… strange. Too mundane for a place built on bloodlines and ancient power.
He stood at the edge of the field, still, holding his egg.
It pulsed faintly in his hands—warm, almost alive.
He frowned.
"Sports," he muttered. "Of all things."
Apparently, demons trained physically to blend in when needed. To move like humans. To hunt without being noticed.
He didn't like that explanation.
Tying his crimson hair back, he watched others handle their eggs.
Virelia's was wrapped in shadow and heat, flames bending around it without touching the shell.
No one went near her.
Masakiro's—ridiculous as ever—had tiny spectral wings fluttering lazily, like it was half-awake.
Tsuramo looked down at his own.
It did nothing.
Which somehow worried him more.
A voice cut through the air.
"So that's it? Demon lord's son and he's clueless?"
A few quiet laughs followed.
Tsuramo didn't turn.
"I'm not clueless," he said calmly. "I'm careful."
The egg twitched.
Just once.
His fingers tightened instinctively.
"If I lose control," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "this doesn't crack. It detonates."
That earned silence.
He exhaled slowly, focusing, letting his power settle instead of surge. A thin veil of shadow formed around the egg—not aggressive, not sealed. Protective.
The egg responded.
A soft pulse.
Almost… recognition.
Tsuramo's eyes narrowed.
"…So you are awake."
The field noise faded into the background.
For the first time since receiving it, he didn't feel uncertain.
He felt watched back.
And somewhere, deep within the shell, something stirred—patient, listening, waiting for the right moment to answer him.
The training grounds stretched wide beneath a dim, overcast sky, the air buzzing with demonic energy and the dull thud of footsteps striking the track.
Tsuramo stood near the edge, arms crossed, crimson eyes scanning the scene with visible disbelief.
Demons were running.
Not chasing prey.Not fighting.Not summoning destruction.
Running.
Some sprinted with inhuman speed, claws tearing into the ground. Others stretched like disciplined athletes, wings folded tight, muscles coiling and releasing with precision. A few even argued over laps and stamina like ordinary students.
Tsuramo frowned.
"…They're really doing this," he muttered. "They actually… exercise."
"Shocking, right?"
The familiar lazy voice drifted in from behind.
Tsuramo turned—and froze.
Masakiro stood there casually, hands in the pockets of loose white sports pants, bandages wrapped neatly around his forearms and hands. A sleeveless white training top clung lightly to his frame, stark against his pale skin. The bandages weren't decorative—each one was layered with faint sigils, old and deliberate.
He looked… different.
Less carefree.More dangerous.
"You look like a human," Tsuramo said bluntly, eyes narrowing. "A weird one."
Masakiro grinned, stretching his arms above his head, bandages tightening over lean muscle. "Wow. No 'good morning,' no 'nice outfit.' Just straight to betrayal."
Tsuramo ignored him, gaze flicking back to the field. "Why are demons doing sports like humans?"
Masakiro shrugged. "Because humans survive longer than you think. Turns out, stamina matters when you're hunting, escaping, or pretending not to be a demon."
Tsuramo clicked his tongue softly. "That's ridiculous."
"And yet," Masakiro said, nodding toward a horned demon effortlessly clearing a hurdle with supernatural grace, "look at them. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted movement."
Tsuramo watched carefully now, his surprise deepening.
They weren't sloppy.They weren't showing off.
They were training—refining bodies already beyond human limits.
"…So this isn't a joke," Tsuramo admitted.
Masakiro smirked. "Welcome to demon education. Where we steal ideas from everyone and make them terrifying."
A whistle echoed across the grounds.
"Pair up!"
A few demons glanced their way—whispers sparked immediately.
"That's them."
"The demon lord's sons…"
"Why are they here?"
Tsuramo felt it instantly—the subtle shift in attention, the weight of expectations pressing down.
Masakiro leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Relax. If they stare too hard, I'll trip dramatically and ruin the mood."
"You will not," Tsuramo said flatly.
Masakiro grinned wider. "See? Already motivating me."
Tsuramo hesitated, then glanced again at Masakiro's bandages. "…Those aren't just for show."
Masakiro's smile softened—just a little. "Nah. Helps keep things… contained."
Tsuramo understood without asking.
He exhaled slowly, then stepped forward onto the track, adjusting his stance. "Fine. If this place insists on pretending demons are athletes…"
Masakiro cracked his neck. "That's the spirit."
Tsuramo shot him a look. "Don't embarrass me."
Masakiro laughed, light and unbothered. "No promises."
As they moved into position side by side, the whispers grew louder.
Two heirs.Two monsters.Running like everyone else.
And yet—something about them made the air feel tighter, heavier.
Like the track itself was bracing for impact.