The fight ended—
—with Kijin skidding backward across the floor on his heels, wind scattering papers and clothes in every direction.
His sword flew from his hand and embedded itself harmlessly into a pile of laundry.
Silence.
Then—
Kijin pointed furiously.
"YOU USED ONE HAND!"
Tsuramo stood in the center of the wrecked room, sword lowered, the other hand still casually tucked in his pocket.
"...You said go all out."
"WITH TWO HANDS, BAKA!"
Around them, the room looked like a storm had passed through.
Bedsheets twisted. Desk overturned. Books floating midair in confused wind currents.
And near the ceiling—
Renji and Hikaru clung to the curtain rod, lifted there by Kijin's uncontrolled wind bursts.
Hikaru mock-sobbed dramatically.
"Our room! Our poor, innocent room!"
Renji sniffed loudly. "We just cleaned it yesterday!"
Hikaru pointed downward accusingly."Look what you've done, monsters!"
Kijin, still lying on the floor, shouted back—
"I should be the one crying!"
He slapped the ground dramatically. "I just got humiliated in my own room!"
Tsuramo calmly sheathed his practice blade. "You improved."
Kijin rolled over, glaring upward. "That's not the point!"
Renji finally dropped lightly back onto his bunk, sighing.
"...At least you're ready for tomorrow."
Kijin sat up, rubbing the back of his head.
"Yeah… maybe."
Hikaru tilted his head. "Maybe?"
Kijin grimaced. "I just gotta pray I don't get matched against Goromaru."
The room went quiet.
Renji paled slightly. "...The demonic-muscle guy from A-Amulet?"
Kijin shuddered. "That muscle-brain monster fights like exams are executions."
Hikaru gulped. "Isn't he the one who—"
Kijin cut in quickly.
"Yeah. During last year's exam he accidentally knocked someone out cold with one hit. Poor guy was in recovery for weeks."
Renji flopped back onto his pillow. "If he grabs someone, they're done."
Hikaru nodded rapidly. "He doesn't know his own strength!"
Kijin groaned, falling backward onto his mattress.
"So tomorrow," he muttered, staring at the ceiling, "I either pass… or become a public example."
Across the room, Tsuramo quietly began fixing the overturned desk like nothing unusual had happened.
Kijin glanced at him. "...You're coming to watch, right?"
Tsuramo shrugged. "If I'm awake."
Kijin threw a pillow at him.
It stopped midair—
—and dropped neatly onto the bed as Tsuramo caught it without looking.
Silence settled again.
Wind faded.
Lights dimmed.
And as everyone finally lay down—
Kijin muttered one last thing into the dark "...If I survive tomorrow, ramen's on me."
Tsuramo's quiet reply came seconds later.
"Sleep."
BA-24 dormitory was quieter than the others.
Not peaceful—just… heavy.
The lights were dimmed, most students already asleep after night drills, but one corner of the room still moved.
Shadows shifted.
At the center stood Nairo, the one everyone called the Shadow King.
His long dark hair was tied back loosely, though a thick strand still fell over one eye, refusing to stay in place. Barefoot on the cold floor, uniform jacket hanging open, he watched the wall ahead.
His shadow moved first.
A black silhouette peeled from his feet, stretching upward along the wall like living ink. It formed arms, hands, then a blade—perfectly shaped.
The sword wasn't in Nairo's hand.
His shadow held it.
Slash.
The blade cut through the training dummy across the room.
Then the shadow shifted again—wrapping around the dummy's neck, tightening slowly, deliberately, demonstrating how easily it could restrain someone.
Not brutal.
Just efficient.
Nairo studied the motion coldly.
Nearby, sitting on his bunk, was Masakiro.
White hair. White uniform. Even his mana felt clean—like light filtered through snow.
An Angel-Demon hybrid.
And someone who absolutely hated fighting.
He watched the training with visible discomfort.
"...Do you always practice like that?" Masakiro asked quietly.
Nairo didn't look back.
"Only when necessary."
The shadow released the dummy, returning to his feet.
Masakiro folded his arms. "Looks excessive."
Nairo shrugged slightly. "People don't stop fighting just because you dislike blood."
Masakiro sighed. "I still think there should be another way."
A pause.
Nairo finally glanced at him. "And if tomorrow someone tries to crush your skull?"
Masakiro grimaced. "I'd rather not imagine that."
Silence settled.
Nairo rolled his shoulder once, shadow blade dissolving. "I requested Kurojin."
Masakiro blinked. "You can do that?"
"If instructors think the match is fair," Nairo said. "They allow requests."
Masakiro frowned. "Why him?"
Nairo's visible eye narrowed slightly.
"Because he thinks shadows are tricks."
A faint smirk appeared. "I'll show him they're not."
Masakiro shook his head, lying back down. "You battle maniacs are exhausting."
A few seconds passed.
Then he added sleepily, "Aren't you going to sleep?"
"Yeah."
But Nairo didn't move yet.
He looked at Masakiro, expression flat. "Inspector Valcrys said I should look for changes in you."
Masakiro cracked one eye open. "And?"
Nairo turned away. "I don't see any."
Beat.
"You're still lazy."
Masakiro scoffed, pulling his blanket up. "Go to sleep, shadow freak."
Within seconds, his breathing evened out.
Nairo finally lay down as well, shadows settling beneath his bed.
The room went still.
Tomorrow—
everyone would fight.
---
Morning came cold and sharp.
Training Arena District — Mock Exam Grounds.
Rows upon rows of stone platforms stretched across the massive open arena, each one separated by shimmering barrier walls.
Floating screens hovered above, ready to display combat data, mana output, and elimination markers.
Students packed the stands—BK, CM, and Amulet classes mixed together, tension buzzing through the air like static before a storm.
Every match today would be watched.
Every mistake remembered.
And every victory recorded.
At the center platform stood the exam instructor, cloak fluttering in the artificial wind generated by the arena's mana currents.
Instructor Valcrys.
Tall. Stern. Silver hair tied back, sharp eyes scanning the gathered students.
Behind him floated dozens of glowing metal tabs—thin circular devices etched with runes.
He raised his hand.
The arena quieted instantly.
"Mock Training Exams will now begin," Valcrys announced. "Victory conditions are simple: incapacitation, surrender, or ring-out beyond barrier range."
She gestured behind her.
The glowing tabs shot forward, stopping in front of each student.
"Your opponents have been chosen based on compatibility, combat style, and growth assessment."
Students reached out, grabbing their assigned tabs.
The moment fingers touched metal—
RING.
The devices activated, projecting holographic match data into the air.
And chaos exploded.
"What?! I got him?!"
"NO WAY, that's unfair!"
"They're trying to kill me!"
"I'm dead. I'm actually dead."
BK-Class students panicked immediately.
Kijin caught his tab mid-air, eyes scanning the projection.
MATCH: Yamata Kijin (BK) vs A-Class: Rengoku Daizen
Kijin's smile froze.
Behind him, Nihon peeked over his shoulder. "...Daizen?"
Kijin sighed. "Of course."
Daizen.
A-Class powerhouse.
Two meters tall. Demon bloodline built like a fortress wall. Known for ending matches in under ten seconds.
And breaking bones accidentally.
Nihon whistled. "You better update your will, idiot."
Kijin shrugged. "Too late now."
Nearby—
Nihon checked his own tab.
MATCH: Nihon Fūma (BK) vs A-Class: Sora Kazehaya
Nihon blinked.
"...Wind user."
Kijin snorted. "Guess they want to see wind fight wind."
In another section—
Nairo stood quietly, reading his projection.
MATCH: Nairo BK-Class vs A-Class: Kurojin
His shadow twitched faintly at his feet.
Across the field, Kurojin saw his own tab light up.
His grin sharpened.
"So he really requested me."