The conclusion of the Academy Tournament had not brought the school year to a calming halt; rather, it felt like the entire campus was still holding a breath, waiting for the next eruption. The air, usually thick with the low-grade anxiety of competition, was now charged with an electric awareness. Every student felt the shift—the school rivalries were settled, and now, the path stretched outward toward something unknown and significantly more dangerous.
The immediate aftermath was, paradoxically, a time of deep, healing camaraderie. The 1^{st}-year dorm floor was littered with crumpled compression bandages and empty energy drink cans. Haru, still moving with the stiff, careful dignity of a man recovering from a full-body structural failure, spent his morning regaling Aiko and Kai with exaggerated tales of his near-fatal moments in the quarterfinals.
"It's a good thing I have natural padding, otherwise Reiji's brute force would have literally split me in two," Haru declared, wincing as he reached for a dropped slipper. He paused, looking around the room with a theatrical sigh. "I hear talk that the 3^{rd}-year representatives were almost scouted by a professional dojo just based on their tournament performance. So, by association, I was almost scouted too. That's how fame works, right? Proximity to greatness."
Aiko, who was meticulously organizing her post-training nutrient packets, didn't even look up. "Haru, proximity to greatness is what got you kicked out of the winners' bracket in the first place. And if you don't put those used bandages in the bin, your proximity to a swift, painful end will increase exponentially."
Kai, sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, was oblivious to the banter. He was performing his own internal assessment, a calm review that had replaced his old habit of frantic, nervous calculation. He was analyzing Riku's final match against Hayato Kurogane—a duel of such elegant savagery that it had redefined the very concept of martial perfection for him. Riku's decisive moment, the uncalculated, powerful counter, had been a direct consequence of their own semifinal clash. Riku had accepted the lesson: sometimes, perfection lies in the total, unreserved commitment to an imperfect blow.
"Don't stop moving forward," Riku's words echoed in Kai's mind, a constant, motivating presence. The loss no longer felt like a ceiling, but a clear, measurable doorway. He needed to stabilize the golden Aura; he needed to make the moment of perfect commitment his baseline, not his peak.
Later, during a grueling but relatively standard morning training session, Haru attempted to prove he was truly on the same wavelength as the other two by mimicking Kai's intense focus. Kai had developed a habit of taking an "analytical stance" before starting a sequence: eyes closed, breathing slowed to an almost meditative rhythm, Aura drawn inward. Haru copied the posture perfectly—head down, arms slightly raised, feet planted—but completely failed to account for his own innate, structural clumsiness.
When he attempted to rise from the stance, his knees buckled inward, and he pitched forward with a startled cry, falling flat on his back with a loud, wooden thwack.
The sound was so ridiculous, the sight so unexpected, that even the perpetually serious Instructor Tanaka, who was demonstrating a complex counter-throw twenty feet away, stopped dead in his tracks. Tanaka watched Haru flail on the mat for a silent, agonizing moment, his expression slowly dissolving into disbelief, then morphing into pure, helpless mirth. The stern, battle-hardened instructor covered his mouth, shoulders shaking as he nearly choked on a soundless burst of laughter, forcing him to turn away to regain his composure. It was a light moment, a release valve after the high tension of the tournament, and it reminded the students that even their austere mentor was, underneath the layers of discipline, human.
The brief period of levity ended abruptly during the afternoon's advanced theory class. The room was tense yet expectant; the students were waiting for the inevitable debriefing on the coming District Tournament. Tanaka, having fully recovered his dry, serious demeanor, stood behind the podium, his face betraying nothing.
"Settle down," Tanaka commanded, his voice slicing through the low buzz of conversation. "The District Tournament preparation is ongoing, but there has been an immediate change of priority."
He adjusted the sleeve of his uniform, his movements sharp and precise. "The Ministry of Martial Education has sent an official, urgent notice. This is not a request; this is a directive. The National Youth Selection Exams will be held next month. The top ten students from each recognized academy across the entire region—including our own—will be invited to compete."
The room went completely silent. It was a silence heavier than any reprimand. Haru, who had been attempting to inconspicuously text Aiko, froze mid-thumb movement, his mouth slightly ajar. The silence was instantly replaced by a wave of sharp, panicked murmuring.
"The Selection? What is that?" "Is this even more brutal than the District Tournament?" "Will Riku be there?" "Is it dangerous?"
Tanaka let the questions swirl for a moment before slapping his palm flat on the podium, forcing immediate quiet.
"The Selection is mandatory for those chosen. It supersedes all other regional tournaments," Tanaka stated. He looked around the room, his eyes sharp and analytical, before resting his gaze directly on Kai, who was sitting upright, radiating intense, silent concentration.
Tanaka offered a small, almost imperceptible curl of the lip, a gesture that was half smirk, half challenge. "Looks like your little nap during training is over, lazy genius. The world has decided your analytical skills are now required."
The implication hung heavy in the air: the Selection was the real prize, the true goal that made the academy tournament look like a preliminary warm-up.
Later that evening, in the quiet, dust-filled sanctity of the faculty lounge—a room smelling perpetually of stale coffee and old paperwork—Tanaka and Headmaster Ren discussed the notice in private, the tone of their voices low and grave.
Headmaster Ren, a man whose presence usually filled the room with quiet institutional authority, looked unusually worried. He held the official notice in his hand, a heavy, embossed document that looked more like a military decree than an educational flyer.
"This is too soon, Tanaka. They usually wait until the summer break for the formal call-up," the Headmaster muttered, placing the document on the worn mahogany table. "We haven't even had time to fully debrief the students on the potential risks of the Selection."
Tanaka leaned back, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his forgotten cup of tea. "Risk is their specialty, Headmaster. The Selection isn't a competition; it's a government evaluation. A massive, high-stakes funnel designed to find the martial prodigies capable of serving as the nation's elite Guardians."
He ran a hand across the stubble on his jaw. "We've known about the Guardians since we opened the academy doors, but we rarely speak of them. Their mandate is not to fight other students, or even other schools. Their mandate is to protect key national sectors—infrastructure, power grids, research facilities—from supernatural threats. They hunt monsters, corrupted fighters, and the unexplained 'anomalies' that normal military or police forces can't handle."
The Headmaster sighed, running a hand over his face. "The kind of threats that Renji Saito is likely to become if he continues down that path."
"Exactly," Tanaka confirmed, his voice cold. "The Selection is designed to identify the children with the raw, untainted Aura—the potential to be forged into weapons capable of dealing with the absurd. And you know who is currently radiating the purest, most unique signature we've seen in a decade."
They both looked toward the window, the unspoken name Kai hanging between them.
Tanaka frowned, his personal turmoil evident. "So they're recruiting again. I hoped they'd wait another year. Kai isn't ready for that kind of mental warfare yet. He needs more time to integrate his logic and his instinct."
Headmaster Ren pushed himself up from his chair, walking to the window that overlooked the silent, darkening training grounds. "The world's changing faster than we thought, Tanaka. The anomalies are increasing. Our students are growing faster, too. The next generation has to be ready, even if that means facing the abyss earlier than we would like."
Tanaka pushed his chair back, the sound scraping loudly on the floor. "Then my job is no longer to coach them, Headmaster. It's to ensure they survive the recruitment process."
Back in the dorms, the discussion about the Selection raged in a low, intense volume. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by the familiar friction between the three contrasting personalities.
Aiko was the voice of cool, pragmatic caution, her fingers flying over her tablet, cross-referencing military service statistics with high-level martial arts injuries. "It's too soon. The statistics show a dramatic increase in operational risk for Guardians recruited before the age of eighteen. We are still students. Our primary goal is structured growth. This is a premature deployment into high-risk variables."
Haru, on the other hand, was vibrating with a chaotic, glorious blend of terror and ambition. He jumped up, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement. "Too soon? Aiko, this isn't school! This is destiny! This is our chance to ditch the uniforms and get those cool black-ops uniforms! We're talking about fighting monsters! I'm born for this! I'm the comedic relief who becomes shockingly powerful when it matters! I need this storyline!"
Aiko rolled her eyes, slamming her tablet down. "You're the one who breaks his own nose trying to stretch, Haru. You are born for a sensible desk job, not for fighting interdimensional anomalies."
The argument spiraled, pulling in themes of honor, duty, and self-preservation. Kai sat silently, listening to the data of their debate—the calculated prudence versus the chaotic zeal. He found logic in both arguments, yet neither fully captured the burning necessity he felt deep in his core.
Finally, the arguing exhausted itself, and Haru, sensing the weight of Kai's silence, stopped his pacing.
"Okay, okay, serious question, man," Haru said, the last vestiges of his joking fading. He walked over and looked Kai directly in the eye, his gaze unusually steady. "You in or out, Kai? This is your choice. You don't owe the school anything."
Kai met his gaze. He didn't need to consult his System; the answer was already a fundamental part of his being. He stood up, his posture unconsciously adopting the balanced, disciplined stance Riku had taught him. The bronze medal from the tournament felt cold and small in his pocket.
"I am in," Kai stated, his voice calm, clear, and utterly resolute. "If there's something beyond this school—beyond technique, beyond perfection, something that requires the absolute limit of my commitment—I need to see it. I need to face it. I'll join. I have to stabilize the golden Aura, and the only way to get that data is to challenge the unknown."
His calm, unwavering tone instantly silenced both Aiko and Haru. There was no boastfulness in his voice, no ambition for fame. Just a profound, almost terrifying necessity. They could feel the shift in him—the analytical machine had been replaced by a quiet warrior, ready to walk toward the abyss simply because it was the only way forward.
The next day, the atmosphere at the academy was heavy with the pressure of a national summons. The official list of candidates for the Selection Exams was posted on the main announcement board outside the main hall.
The student body converged on the board like iron filings to a magnet, whispering fiercely, their competitive spirit immediately re-ignited by the new, national scale of the rivalry.
Riku's name was unsurprisingly at the very top of the list, marked in bold, recognized as the primary representative. Below him were Daichi, and the two 3^{rd}-year strategists, Tetsuo and Kumi, names associated with proven skill and reliability.
Further down the list, in the sixth slot, was Kai's name. Many of the upperclassmen looked at the placement with confusion, envy, and a grudging respect. "That 1^{st}-year made it? The one who fought Riku? He lost! He shouldn't be that high!"
But the judges had seen the Aura data, not just the final point tally. They saw the potential.
The list stretched to the bottom, the final two spots a point of feverish tension. Aiko's name secured the ninth slot, a testament to her flawless technique and defensive prowess. And, clinging to the final tenth spot by the sheer virtue of his chaotic, unpredictable presence—the one factor Renji Saito himself had pointed out—was Haru.
Haru let out a whoop of triumph that echoed through the marble hallway, instantly dampening the envy of the 2^{nd}-year who had missed the cut. "I told you! Proximity to greatness! I'm in!"
A faint tension brewed among the students—rivalry, envy, and anticipation all mixed with the low hum of fear. They were going to the big show.
Meanwhile, far above the celebratory chaos of the academy, in the quiet desolation of the surrounding hills, unseen figures in dark, tactical uniforms were watching the academy through specialized surveillance equipment. They were not instructors or competitors; they were the detached, silent personnel of the Ministry—the Selection Observers.
One figure, standing rigidly at attention, spoke into a subtle, discreet communicator embedded in his collar. His voice was clinical and devoid of human emotion.
"Data confirmed. Subject #07—referencing Kai Takasugi—demonstrated the required awakening potential during the final match. The Golden Aura flare was precisely 2.01 seconds at 98\% purity, confirming the theoretical match with the old records."
The reply, distorted slightly by the communicator's low-frequency static, came back instantly.
"Understood. Subject #07 is a high-priority asset. Maintain passive surveillance. No contact until the final stage. Is the subject preparing to enter the Selection?"
"Affirmative. The subject has expressed unwavering commitment to participation. The team is aware of the Guardian mandate, but they remain unaware of the true nature of the tests. Subject #07 remains committed to stabilizing his potential."
The Observer adjusted the thermal scope, zooming in on the figure of Kai standing near the announcement board, his expression focused and serene.
"Understood. The Selection will reveal everything we need to know about the new generation."
The scene ended not with a bang, but with a faint, metallic, ominous hum—a low, grinding sound that suggested vast, bureaucratic machinery was beginning to turn, pulling the fate of the young fighters into its complex gears. The world beyond the school was officially in motion.
Kai retreated from the celebratory crowds, needing the cool, quiet solitude of the upper campus. He found himself beneath a lone, majestic cherry tree—a stark reminder of the peaceful growth that was now being violently accelerated. He held his Honorary Medal in his hand, the small bronze weight feeling immense.
He looked toward the distant city lights, a brilliant, cold sea of artificial light that seemed to stretch into infinity, representing the vast, unknown world the Selection was about to force him to face. He thought about Renji Saito's crimson Aura—the shadow of what happens when power is divorced from ethics—and Riku's perfect blue discipline. He was the neutral variable between the two, an analytical blank slate ready to be written upon by the conflict.
He closed his eyes, the cool wind blowing gently across his face, a final, soft breeze before the impending storm.
His inner thoughts, calm and precise, closed the chapter, marking the formal end of the beginning and the start of a perilous, essential path.
"The tournament tested my strength… but this will test who I really am. It will test the ultimate limit of my commitment. I will find the data I need, no matter the cost."