The moment Professor Veylor left, a shaky announcement echoed through the arena.
Announcer: Ahem... By order of the academy's leadership, the results of the match are decided. Both Lucien Valehart and Shiro Asahina have passed the entrance exam.
The declaration was a bucket of cold water on the embers of the fight, but for Lucien, it was fuel poured on the fire of his humiliation. To be placed on equal footing with that... that creature was unthinkable. It was a stain on his honor. Without a word, his fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood from his palms, he stormed from the arena, his pride in tatters, the image of Shiro's impassive face burned into his mind.
As the days passed, the academy grounds became a fertile field for rumors. Whispers about the fight spread like wildfire, growing more elaborate with each retelling.
Student 1: (Huddled with a group of friends) Did you see how that Shiro moved? That wasn't a normal technique. It was like he wasn't even using mana. It was... something else.
Student 2: The guy who fought without his own katana? He's definitely hiding something. No family, no name, no sword? It's too convenient.
Student 3: But did you see Lucien? He completely lost his composure. When has a Valehart ever been made to look like a fool on a public stage?
Student 4: My cousin was in the front row. He said Shiro was chanting something under his breath before he attacked. Not an Art Style name. Something else. What was that about?
Student 5: I didn't see him fight, but whatever it was, I wouldn't want to face him in combat. Anyone who can make Lucien Valehart that angry has a death wish or power we don't understand.
The rumors cut deeper than any blade. Lucien seethed in silence, avoiding the common areas, his every moment consumed by the memory of his shame.
Lucien (muttering through clenched teeth in the solitude of his room): That worthless peasant... How dare he make a fool of me? How dare they grant him passage? Next time, I'll make sure he regrets ever crossing my path. There will be no professor to save him.
Meanwhile, Shiro had vanished from public view, a ghost in the machine of the academy.
Shiro's Solitude
In the small, functional bathroom of the commoners' dormitory, Shiro stood before a fogged mirror, studying his reflection. The words from the arena echoed in the quiet room.
Shiro: 'Disgrace to every man on the planet,' huh?
He ran his fingers through his unruly, long white hair, which fell almost to his waist. It was a hassle. It got in the way when he slept. It was probably why everyone kept mistaking him for a girl.
Shiro: Hmm... Maybe it's this mop. But cutting it seems like such a trouble. He sighed, the very thought exhausting him.
After a moment's hesitation, a slow, dry chuckle escaped his lips.
Shiro: Well, it's not like I'll die if I trim it.
With the careful, practiced strokes of his personal knife—a tool he clearly knew how to use—he sheared the mass of white hair off in sections until it rested at his shoulders. The weight, both literal and symbolic, lifted.
Shiro: There. Much better. Not too short, not too long.
Though still longer than what most boys wore, the change felt freeing. It was one less thing to think about.
Shiro was, by all accounts, a consummate slacker. His priorities were a simple, sacred trinity: sleeping, eating, and then sleeping some more. The prestige of Shikai Academy—renowned throughout the kingdom for its mana-rich environment and elite combat training—meant less than nothing to him. It was a place that came with expectations, and expectations were bothersome.
When the academy's first official day dawned, the halls flooded with students. Most were from wealthy noble families, their katanas gleaming with hereditary power; only a handful of commoners had managed to pass the grueling exams. Shiro paid this social stratification no mind as he wandered the labyrinthine hallways, his goal singular: find the SR classroom, and hopefully a quiet corner within it.
The academy taught two distinct combat disciplines: Short-Range (SR) and Long-Range (LR). While students could theoretically study both, mastering them simultaneously was nearly impossible. Shiro's performance against Lucien had clearly marked him as SR-oriented, while Lucien, a master of fiery projectiles, was LR to his core.
As Shiro turned a corner, utterly lost, a voice called out from behind him, hesitant and slightly nervous.
???: Um... excuse me? Could you help me find the first-year SR classroom?
Shiro turned to see a girl with striking crimson hair, cropped short in a practical yet stylish cut. Her eyes shone like morning frost—a pale, clear blue. Her porcelain skin seemed to glow even in the dim hallway. She wore the same standard-issue uniform as Shiro.
His first thought was not about her beauty, but pure, unadulterated confusion: Why is she wearing the same clothes as me? (Typical of Shiro—he'd barely registered receiving the academy uniform the day before.)
Where others might have been struck by her appearance, Shiro's next thought was even more baffling: Why is she talking to me?
Hopeless, truly.
Shiro: Hmm... I'm looking for that room too. He offered a faint, noncommittal smile.
Crimson-haired girl: Oh! Then... she said, her face brightening with relief. Shall we look together?
Baffled but too lazy to refuse, Shiro nodded. What followed was thirty minutes of aimless wandering, a shared journey of wrong turns and dead ends that somehow didn't feel entirely unpleasant. Finally, they found the correct door, only to hear the distinct sound of a lesson already in progress from the other side.
They hesitated at the threshold. The girl froze, panic flashing in her blue eyes upon hearing the professor's voice. Recognizing her distress—and perhaps wanting to just get the awkward standing-around over with—Shiro, despite his slacker nature, pushed the door open and entered without a second thought, the girl following close behind like a startled shadow.