Shiro shuffled along the stone path, his stomach producing a continuous, low growl that sounded like an angry bear trapped in his abdomen. The upperclassman—Ashford—walked beside him, his polished boots clicking a rhythm of pure, unearned confidence. Even his uniform looked expensive; the dark fabric was crisper, the silver buttons gleamed brighter under the sun, and it fit him like it was tailored just for this moment of annoying Shiro.
The guy had that classic, infuriating noble look—perfectly styled brown hair that fell artfully over one sharp, assessing golden eye, and pale skin that had clearly never seen a day of real labor. He moved like a show-off too, every step calculated and graceful.
Shiro: Fast. Not strong. Hm.
Ashford's eye twitched almost imperceptibly at the lazy, analytical comment.
Ashford: Say something.
Shiro: No. But why are we here?
Shiro's bored gaze drifted across the empty training field. It wasn't completely deserted. Four students lurked near the edge—two girls whispering excitedly behind their hands, their eyes wide with the prospect of seeing a fight, and two boys trying to look casual and failing miserably. Vultures, hoping for a show.
Shiro: If nothing's happening, I'm gonna leave.
He turned to walk away, his priority list clearly reading: 1. Food. 2. Everything else. But before he could take a second step, Ashford's hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice.
Ashford: What's the rush? Actually, I asked you here so I can have a mock battle with you. Get ready.
Shiro (no hesitation): Can't do. Bye then.
The moment Shiro turned his back, Ashford struck. His blade was a silver flash in the sunlight, a deadly arc that should have connected with Shiro's retreating back. But Shiro, without even seeming to look, simply wasn't there anymore. He had sidestepped with an almost preternatural casualness.
Ashford: I wasn't asking.
With a dramatic flourish that made Shiro sigh internally, Ashford tossed the same ridiculously long katana Shiro had used against Lucien. It stabbed into the packed earth between them, the hilt vibrating with a low hum.
Ashford: First, before starting a battle, we share our names. It's a matter of respect. So, I'm Rowan Ashford, third-year student at Shikai Academy, and from the Primarch Assembly leader of the 3rd squad.
Shiro stared at the sword like it was the most annoying, troublesome object he'd ever been forced to interact with.
Shiro: Ahhhhh, this is a pain in the ass. Do I really have to?
Ashford's smirk widened, clearly enjoying Shiro's petulance.
Ashford: Go on, introduce yourself. Oh, and don't worry— he gestured to the runes carved around the field's perimeter. —even if you get critically hurt here, you can't die. You'll automatically heal by the time you leave the area. It's a nifty little artifact.
With the world's most dramatic, put-upon sigh, Shiro yanked the sword from the ground.
Shiro (monotone, not caring): Name: Shiro Asahina. Seventeen years old. First-year at Shikai Academy.
Ashford's grin was predatory as he fell into a relaxed but ready stance.
Ashford: So let's fight. Give it all you've got. Don't hold back, just like last time.
Shiro: Whatever.
Shiro dropped into his lazy, unorthodox stance—and then suddenly hissed in shock as a thin, clean cut appeared on his left arm, blood welling up instantly. He hadn't even seen Ashford move.
Shiro (shocked): What the—?
Ashford twirled his own, much shorter katana, looking way too pleased with himself.
Ashford: Didn't I say before? You can go all out. Not that it matters. Even if you go all out, you can't defeat me, of course.
Shiro's eye twitched. Annoyance, a far more potent motivator than pride, flared within him. He muttered two quiet, unintelligible words under his breath—the same strange whisper from his fight with Lucien—and then exploded forward in a blur of motion.
Ashford just laughed, easily parrying the high-speed thrust.
Ashford: I've already seen that move. Use a different one. I know you've got more. Let's make this fight fun.
Gritting his teeth, Shiro feinted left, then came up with a sharp, powerful upward slash aimed at Ashford's guard. It was a good move, a clever one. But Ashford was on a different level. He casually deflected it and, in the same motion, struck Shiro's right shoulder with the pommel of his sword. A sickening numbness spread through Shiro's arm, and his grip on the long katana went limp. It was a disabling blow.
But Shiro was about to lose control for a different reason. Not because of the pain or the tactical disadvantage.
Because Ashford had said it would only take five minutes.
Holding his hunger any longer would be worse than death. Shiro was a prime example of the axiom: All of the other time, everything's funny. But when Shiro gets hungry, nothing is funny.
His entire demeanor shifted. The laziness evaporated, replaced by a chilling focus. He stood tall, his body angling slightly to the side, his numb right arm hanging uselessly at his flank. His left hand now held the long katana near his waist, the grip sure and natural. His head tilted up a fraction, his eyes sharpening. The guy who was right-handed until a moment ago had become left-handed in an instant, and it felt terrifyingly correct.
Then, those two quiet, damning words:
Shiro: ******'s Blade.
Ashford: Why? Already over? Ah, maybe I overestimated yo—
Blood sprayed from Ashford's chest—a fine mist that painted the air red. But when he looked down, there was no wound. No pain. Shiro stood three steps away, his sword clean, having sheathed it in a movement too fast to perceive.
Ashford touched his unharmed chest, his smirk finally gone, replaced by genuine astonishment.
Ashford: What did you do?
Shiro (dead serious, his voice cold): Just like you said, I'm done holding back. I need this over quick. I've got my meat bun waiting for me, and you're not worth missing it for.
(He didn't say Ashford was weak. But when Shiro was this hungry, nothing else mattered. Not pride, not curiosity, not even a fight. The only thing that existed was the void in his stomach.)
Ashford burst out laughing, the sound full of genuine delight and newfound respect.
Ashford: Is that so?
Then he got serious, the air around him growing heavy. He raised his sword high.
Ashford: Art: Earth. Evolve: Gravity! Third Form: Anchorfall!
The ground within a ten-foot circle around Ashford cracked and cratered, as if an invisible, massive weight had just crushed everything downward into a pit—except Shiro, who'd noticed the faint, shimmering line marking the area's edge a split second before and had stepped nimbly outside of it.
Ashford didn't look surprised. He just smiled.
Ashford: Second Form: Skybind!
Shiro's feet abruptly left the ground. He floated helplessly in midair, two feet up, his body weightless and unmoored. He flailed for a moment, a fish out of water.
Ashford: I think you know what the third form of mine does, and that's why you ran from it. But I guess it's your first time seeing the Skybind form, haha! I think it's most people's first time. Not a lot of people know that I have a form like this. It levitates anything I touch until I say so. Cool, right?
Shiro gave him the most profoundly disgusted look a human face could possibly convey.
Shiro: Yeah. So I lost. Can I go now?
Ashford blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh.
Ashford: Ah... oh... yeah, okay. See you later.
Shiro: No thanks.
Ashford: Oh, and take that katana with you. You don't have one, right? Think of it as a gift from us.
Shiro looked at the sword suspiciously, as if it were a trap.
Shiro: Okay, I guess.
(But wasn't this school property? Was this even allowed?)
As Shiro stomped off toward the cafeteria, his single-minded purpose restored, a figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.
???: Hmmm... Interesting.
Ashford: So, did you gain anything from that useless fight, Professor Veylor?
Professor Veylor emerged, his coat rustling like dry leaves. His stone-grey eyes followed Shiro's retreating form.
Professor Veylor: Yes. Thanks for your cooperation.
Ashford: He's something else, isn't he?
Professor Veylor: He did say something. It's not an Art Style chant... it's something else. A technique. An old one.