The trio began to wander further down the bustling city street, the vibrant noise of commerce and conversation washing over them. After a few moments of quiet, Sato broke the silence, his brow furrowed in thought.
Sato: Can I have that paper again?
Arien glanced at him, her hand instinctively patting the delicate fabric of her white and yellow dress before she remembered.
Arien: Ah, right. It's in Shiro's hand.
She turned to look behind her, searching for their enigmatic companion. Shiro had initially kept pace, but now he was lagging several steps back, his head tilted slightly as if listening to a distant sound or scanning the crowd for a familiar—or perhaps unfriendly—face. His usual listless demeanor was replaced by a subtle, coiled alertness, the flowing sleeves of his yellow-white shirt shifting with the tension in his shoulders.
Arien, seeing Shiro falling behind yet again, planted her hands on her hips, her initial excitement tinged with exasperation.
Arien: If you don't want to come, then say so, okay, Shiro?
Shiro's gaze, which had been dissecting the shadows between buildings, snapped forward to where Arien and Sato stood waiting. He blinked slowly, the morning light catching the neat white ponytail at the back of his head.
Shiro: Well, I never said that.
With that, Shiro moved toward them. It wasn't his typical lazy amble, but a deliberate, fluid stride that closed the distance between them in seconds without seeming hurried, the hem of his thin knee-length robe whispering against the cobblestones. As he arrived, he reached into the inner pocket of his robe, retrieved the slightly crumpled guild quest paper, and handed it to Sato without a word.
Sato: Well, I didn't get a good look at it back there. Thanks.
The three resumed their walk, but the dynamic had shifted. Sato squinted at the paper, deciphering the guild clerk's formal script. Arien, pushing her mild irritation aside, bounced on the balls of her feet, her eyes sparkling as she scanned storefronts for their next stop. Shiro, however, kept casting subtle glances over his shoulder, his posture taut, the line of his jaw tight. His four-and-a-half-foot katana, secured at his side, seemed to draw his hand closer with each backward look.
Sato: Wow, that's something you two have to get. Well, I think you'll need to head to the woods to find them, right?
He said this while holding the paper back out toward Shiro. Shiro, once again pulled from his surveillance, turned with a slight start. He took the paper silently, his fingers brushing against the parchment before stowing it securely back in his robe.
Arien: I saw another shop over there. Let's go.
Arien, determined to salvage the day's fun, pointed enthusiastically toward a storefront glowing with the soft blue light of enchanted glassware. She led the way, but Sato's attention remained on Shiro. The Artificer, in his practical dark tunic, wore an expression of concern as he fell into step beside his roommate.
Sato: Is there something wrong, Shiro?
Arien looked back at them, her cheerful facade slipping.
Arien: Why? Did something really happen?
Saying that, Arien stopped completely, forcing the group to a halt in the middle of the flowing pedestrian traffic. She turned fully, her earnest eyes searching Shiro's impassive face.
Arien: Should we just go to the academy now?
She asked it quietly, a genuine thread of concern weaving through her voice. Sato nodded in agreement, his own unease mounting, a hand unconsciously drifting toward the harness of the katana on his back.
Sato: You always seem to be looking at something behind us. Everything's all right, right?
Shiro finally turned his head fully forward, away from the unseen threat that seemed to dog their steps. He let out a slow, controlled breath, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction, the fine material of his shirt settling.
Shiro: It's okay. Nothing's wrong. I just feel some unpleasant feeling behind me every time I face forward.
Sato's eyes widened. A "feeling" from Shiro wasn't something to dismiss; it was a predator's instinct.
Sato: Should we head to the academy then? Well, without you, this day out is useless.
Shiro shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible motion.
Shiro: No, I'm all right now.
He took a decisive step ahead, putting himself slightly in front of them, as if consciously placing himself between his friends and the source of his disquiet, the brown fabric of his trousers a stark contrast to the flowing robe.
Shiro: Let's go then.
Sometime earlier, in the academy. Just as Kira Yoshikawa left Professor Veylor's office.
An oppressive silence slammed down in the wake of the man's departure, heavier than the physical pressure that had just vanished. Professor Veylor remained frozen in place, a statue of dread. His katana lay forgotten on the polished wooden floor where it had slipped from his nerveless fingers. Long seconds ticked by, measured only by the frantic pounding of his own heart. Slowly, agonizingly, strength seeped back into his limbs. He staggered to his chair and collapsed into it, the sturdy leather groaning under his weight.
It took Professor Kareth a little more time to catch her breath, the invisible vise around her ribs only gradually loosening. The moment she could move, she jerked upright, whirling toward Veylor, her face pale but etched with fierce, terrified defiance.
Prof. Kareth: WHO THE HELL WAS THAT? Veylor? Answer me.
Veylor, sitting in his chair, slumped forward until his forehead met the solid oak of his desk with a dull thud. He didn't move.
Prof. Kareth: Veylor?
As Professor Veylor's face remained pressed against the wood, a sound escaped him. It started as a low, shuddering gasp, then twisted into a smile, and finally erupted into full, unrestrained laughter.
Prof. Veylor: Ha... haha... hahaha... HAHAHA... HAHAHAHA... HAAAA... HAHAHAHAHA... HAHAHA!
He laughed like a man who had just seen the gallows being built for him—a raw, cracked, and utterly mad sound that filled the spacious office with horror. Kareth took an involuntary step back, her hand drifting toward her own katana's hilt, not understanding this breakdown.
Then, Veylor raised his head. But his eyes stayed downcast, shadowed. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, all humor drained away, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion.
Prof. Veylor: We're done. Forget about that kid. If we didn't make the right choice... the whole academy is done for.
Kareth raised a trembling hand, as if to reach out or to stop his words.
Prof. Kareth: But-
Veylor placed his hands over his face, fingers digging into his temples, and cut her off.
Prof. Veylor: I give it around 3 more years. No, at least 2 years. That's the time we can spend this life.
Prof. Kareth: Then... we've gotta do something?
Hearing that, Veylor finally looked up, his gaze striking Kareth's with the force of a physical blow. The despair in his eyes was absolute.
Prof. Veylor: Do something?
He stood up from his seat, the movement unnervingly smooth, and closed the distance between them. He loomed over her, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
Prof. Veylor: Do what? Run? Kill myself? Beg for mercy? ... Or fight him? Let me tell you, if you're gonna fight him, remember to throw away your life at any time.
He stepped back then, the intensity breaking as he turned and walked toward the door, a man moving in a trance.
Prof. Veylor: Don't speak of this matter with anyone else. I doubt anyone else knows about this other than you and me.
With that, he opened the door, the normalcy of the hallway beyond a stark contrast to the nightmare in the room.
Prof. Veylor: Act like you always were. I'll come up with something.
He stepped through the doorway, his final words floating back, devoid of any real hope.
Prof. Veylor: As always.