Kenji never thought he'd find himself in a classroom again, but here he is.
The boy was leaning forward, red eyes staring right at the insane doctor pacing around the room. His messy white-hair tousled about as he jerked his head from one corner of the room, to the other.
He had transformed his laboratory — sorry, his evil lair into a makeshift classroom. Apparently, he just had that setting available with the flip of a switch.
With one flick of his wrist, a button press here, and a lever flip there — the entire laboratory transformed into a circular classroom with the teacher at the center, and the students seated all around.
'What other settings does he have with this room?' Kenji curiously thought.
A gaming room would be nice, and maybe a theater. That's what he'd have, at the very least.
"Well then," Erhardt cleared his throat and straightened his back. "I assume none of you have any knowledge of the supernatural — expected of such apes, but worry not! My perfectly advanced cranium can impart my vast compendium of knowledge to you dull primates."
Kenji rolled his eyes, leaning onto his desk and nearly falling asleep. Only for a jolt of electricity to force him back up, the doctor staring at him with a mad grin.
"Tsk. Tsk. Student, as a member of the Choir you must listen — or at least feign to do so! It's what I did in college!" He said with a snicker.
Kenji furrowed his brows, but decided it wasn't worth saying anything to this mad man.
"Now then, let us begin." Erhardt said, the hall dimming to near pitch-black. "I will not waste your time going over every little detail. Not all of you would be a part of Ars Animus, so you need not the nitty-gritty details..."
His lips thinned.
"And honestly, I envy any of you who aren't."
Kenji raised a brow at that. Time and again, from Shō and now Erhardt, there's been this thinly veiled apprehension when it came to Ars Animus. The boy was curious to know, his mind wracked at the possibilities but nothing came up.
Snapping out of his stupor, Erhardt gave back his signature grin and stared.
"In any case, dear primates..." He cleared his throat. "I need you to define something for me."
He looked to the group. "What is a soul?"
Kenji blinked, then glanced at the rest of the group. He had no real answers, so he had to rely on them. Octavia, ever the reliable nerd, raised her hand up high. Erhardt grinned and pointed her way. The green-eyed girl raised, and a spotlight shone down on her.
Her eyes twitched for a moment, up until they dimmed somewhat.
She cleared her throat.
"Ahem" then looked to Doctor Erhardt — or, Kenji supposed, Professor Erhardt in this instance. "It depends on the culture you ask. The Abrahamic belief in a soul rests in its eternal self, and its connection to the one True God. While in Buddhism, there is no such eternity, with a permanent sense of 'self' not at all existing."
Erhardt nodded, and turned to the group — or class — Kenji was unsure what terms to use for this gathering.
"Good. Good. Octopus. Keep parroting Wikipedia without reading the sources yourself like a good student, you!" Erhardt said with a smile.
Octavia's expression broke. Her mouth hung, and her eyes nearly bulged at the comment. "I read no such article online!"
"Haha— I'm joking frau Licked Man, calm down."
Octavia looked as if she'd explode.
"My name is Octavia Aina Lichtmann!" Octavia tried to argue, but the argument died in her throat when she saw everyone else staring at her. Admitting defeat, the girl slumped back onto her seat and grumbled something about needing a Malpractice to cool off.
Kenji had no idea what that was.
"But in essence," Erhardt began, gesturing grandly with his hands, "what Miss Octopus says is true — mostly. A gross oversimplification, mind you. Inaccurate, borderline offensive, yet… not entirely wrong."
He turned to the class, grin sharp as ever. "In the context of the Shroud, the soul becomes something more."
"From here on, as members of the Choir, when one speaks of the soul, one speaks of the very concept of you." The mad doctor jabbed a finger toward each of them in turn. "Your being. Your essence. The sum of all that you are — an abstraction given form in the material, but with thought and will anchored far beyond it."
He raised a finger, grinning. "And here's a shocker — a spoiler, if you will — Herr Plato got it right! Well, mostly."
With a dramatic flick of his wrist, he pulled a nearby lever. A drone descended from above, projecting a holographic display of a vast and endless void — an expanse of impossible infinities twisting within themselves, too immense for mortal comprehension.
"Your soul exists beyond this material plane, beyond dimension itself," Erhardt continued, pacing around the room. "Our data from previous Shroud cases supports this theory. Once, a man successfully transferred the soul of a boy into an automaton — anchoring the threads of being from flesh to steel."
He paused, his tone sharpening. "Across space-time and above it all the same. To destroy a soul is nearly impossible — it would be akin to erasing a fundamental law of existence. In essence, we are all technically immortal. Death is merely eternal unconsciousness. Heaven, a dream you never wake from. Hell, a nightmare that never ends."
Erhardt's grin faded slightly as he turned, hands clasped behind his back. "Unfortunately, the enemies we face do not play by the universe's rules. Lower-tier anomalies cannot touch your soul — but there are things out there, far beyond, that can."
He stopped pacing. The silence that followed was heavy.
"Our understanding of this — of the Shroud, the soul, and everything beyond — is still woefully limited. What I've told you now is the bare minimum. Only the higher ranks know more."
He smirked, tapping his temple. "Well… aside from me, of course. But if I told you the rest, I'd lose my head."
Clearing his throat, Erhardt continued, voice resuming its rhythm like a conductor returning to his symphony.
"Now, one must ask — how does one's soul connect to the Shroud?" He gestured upward as if addressing an unseen cosmos. "Just as your soul projects into the material world, it also extends into the immaterial. But that connection is chaotic — unbound, volatile. Your soul's signal filters through that turbulence before it finds anchor in your body. Your consciousness is a facet of your soul, and your sentience, its reflection."
He paced as he spoke, the cadence of his words weaving between lecture and sermon. "The Shroud is shaped by your sentience, just as it shapes you. A delicate equilibrium exists — every thought you've ever had, every imagined fear, every idle daydream or fantasy is made real within the Shroud. And in turn, it gifts you dreams, nightmares, things to fear — and, of course, anomalies to hunt."
Kenji blinked. "Wait, so you mean—"
"Not all of them, of course!" Erhardt cut in, spinning to face him with a flourish. "Some anomalies are native to our world, but most stem from the Shroud — while others, well…" His eyes glimmered. "Others are theorized to hail from realms beyond even that. The Shroud is but one layer of unreality. There may be others — unreachable, unimaginable."
He nodded as if to himself. "But most are of the Shroud. Understand the Shroud, and you understand them."
He began to pace again, gesturing broadly. "I could go on about unreality — how it exists beyond space and time, how it ignores linear causality, how simply beholding it could scatter your soul into oblivion. But!" He snapped his fingers, grinning. "Let's skip to the good part. The useful part — the one I know you're all dying to hear about."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Psychic powers."
The room froze. All attention was his.
Erhardt chuckled, snapping his fingers again. A drone descended, distributing forms to each of them.
"We all share a link to the Shroud. As long as we can think, that connection exists. Each mind claims a tiny fragment of that infinite expanse — where thoughts become real and imagination manifests. But some minds are… closer than others."
He smiled wickedly. "And only they can truly wield psychic gifts — for better, or worse."
He straightened, pointing dramatically at the group.
"None of you have that!"
A collective groan rose from the class. Erhardt waved it off with mock exasperation.
"Oh, don't pout. It's a good thing! Believe me — our organization can be… cruel to true Psychics."
"I will spare you the details, but in essence, Psychic Gifts are something you are born with. A potential for it to bloom that not everyone has. Some connections to the Shroud are simply higher, stronger, more volatile, and that can cause issues."
"But worry not — this doesn't mean you're without options," Erhardt said, flicking his wrist. "I'll explain once you've all received your forms."
A swarm of drones flew out from their docking ports, weaving through the room like a flock of mechanical birds. Each descended gracefully to deliver a form to the nearest trainee.
When one reached Kenji, it hovered for a moment… then zipped past him, handing the paper to his seatmate instead.
Kenji blinked.
Erhardt laughed, turning toward him with a grin.
"Kendo, Kendo — don't be so greedy!" he chided, as one of the drones drifted close and whispered something into his ear. "You already have your own gifts."
Stepping forward, Erhardt gestured to the class, now each holding their form.
"Allow me to summarize!" he announced, sweeping his hand dramatically. "To achieve resonance with your Shroud Soul, you'll undergo a procedure within a device called the Psychic-Attunement Module — or as we affectionately call it…" His grin widened. "The Coffin."
He flicked a switch. A hologram flickered to life — the image of a sleek, tubular pod filled with translucent fluid, cables and neural conduits snaking toward a head-mounted apparatus.
"Inside this chamber, we'll manipulate your very concept — shifting your connection to the Shroud and granting you pseudo-psychic abilities. Limited, of course." His tone darkened just slightly. "Consider the form a consent waiver. Surprising, I know, but the doves insisted."
He adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing. "Let it be known that the process carries… risks. Corruption, mutation, and in some cases, death. The closer your soul resonates with the Shroud, the more it notices you. Proceed carefully. Once attuned, there is no going back."
He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, voice lighter again. "Write your consent — or leave it blank. The choice is yours."
Erhardt clapped his hands once. "You have all day. When you're done, press the button by your desk and a drone will collect your paper."
He pressed a button on his own console, and with a shimmer of nanites, a chair formed beneath him. Erhardt sat down, crossing one leg over the other.
"Oh, and before I forget," he added, smirking. "I expect your schematics for your STCT by the end of the week. A crude doodle will do — I'll figure out the rest. Consider it your first Choir assignment."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Think of it as… homework."
Kenji looked around the room. A hush had settled over the gathered recruits — a mix of hesitation and quiet resolve. Some lingered over the form, pens hovering above the paper. Others, more certain or more reckless, began to write their names.
He caught sight of Aiden, who scrawled his signature without a second thought, while Octavia simply flipped her page over and left it blank.
Once the last pen stopped moving, Erhardt clapped his hands together, a satisfied grin curling on his face.
"In any case! That concludes our lessons for today!" he announced brightly. "Be sure to submit your assignments by the end of the week, and I'll get started on developing your tools. Feel free to explore the facility to your heart's content — anywhere you shouldn't be able to enter will be sealed, so no worries about accidental trespassing."
He chuckled at his own joke as the doors hissed open, releasing the faint sound of air pressure and freedom. The recruits began to file out in small groups, their conversations hushed but buzzing with nervous energy.
Kenji rose from his seat, ready to follow them, when Erhardt's voice called out again.
"Oh, and Kendo!"
He froze mid-step, turning to see the white-haired scientist grinning his way.
"You won't be undergoing psychic attunement," Erhardt said, leaning casually on his desk, "but I want you present tomorrow when the others do. The Coffin doubles as a sort of MRI — and I'd like to run some scans, see what's going on inside that peculiar head of yours."
Kenji nodded, expression caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant acceptance. "What time?"
"Six sharp!" Erhardt replied cheerfully. "We'll send a notice to your phone if anything changes." He turned his back and began flipping switches on his console. The room shuddered as mechanical arms retracted and walls shifted — the classroom returning to its original lab configuration.
Kenji hesitated. "Do you need my number? I can—"
"No need!" Erhardt interrupted with a wave. "I already have it!"
Kenji stared for a beat. "…Right."
He decided it wasn't worth asking how Erhardt got his number. None of the forms had asked for one, and he doubted the Choir cared about privacy anyway.
'Does privacy even mean anything to these people?' he thought, exhaling a tired sigh.
With that, Kenji turned and stepped out into the corridor, the metallic doors closing behind him with a hiss.
As Kenji stepped into the hallway, he found Shō waiting — arms crossed, expression unreadable. The older man regarded him for a moment, then sighed and motioned for him to follow.
Kenji fell in step beside him as they walked through the neon-lit corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights echoing softly around them.
"I guess the jig is up, huh?" Shō said at last.
"Yeah — wait, for you or for me?"
"For both," Shō replied flatly. "How long have you been doing this? Hunting anomalies for extra cash?"
Kenji hesitated, rubbing his chin in thought. They'd moved to America when he was twelve — and that was the same year he met Corswain.
"Seven years."
"Seven years!?"
Shō stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. He turned sharply toward Kenji, disbelief etched across his face.
"Since you were twelve!?"
Kenji shrugged awkwardly. "Well—" he began, then caught himself. "I... can't exactly tell you, remember? But if I had to be as vague as possible... some guy approached me, offered me a job, and now here I am."
...
'Okay, in hindsight, that sounded really bad,' Kenji grimaced internally.
Shō let out a heavy exhale through his nose, fingers pinching the bridge of it. He fixed his tie, regaining a sliver of composure before speaking again.
"Look, I know I've been a shit older brother," Shō admitted, his voice quieter now. "But I've been trying to support you, in my own way."
Kenji didn't need to be told that. Shō had given him everything — a penthouse suite, free meals, more money than he could ever spend. Material comfort wasn't the issue.
But for someone who had lost everything once before, what Kenji wanted was never luxury. It was reassurance.
"I know," he said softly, turning his gaze away.
Shō's voice hardened again, though it trembled beneath the surface. "Couldn't you just have stayed home? You've already been through enough as a kid — why keep throwing yourself into this? I saw you in that simulation, Kenji. You were terrified when I had you in that hold."
He turned to him fully this time.
"So why stay here? Why didn't you leave?"
Kenji opened his mouth — then stopped. His lips pressed into a thin line, his features hardening. The answer was there, sitting heavy on his tongue, but he had no idea how to tell Shō without it sounding like a wound.
"I did it because I needed to," he finally said.
"Because I didn't want to just sit there like a useless leech while you worked yourself to the bone. Because I wanted to support my big brother — the one who's always working, always spoiling me with crap I don't even need. Because I suck at everything except swinging a bat, and if that's what it takes to reach you, then fuck it."
His voice trembled, but his eyes didn't.
"I'm here because I want to be here. Because I need to be here. And you can't stop me, Shō — because I'm not stopping until you finally come home and rest."
Shō was speechless. "I did all of that for you, and you're still—"
"You don't get it at all!" Kenji's voice cracked as it rose, frustration spilling over like a snapped dam. He stepped back, breathing hard, then forced himself to calm down — barely.
"When Mom left... when Kyoru was sold off... when we got dumped in the States, I felt useless." His voice faltered, but he pushed through. "All I did was cry, wallow in self-pity because I couldn't do anything. But now I can! I can actually do something — something that matters!"
"Don't you get it? I don't want to be a burden!" he snapped, glaring up at his brother. "But you don't get it — how could you? You never tried to sit down and actually understand what I want."
He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.
"So I'll tell you now. I want you to rest — and let me handle things. I'm not weak, you saw that yourself."
Shō stood frozen, hands hidden behind his back — a nervous habit Kenji knew too well. It meant his brother's mind was running a thousand miles a minute, words trapped behind his tongue.
Kenji sighed, disappointment heavy in his chest. Even now, his brother kept his distance. Even now, when Kenji was standing right here — trying to reach him.
'Don't you trust me enough? Am I still not worthy? Useless.'
The word echoed in his mind, not aimed at Shō — but at himself.
"Is that all?" Kenji said quietly. "I'll be heading off, then... big brother."
He walked past him, not needing to look back to know the expression on Shō's face — that familiar storm of guilt and restraint.
Kenji didn't need to see it, he could feel it.
Shō was the only family he had left, after all.