The city moved on.
Tokyo always did.
Morning trains screamed through tunnels like nothing had happened. Office workers scrolled through their phones, annoyed by delays that had nothing to do with ruined schools or broken barriers. News anchors spoke calmly about "structural damage" and "controlled demolition," their voices smooth, convincing.
The footage looped. Blurred. Edited.
No swords. No light. No shadow.
Just rubble.
Tobi stood in front of the mirror and barely recognised the person staring back.
The bandages were gone now, replaced by thin scars that refused to fade. Pale lines crossed his chest like memories his body refused to forget. He pressed two fingers lightly against them.
No pain.
That bothered him more than the pain ever did.
He exhaled slowly and turned away.
The sword was not there.
Not physically.
But he could feel it.
Not at his side.
Not in his hands.
Inside.
Waiting.
---
The temporary facility didn't feel like a school.
White walls. Long corridors. Too clean. Too quiet.
Students were scattered into different rooms, schedules rearranged "until further notice." Teachers moved with measured steps, eyes always alert, hands never far from where weapons would be if anyone acknowledged they existed.
No one talked about the attack.
Not directly.
But everyone felt it.
Tobi walked down the hallway, footsteps soft against the polished floor. Conversations died the moment he passed. Some students looked away. Others stared too long, curiosity mixed with fear.
That's him. The one from the ruins. The swordsman.
He hated the word.
At the far end of the hall, Iruka leaned against a window, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like he was bored.
He wasn't.
"You're late," Iruka said without turning.
Tobi stopped beside him. "You were waiting."
Iruka glanced sideways. "Someone has to."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Outside, the city stretched endlessly—buildings stacked like they were daring the sky to fall again.
"…Do you feel it?" Tobi asked quietly.
Iruka's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
Not fear.
Pressure.
Like the world had leaned a little closer.
---
Training resumed that afternoon.
Not combat.
Not sparring.
Control.
Tobi stood at the centre of a reinforced room, markings carved deep into the floor. Sumi sat near the edge, hands resting on her knees, eyes closed as she maintained a thin, nearly invisible barrier.
Her breathing was steady.
Too steady.
"Focus," Yanshi's voice echoed. "No summoning. No force. Just presence."
Tobi closed his eyes.
Immediately, the sword answered.
Light stirred. Shadow followed.
His heartbeat quickened.
"No," Yanshi snapped. "That's instinct. Pull it back."
Tobi tried.
The pressure inside him resisted—not violently, not angrily—but stubbornly, like something that didn't understand why it should obey.
Sweat rolled down his neck.
The floor cracked.
Just a little.
Sumi's eyes opened.
The barrier flickered.
She frowned—not in fear, but strain.
"Tobi," she said softly. "Slow down."
He did.
Too fast.
The pressure collapsed inward instead of outward, knocking the breath from his lungs. He dropped to one knee, coughing, vision swimming.
Silence.
Yanshi didn't move to help him up.
"This," he said calmly, "is your problem."
Tobi looked up, breathing hard.
"You don't explode anymore," Yanshi continued. "You compress. And compression without understanding destroys from the inside."
Ishawa, leaning against the wall, clicked his tongue. "Ouch. Kid didn't even swing and still lost."
Tobi clenched his fist.
Failure burned hotter than pain.
---
Later, as evening settled, the facility grew quieter.
Tobi walked outside alone.
Sumi followed—not immediately, not obviously. Just… when he stopped, she happened to stop nearby.
They stood under an unfinished sky, city lights flickering below like stars that had fallen too far.
"You pushed too hard," she said.
"So did you," he replied.
She didn't deny it.
A faint tremor passed through her hand before she folded it into her sleeve.
Tobi noticed.
He always noticed now.
"…Does it hurt?" he asked.
Sumi hesitated.
"Not the way you think."
That answer sat between them, unfinished.
Somewhere deep inside Tobi, the sword shifted—restless, aware.
This world wasn't done with him.
Not even close.
And far above the city, beyond glass and steel—
Someone watched.
Not applauding.
Not judging.
Waiting.
The stage had been reset.
And Volume 2 had begun.