The bell rang across Yokosaki Vocational High, clear and sharp, echoing through a courtyard that had finally learned how to breathe again.
No shouting.
No fists.
Just whispers.
Akira noticed it the moment he stepped through the gates. The way conversations dipped when he passed. The way people pretended not to stare while doing exactly that. He kept his headphones around his neck, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, moving like he always did—steady, unreadable.
Kenji followed a few steps behind, arguing with Nikki about whether a half-eaten breakfast sandwich still counted as food.
"It does," Kenji insisted. "It's just… pre-loved."
Nikki wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting."
Vincent trailed behind them, hands in his pockets, eyes up. He never looked like he cared—but he watched everything. Corners. Groups. The way people shifted when the four of them moved together without even meaning to.
It felt like a normal morning.
Until it wasn't.
Two new students walked through the gates.
Heads turned almost immediately.
The first girl stepped forward like the world was something she expected to wrestle with. Pink hair caught the light, tied loosely back, gym shoes scuffing the concrete as if she didn't care what the ground thought of her. A long bag was strapped across her back, wrapped carefully in cloth—too long and too straight to be anything but a weapon.
Miylen paused beneath the school sign, squinting at it like it had personally offended her.
So this is civilization, she thought. Looks loud.
A few meters behind her walked someone entirely different.
Onori Genesis moved with quiet precision, every part of her uniform crisp and intentional. Heart-shaped glasses rested on her nose, catching the morning light. Her eyes were calm, observant, taking in the same chaos Miylen frowned at—but without judgment.
"…It's livelier than the dojo," Onori murmured to herself.
The two girls didn't speak to each other. They didn't need to.
Strangers, walking side by side into the same echoing halls, carrying strength shaped by very different worlds.
In Class 1-B, the teacher cleared his throat.
"Alright, everyone. We have two new transfer students joining us today. Miylen and Onori Genesis. Treat them well."
Miylen lifted two fingers in a lazy peace sign. "Yo. I like trees and fighting. Don't touch my stuff."
A ripple of awkward laughter spread through the room.
Onori bowed politely, her movements smooth and respectful. "It's nice to meet you all. I'll do my best."
Akira leaned back in his chair, eyes on them both. Kenji leaned closer and muttered, "School gets weirder every semester."
Nikki nudged him. "You said that about us too."
Vincent smirked faintly, but said nothing.
By lunchtime, the four of them sat under their usual tree. The day was quiet enough to feel suspicious.
Across the courtyard, Miylen perched on top of a bench, eating like she hadn't seen food in days. Crumbs fell freely. She didn't care.
Nearby, Onori was surrounded—girls asking about her glasses, her calm demeanor, her hair. She answered each question gently, smiling without trying.
Akira watched them both.
"They're different," he said.
Nikki nodded. "Yeah. But different survives here. Sometimes."
Vincent shrugged. "Or it doesn't. Not our problem."
Kenji laughed. "You say that about everyone."
The bell rang, but Akira's gaze lingered a moment longer.
That night, the Genesis dojo was quiet.
Onori swept the wooden floors alongside her parents, the familiar rhythm grounding her. She paused mid-motion, listening—not to sounds, but to memories. The echoes of past matches. The weight of discipline pressed into every plank.
Her father's voice surfaced in her mind.
Your blade is your heart. Strike without clarity, and you hurt yourself first.
She nodded to no one in particular and kept sweeping.
Across the city, Miylen trained alone in a park. Her staff cut through the air in wild, unrestrained arcs. She spun, kicked up dust, lost her footing, and laughed as she hit the ground.
"Still sloppy," she muttered, pushing herself back up.
She tried again.
Grandma would be proud, she thought.
Different paths. Same fire.
The next day, Akira was heading to class when movement behind the gym caught his eye.
Miylen.
Three delinquents circled her, overconfident, careless. She wasn't angry. She was smiling.
One rushed in.
She spun, swept his legs, redirected another's momentum with the end of her staff. The third barely had time to react before he hit the ground.
All three stayed down.
Miylen stretched, satisfied.
Across the courtyard, Onori stepped out of the dojo room, wooden sword in hand. Her calm gaze followed Akira's line of sight—then shifted to him.
Their eyes met.
Akira smirked, just slightly.
Not impressed.
Interested.
This school, he thought, just got more complicated.
And Yokosaki had never been kind to quiet days.