My name is Kurogane Akira.
Rookie Agent of the International Dream Hazard Agency.
Before we were allowed to participate in real Nightmareisation operations, there was one absolute requirement:
One full year of training.
And for us—
That year was hell.
Every morning began the same way.
Seven of us stood inside the combat hall, weapons in hand, bodies wrapped in fresh bandages layered over yesterday's bruises. The air always smelled faintly of iron and disinfectant. Blood never quite left the floor.
And standing across from us—
Was Akirawa.
Alone.
No countdown.
No instructions.
No mercy.
He would look at us with that tired, cutting gaze and say only one thing:
"Come at me."
Then—
Pain.
Every day was a one-versus-seven.
We attacked together.
We coordinated.
We shouted plans over each other.
It never mattered.
Akirawa dismantled us like broken machinery.
Ren always charged first.
Every single time.
He hit like a runaway train—raw strength, endless stamina.
And every single time, he flew even farther, his body slamming into walls hard enough to crack reinforced plating.
The Misoke twins tried overwhelming force.
Two monsters moving as one.
Akirawa turned their own power against them—redirecting, unbalancing, forcing them into each other's blind spots. Strength meant nothing without control.
Kaito calculated.
Adapted.
Adjusted.
And still went down before he could finish a full analysis, swept off his feet by techniques that refused to follow a pattern.
Weapons shattered.
Training floors splintered.
Blood stained the mats so often that no one bothered cleaning it immediately anymore.
Akirawa never held back.
He never praised improvement.
He never acknowledged progress.
He would simply look down at us—
And say:
"Again."
Day by day, something began to change.
We stopped charging blindly.
Stopped panicking when plans collapsed.
Stopped relying on raw instinct alone.
We learned to read movement.
To adapt mid-fight.
To dodge with precision.
We learned our weapons—not as tools, but as extensions of ourselves.
Weeks blurred into months.
We still lost.
Every day.
But we lasted longer.
One minute.
Then three.
Then five.
Then ten.
And one morning—
After we collapsed onto the cracked floor, lungs burning, muscles screaming—
Akirawa looked at us for a long moment.
Then he said:
"You're no longer dead weight."
That was his way of saying we passed.
Our rookie training period was over.
That same night, the base alarms screamed.
Red light flooded the corridors.
A massive projection filled the command room—twisted imagery bleeding across the air.
A Nightmare.
Its form resembled a clown, but nothing about it was human. Limbs bent at impossible angles. Joints reversed. A grin stretched far beyond what flesh should allow, laughter warping the surrounding streets into chaos.
Damage reports scrolled rapidly.
City infrastructure collapsing.
Civilian casualties rising.
Dreamer location—unconfirmed.
Viran Varanasi stood at the center of the room, expression calm, voice steady.
"…Classification confirmed," he said. "D-Rank Nightmare Incident."
He turned slightly.
"Akirawa. You'll oversee."
Akirawa clicked his tongue but stepped forward.
Viran's gaze shifted to us.
"You cadets have completed your rookie training. This will be your first mission."
The room fell silent.
"D-Rank incidents you cadets can handle it," Viran continued. "And nearly every citizen is evacuated. An elite agent will supecitizen"Locate the dreamer, minimize the damage"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Akirawa will intervene only if escalation exceeds D-Rank parameters."
Akirawa's jaw tightened.
"…Fine."
We stood behind him, weapons in hand.
Bodies aching.
Instincts sharpened by a year of brutality.
Somewhere out there, deep within the city—
The clown laughed.
And just like that—
Our first real mission began.