Imperial Falconry Institute- Grand Hall
The Main Hall of the Imperial Falconry Institute had been built to make numbers feel insignificant.
1,642 applicants came to the Institute that day.
It rose like a cathedral of authority—tiered seating carved from white alloy-stone, reinforced with transparent crystal panels that doubled as data screens when activated.
Imperial falcon crests lined the upper walls, their wings etched in old calligraphy and modern circuitry alike, a marriage of tradition and surveillance.
Above, the ceiling arched high and dark, threaded with dormant holographic projectors and thin bands of light that pulsed faintly, like a restrained heartbeat.
This was not a place meant for comfort.
It was meant to remind you that you were small—and that the Empire was not.
Applicants filtered in from every entrance, their voices echoing briefly before being swallowed by the hall's scale.
Seats filled in waves, clusters forming instinctively: noble houses together, corporate heirs together, old military bloodlines sitting as though they had rehearsed it.
And then there were the gaps.
Ichiro Yoshima sat alone.
Not because he chose to.
No one sat near him.
The empty seats around him were conspicuous, a quiet radius of avoidance that followed him like an invisible boundary.
Whispers floated just loud enough to be heard, then cut themselves off when he turned his head even slightly.
"That's him."
"Yakuza."
"They say he killed Imperial Agents."
"Don't stare—what if he notices?"
Despite that, glances lingered.
Some of the girls stole looks they didn't bother hiding, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, the calm stillness in his posture.
There was something cinematic about him, the kind of presence that felt lifted from a forbidden film—dangerous, detached, impossible not to look at.
Bad idea, their instincts warned.
Still, they looked.
He remained unmoved, hands resting loosely in his lap, gaze forward, as though the murmurs were no more than ambient noise.
Then the hall shifted again.
Akira Hayashi entered.
She walked down the central aisle alone, footsteps steady against the polished floor.
Conversations faltered.
Heads turned.
She drew attention without trying—her bearing composed, her expression calm, her presence carrying the quiet gravity of someone who had endured far too much to be impressed by stares.
The academy uniform suited her perfectly, its severe lines softened only by the way she wore it, as though it were an extension of herself rather than a mold imposed upon her.
To many, she looked unreal.
The uncrowned champion.
The last Hayashi.
The girl who walked away from victory and survived a massacre.
Some gazed at her with admiration bordering on devotion.
Others watched her the way people watched a storm—beautiful, dangerous, best admired from a distance.
Whispers followed her just as they had in the courtyard.
"She's even prettier in person."
"I heard the finals were rigged after she left."
"No—she could've won. That's what makes it terrifying."
"Would you sit next to her?"
"…I don't think I'd dare."
Akira scanned the rows briefly, eyes flicking over occupied seats, over clusters too tight with lineage and expectation.
Then she stopped.
Next to Ichiro Yoshima.
The empty seats around him stood out even more from this angle.
She stepped into the row.
Ichiro noticed immediately.
For the first time since entering the hall, his composure wavered—not visibly, not enough for anyone else to catch, but enough that he felt it.
His attention snapped to her as she stopped beside him.
She turned slightly.
"Is this seat taken?"
Her voice was calm, polite. Nothing guarded. Nothing knowing.
That was when it struck him.
This was not intentional.
She hadn't chosen him. She hadn't recognized him. She had simply seen an empty seat.
Ichiro hesitated for half a second—then shook his head once.
"No."
She nodded in thanks and sat down.
Just like that.
No tension. No significance on her side. The moment he had built in his mind dissolved quietly, leaving something almost embarrassing in its place.
He adjusted his posture, forcing himself to settle.
Then she spoke again, softly enough that only he could hear.
"I know your father," she said. "I owe him a great deal. Please give him my thanks when you see him."
Ichiro turned his head this time, just slightly.
Her expression was sincere. Unburdened by implication.
He nodded.
"I will."
That was all.
No more words followed.
No acknowledgment of rumors, of bloodlines, of the history that hovered just out of reach.
Around them, the hall continued to fill.
When it seemed nearly complete, a stir rippled through the entrance.
Another applicant rushed in—late, unmistakably so.
He moved with easy confidence despite it, long strides measured, coat immaculate. He was tall, elegant in the way of old nobility, features refined, smile disarming.
He bowed lightly toward the hall as a whole.
"My apologies," he said warmly. "Traffic was… unforgiving."
Laughter followed.
Several girls near the front actually squealed before covering their mouths, faces flushed.
"He smiled at us."
"Did you see that?"
"Unbelievable…"
A few rows back, someone groaned loudly enough to be heard.
"Are you kidding me?" a boy muttered. "Why are there so many good-looking people in this batch? Are we here to become Samurai Agents or start a modeling agency?"
A ripple of nervous laughter broke the tension.
Ichiro didn't look back.
Akira didn't either.
A flash of recognition spread a second too late.
It began with the crest.
Subtle, but unmistakable once seen—the lacquered pin at the elegant applicant's collar, rendered in deep imperial blue and silver thread.
Not ornamental.
Not ceremonial.
Political.
Whispers sharpened.
"…Wait."
"That crest—no way."
"Isn't that—?"
"Minister of Defense Arakawa's house symbol."
A pause, then disbelief.
"He has a son?"
"I thought he was stationed overseas."
"No, that was years ago. This has to be him."
The realization settled unevenly across the hall. Where Ichiro's presence inspired caution and rumor, this one inspired something closer to awe. Power worn lightly. Authority inherited rather than seized.
The young man—Mitsui Arakawa—stopped walking.
Right beside Ichiro and Akira.
The timing was deliberate.
He didn't sit. Didn't speak at first. He simply looked down at Ichiro with an expression that hovered between curiosity and amusement, like someone encountering an old ghost in an unexpected place.
Ichiro stiffened.
Just for a fraction of a second.
It was subtle—his shoulders tightening, his breath catching before smoothing out—but it was there. The only break in his composure since he had entered the Institute.
He looked away.
That, more than anything, drew attention.
Akira noticed immediately.
She followed the line of tension upward and met Mitsui's gaze as it shifted to her instead. He smiled—open, polite, disarmingly warm.
She returned it with a small smile of her own and a respectful nod.
Mitsui inclined his head in return.
The exchange was brief, but the eyes on them multiplied.
Whispers ignited again.
"Do they know each other?"
"All three of them?"
"That's Yoshima. That's Hayashi. And that's—this intake is insane."
Mitsui finally spoke, voice light, carrying easily without effort.
"Hey," he said, glancing between the two seats.
"You're not going to make me stand here, are you?"
Ichiro didn't respond.
Didn't look at him.
The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
Mitsui chuckled softly. "Wow. Cold as ever."
Ichiro's jaw tightened. He kept his gaze forward.
"Sit somewhere else," he said.
A beat.
Mitsui blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yes."
Mitsui leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial.
"Why? Afraid I'll ruin your reputation?"
Ichiro exhaled through his nose. "People are already looking. It won't do you any favors to be seen near me."
There it was.
Not hostility.
Warning.
Mitsui's smile didn't fade.
If anything, it widened.
Then—very deliberately—he raised his voice.
...
"Well, if it isn't my good, long-time friend, Ichiro Yoshima!" he said cheerfully, turning just enough for the surrounding rows to hear. "Imagine my surprise seeing you here of all places. What a coincidence."
The hall seemed to lean in.
Mitsui gestured dramatically at the empty seat beside Ichiro.
"Would you mind terribly," he continued, grinning, "if you moved over so I can sit next to you?"
Shock rippled outward.
Murmurs erupted, louder now, uncontrolled.
"They know each other."
"Of course they do."
"Yoshima connections run deep."
"Even political families—"
Ichiro finally snapped his head toward him.
"What the hell are you doing, Mitsui?" he hissed, all restraint cracking at once.
For the first time, his voice carried emotion—sharp, irritated, unmistakably human.
Mitsui laughed outright. "Asking for a seat. You're taking up too much space."
"This isn't funny."
"I disagree."
Akira watched the exchange quietly, eyes moving between them, absorbing every detail—the familiarity beneath the friction, the way Ichiro's walls had shifted without him realizing it.
Mitsui stepped past Ichiro without waiting for permission and sat down anyway, settling comfortably, legs crossing with infuriating ease.
"There," he said pleasantly. "Much better."
The hall buzzed.
Speculation spiraled.
"Well, the Yoshima clan may be Yakuza now," someone whispered, "but their bloodline was samurai once."
"That still gives them standing."
"Connections like that don't disappear."
Ichiro stared forward again, expression carefully reassembled, but the damage was done.
For the first time since arriving, the Empire's future blades had seen him not as a rumor—
—but as someone with a past.
And sitting at his side, smiling as if he had just claimed the most interesting seat in the hall, was the son of the man who commanded the Empire's war machine.
The lights dimmed.
The doors sealed.
And the real examination was about to begin.