The sun dipped below the jagged skyline of Babyls, casting long shadows over its spires. The school day finally came to a close, but there was no sense of rest in the air—only fatigue, bruises, and burning resolve.
From the faculty balcony, March, Momonoki, and Blushenko stood, gazes fixed below where students were being dragged off like prisoners to their next round of training.
"Incredible," Blushenko murmured, adjusting his glasses. "Sergent Furfur, Lady Vepar, Mr. Hat, even Balam… these aren't just tutors. They're battlefield-hardened specialists."
"They're monsters," Momonoki added, both awed and slightly horrified. "Do you really think this is what's best for first-years?"
Professor Dali exhaled deeply, stroking his chin.
"There's no doubt these instructors are effective… but it almost feels excessive. Overkill." He glanced sideways at Kalego, who stood beside him with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "You selected them personally, didn't you?"
Kalego didn't respond immediately. His eyes followed the struggling Misfits like a hawk observing its prey. When he did speak, his tone was as sharp as ever:
"They're the best suited to break bad habits. To teach survival. You think I'm being petty?"
Dali:
"Are you?"
A pause.
Then, faintly—barely audible beneath the cold wind—
"...Watching them suffer is a bonus."
His lip curled just slightly.
Meanwhile, in the training fields…
Dust clung to the air. The ground was scarred with craters. Flames still smoldered in the distance.
Asmodeus panted, sweat trailing down his cheek, blood crusted over a gash on his temple. His clothes were torn, his pride even more so.
Beside him, Sabnock groaned, pushing off the scorched ground with shaking arms.
Across from them, Balam stood tall and still—like a mountain that refused to fall.
"Again," the hulking professor said. "You're not done until your instincts scream together."
Asmodeus gritted his teeth. He hated this. The humiliation. The failure. The weakness.
Why can't I defeat him? Even with everything I've learned…
Then he glanced sideways.
Sabnock was still breathing. Still burning. The idiot never gave up.
And that's when it clicked.
"Sabnock," Asmodeus muttered between breaths, voice low but resolute. "Alone… we're predictable. Divided. But together..."
Sabnock smirked, catching on immediately.
"Yeah… We break him."
The two stood again. Not side by side—but aligned. Their auras surged—not independently, but in sync.
Balam's smile grew.
"Good. You're learning."
--
The faint hum of mana lingered in the hallway as Iruma and Bachiko stood before the creaking doors of the Magical Battler's clubroom.
"This is the place," Bachiko muttered, resting a hand on her hip with the confidence of a queen. "The Magical Apparatus Battler—legendary for producing elite-grade weapons. If we're going to forge your bow, kid, we'll need what they've got buried in here."
Iruma blinked. Then, softly:
"I'm already a member."
A long silence followed.
Bachiko's eyelid twitched. "...You what?"
Her voice cracked like thunder.
"You mean to tell me we could've walked in here sooner if you'd just mentioned that?" she yelled, pacing in a small circle like a storm in heels. "I've been hyping this place for the past ten minutes—!"
Iruma gave a small sigh, brushing back a lock of dark blue hair, Sharingan briefly flickering as if suppressing a headache. He didn't bother apologizing.
"It wasn't important until now."
Typical Iruma, calm and unbothered.
Bachiko huffed but followed him in, grumbling something about emotionally constipated boys.
Inside, chaos greeted them like an ambush.
Stacks of weapons, gears, magical cores, half-built golems, and a terrifying number of rabbit-themed trinkets were piled like a hoarder's dream. The entire place looked like someone had tried to recreate the aftermath of a battlefield... inside a room.
Iruma froze.
Remonsterized. That was the word that hit his mind. It wasn't just messy—it had transformed into a living, breathing junkyard.
Even Bachiko blinked in surprise.
"...Okay, wow. This is worse than I thought."
A voice echoed from the clutter.
"WELCOME BACK, IRUMA-KUN!"A dramatic spin, followed by a flashy pose.
"SCHENELL-SENPAI AT YOUR SERVICE!"
Bachiko recoiled slightly from the energy, but her golden eyes narrowed. Despite the madness, she was already scanning the room like a seasoned hunter.
"Hmph. As ridiculous as that guy is, some of these are legit enchantments. The weapon cores here… they're not junk."
Iruma, still silent, crouched beside a disassembled crossbow. His fingers hovered above its fractured frame.
They fought. They made these to fight. And now… I will too.
Bachiko approached him, tossing him a thin stick of wood.
"Enough nostalgia. Watch."
She pinched the wood lightly between two fingers, then muttered:
"Quartz-Quartz."
In a burst of pink-gold light, the wood snapped, shifted, and reshaped mid-air—forming a luminous bow, simple yet elegant, threads of magical energy curling like vines.
"My bloodline ability," she said, not hiding the pride in her voice. "With the right material, I can craft bows fit for any demon. The weapon takes on properties of the core used. Choose wisely, and it'll become your signature."
She held the bow out to him.
"But I'm not making it for you. That's your job."
Iruma's eyes narrowed as he took the bow and examined the aura radiating off it. He could feel the structure—its balance, its energy flow, its limitations.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I understand."
Bachiko smirked.
"Good. Because you've only got one shot to make it perfect. That bow will define the kind of demon you become."
Iruma stood, his Sharingan activated—focused, calculating.
"Then I'll craft a weapon that can cut through fate itself."
--
As the glow from Bachiko's spell faded, Schenell practically dove forward, stars in his eyes.
"Incredible! A bow from just a twig! That's it—I'm doing this too!"
He scrambled through a pile of cluttered objects and pulled out a glossy figurine—its pink hair unmistakable.
"Quartz-Quartz!"
In a flash of sparkles, a bow appeared, its riser carved to mimic Ameri's silhouette, complete with exaggerated… curves.
"Lady Ameri-san… it's perfect…" Schenell wept with joy, cradling the bizarre weapon lovingly.
Bachiko stared blankly. "…It's not going to fire anything, dumbass."
But he didn't hear her. He was too far gone, muttering praises to his idol-shaped bow.
Bachiko turned back to Iruma with a sigh.
"And that's why compatibility matters. The Quartz-Quartz spell doesn't just make a bow—it reflects who you are."
Iruma's red eyes flicked toward her, quietly absorbing every word.
"It's not about copying what you saw," she continued, tone sharp. "If you try to imitate me or anyone else, the result'll be trash. You've got to know yourself, deep down."
She stepped aside and motioned to the scattered materials.
"Now go. Find something that answers you."
Iruma slowly walked toward the heap of parts, his gaze distant but focused. A glimmer caught his eye: a plain wooden box, unmarked.
He knelt and opened it—inside, a small bundle of feathers, black-tipped with iridescent green veins. They pulsed faintly with magic, like breathing embers.
"Those," Schenell spoke up, still hugging his bow, "are feathers from the Guardian of Cutthroat Valley. Super rare. They're leftovers from a failed prototype."
Iruma brushed a feather with his thumb. It felt warm. Heavy with history.
Bachiko raised a brow. "Good instincts. Try it."
He took a breath, quieting the noise in his mind. The scent of earth and steel. The whisper of his own heartbeat.
"Quartz-Quartz."
Feathers twisted, magic surged, and a bow formed in his hand.
It gleamed faintly, shaped with a thin elegance—but before he could even test its tension—
CRACK!
Bachiko slammed her boot down, shattering it into pieces.
Iruma's eyes narrowed—but didn't flinch.
"Too weak," she snapped. "You were just mimicking me. There's no you in this thing."
She kicked the fragments aside.
"You want a real weapon?" Her voice was low now, serious. "Then stop thinking like a student. Picture what you want. What you need. And if you don't know yet—figure it out."
Iruma looked down at his hand, now empty. A silent tension filled the room. The pieces of the broken bow lay like fallen feathers.
I copied her... because I didn't know what kind of weapon I needed. Because I still hesitate.
He closed his eyes.
But I can't afford to anymore. This bow… it has to match the one I've become. The one who'll survive.
Slowly, the Sharingan flickered in his gaze.