The town air was thick with chatter and merchant calls, but Bachiko's patience was razor-thin.
"Do you really need to talk about every single figurine, Schenell? It's a store, not a shrine."
Schenell adjusted his glasses as he clutched his Ameri-themed model bow.
"You don't understand, Bachiko! Each one is a symbol of dreams, passion—"
"You're giving me a headache," she snapped. "Throw those herbs away when we get back. I swear if they stink up the air one more time—"
But just as she dismissed him, a shocked yell echoed from the clubroom ahead.
"BACHIKO-SAMAAAAAA!!!"
Her crimson eyes narrowed. She blinked—and vanished.
Inside the clubroom, feathers drifted like snow.
And in the center stood Iruma—calm, his hand resting gently against a newly-formed bow. The design pulsed with eerie elegance: its limbs were shadow-black, etched with lunar script, and a core orb that shimmered with wind, fire, and crackling thunder. A circular guard formed around it, subtly resembling a blooming crescent moon.
Alikred hovered behind him, voice low and satisfied.
"So… even your desire… can become your strength."
Iruma didn't reply. His gaze remained focused, both Sharingan and Rinnegan active—glowing crimson and violet, the overlapping tomoe spinning gently.
Bachiko stopped short. Her throat dried as she took in the magical output shaking the walls.
"…He made one."
Later that day, beneath the blood-red skies of the Training Arena, Bachiko stood across from Iruma, bow in hand. The air between them quivered from sheer magical tension.
"I'm giving you one shot, brat," she said coldly. "Impress me, or I'll end your training right here."
Iruma nodded once. "Understood."
Then he vanished.
--
Iruma vs. Bachiko - A Test of Arrows
Iruma reappeared midair, his body cloaked in lightning. Chidori Senbon fired from his palm as he dashed in an arc, flames roaring behind him.
Bachiko reacted instantly—releasing a barrage of arrows that curved mid-flight, each one shining with a guiding sigil.
"One Hundred Shots. One Hundred Hits."
Ten massive Earth Spheres rose from the ground around Iruma like planetary shields, orbiting him in defense. The arrows pierced all ten in flawless sequence.
But Iruma was no longer there.
Amenotejikara.
With a single Rinnegan pulse, he switched places with one of his broken Earth Spheres.
The arrows—unfazed—turned midair, guided unnaturally by Bachiko's bloodline. They followed.
Iruma gritted his teeth, channeling wind and flame into his bow. He pulled back, forming a massive arrow of flickering blue flame, its edge vibrating with lightning and gusting wind.
"Yamikaze—Raiton: Tenkōsen!"(Dark Wind — Lightning Release: Heaven Piercer Arrow)
The arrows clashed midair with Iruma's single shot, canceling each other out in a sky-splitting explosion. But the shockwave knocked Iruma backward, skidding across the arena floor.
"You blocked it," Bachiko muttered, lowering her bow. "…But you still got hit."
Iruma stood, body steaming from the impact but still gripping his bow.
"I'm not good at this yet," he admitted. "But if I can stand, I'll keep firing."
Bachiko stared at him in silence, remembering every student who quit. Every hopeful smile she watched die out.
But Iruma… was still standing.
"…You really are a monster," she whispered. "Using lightning, fire, wind, even gravity. Those eyes of yours… You see through everything and change everything."
She narrowed her eyes.
"If you had gone all out… I would've lost."
Iruma blinked.
"But," she added, a smirk forming, "you still only used one arrow. So when it comes to archery…"
She raised her bow dramatically, ribbons swirling behind her like wings.
"…I'm still better."
Iruma let out a tired smile, bow pulsing gently in his grip.
"For now."
--
[Narration]
Had any of the tutors seen failure in the Misfits—seen even one sign that a student would never reach Daleth—they would have abandoned the effort without hesitation.
But what they found instead was potential that defied reason. Raw talent forged in chaos.
And so, the training would continue.
For the Misfit Class… was far from ordinary.
[The Day Before the Festival]
In the faculty lounge, Professor Dali sipped tea and turned toward a silent Kalego.
"How's the Misfit Class doing?"
Kalego didn't answer.
But the faint curve of a grin betrayed him.
--
[The Calm Before the Harvest]
On a televised program airing across the Netherworld, Professor Dali and Stolas Suzy appeared seated together, framed by autumn leaves and a steaming hot pot bubbling in front of them.
"The chill in the air," Dali began, swirling a ladle, "it's perfect for something warm… maybe a stew shared with students—if they gather the ingredients themselves, that is."
Suzy gave a light clap of her hands, her sleeves fluttering like petals.
"A jungle of demon plants, freshly grown for the Harvest Festival. I've prepared everything. It's an ecosystem, wild and untamed—every fruit and beast will challenge the students to think, move, and act like real demons."
"They'll need to ration food, prioritize sleep, and form alliances," Dali added, eyes sharp despite his cheerful smile. "And of course, they'll be competing."
"Last year's champion was Ameri Azazel," Suzy noted. "Her solo victory earned her an instant level-up to Daleth rank. It's almost tradition now—whoever wins the Harvest becomes someone the entire Netherworld watches."
The Four Gateways
A vast clearing unfolded before the first-year Misfit Class. Towering gates of stone loomed ahead—each carved with beastly runes and surrounded by thorny overgrowth. Mist clung to the ground like breath.
Students stood in clusters, final preparations buzzing between them.
Jazz checked his weapon kit. Elizabetta adjusted her ribbon, suppressing her aura. Lied nervously juggled dried fruit between his palms.
Then, the atmosphere changed.
A hush fell as Nafra Dolgar, clad in robes dark as oil, stepped forward. The air around her pulsed. A subtle hum—not of sound, but sheer dominance—made several students buckle at the knees.
"Don't… get too close," Clara whispered, eyes wide. "She can make people faint just by existing…"
Next, two wild figures appeared: Dorodoro and Androalphus—shirt half-torn, knuckles bandaged, one with a toothpick, the other with a permanent smirk.
"Aren't those guys supposed to be second-years?" Sabro narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah," Gaap muttered. "But they kept getting held back for skipping class and… war crimes?"
The brothers gave finger-guns to no one in particular and walked straight into the shadow of Gate Two, cackling.
Then came Orobas Coco—his eyes blank, his posture still, his breathing so steady it felt artificial. Quiet murmurs spread.
"He's always second."
"In everything."
"Even when he wasn't trying."
He passed by Iruma without glancing—but for a single heartbeat, Iruma felt it. A spark of intent. Not killing intent—but cold, perfected calculation. As if Orobas had already simulated every possible outcome.
Iruma's Focus
At the edge of the group, Iruma stood quietly, the ring of Solomon pulsing faintly. His Sharingan and Rinnegan were concealed behind dark lashes, but his perception was razor-sharp.
He wasn't thinking about victory.
He wasn't even thinking about ranking up.
He was thinking about his bow—how he'd finally found something uniquely his. And he thought about Bachiko, who'd finally acknowledged him.
"This time… I won't let myself fade into the background."
--
Narration
The Harvest Festival was more than survival.
It was ambition incarnate.
A battlefield that rewarded not cruelty, but cunning—
not strength, but growth.
And the Misfit Class was ready to change the Netherworld once more.