Two Days Later
The air itself sang with anticipation.
Planet Ras existed in a state of organized chaos that defied comprehension. Quintillions of beings—a number so vast it lost meaning, becoming instead a feeling—packed every available space across the Tournament grounds. The crowd wasn't just large; it was a living, breathing cosmic organism composed of every imaginable species from across Hyachima's impossibly vast multiverse.
Shinji stood at the edge of the main plaza, his prosthetic hand resting casually in his pocket, and simply absorbed it all.
Crystalline entities that refracted light into emotional spectrums hovered above four-armed giants whose skin pulsed with bioluminescent patterns. Beings made of pure sound harmonized with entities that existed in multiple states simultaneously, their forms flickering between dimensions. Some attendees breathed methane, others fed on radiation, and a few existed as conceptual presences that could only be perceived through their effect on surrounding space.
The sound was overwhelming—not loud, exactly, but dense. Every conversation, every cheer, every breath created layers of noise that should have been cacophony but somehow resolved into something almost musical. Vendors hawked food that ranged from crystallized starlight to living organisms that volunteered themselves as sustenance. The scent was equally impossible to parse, exotic spices, the metallic tang of spatial distortion, and underneath it all, the distinctive smell of potential—that electric charge before lightning strikes.
Overhead, massive holographic displays showed countdown timers in seventy-three different numerical systems, all converging on the same moment: the Tournament's official commencement.
"Incredible," Shinji whispered, and his smile was genuine—fierce with anticipation and entirely human.
This was what he'd chosen. Not the mechanical perfection the Archive had shown him, but this: chaos, diversity, the beautiful inefficiency of infinite consciousness expressing itself in infinite ways. Every being here carried their own story, their own suffering, their own choice to exist despite the cost.
He thought briefly of the Chromian ambassador dissolving into light, thanking them for reminding them what it meant to be alive.
*This is what they would have missed,* Shinji thought. *This moment. This overwhelming, exhausting, magnificent chaos.*
His prosthetic hand hummed softly—Memory matrix recording everything, preserving this moment against the seductive logic of optimization that would call it "inefficient noise" and smooth it away into peaceful silence.
"Never," Shinji murmured to himself, his resolve hardening. "I'll take this chaos over perfect peace every single time."
Three figures moved through the crowd with purposeful calm, their dark cloaks parting the sea of bodies like water around stone.
The tallest—Syntricario—grinned constantly, his sharkish teeth visible even with his hood partially raised. His sky-cyan hair caught the light from a passing energy-being, and his slightly blue skin made several nearby attendees give him a wide berth. He looked every inch the predator, and he relished it.
"So many potential opponents," he rumbled, his voice carrying notes of anticipation and violence. "I can practically taste the fights already. Think they'll let us rip a few arms off? Just for the spectacle?"
"The rules will be announced," said the middle figure—Myasimeiyo—his red stylish hat tilted at a rakish angle that somehow made him look both serious and playful. His purplish hair framed amber eyes that tracked everything, cataloging threats and opportunities with practiced efficiency. "But knowing you, Syn, you'll find creative ways to interpret 'no killing' as 'maiming is fine.'"
Syntricario's grin widened. "You know me so well."
The shortest figure—Diaborius—said nothing. His jet-black hair fell across pale skin that looked like it had never seen sunlight, and his red eyes held the flat, dead quality of someone who'd stopped finding joy in anything years ago. The bandages wrapped around his entire neck suggested either injury or concealment, and his childishly small frame was entirely at odds with the harsh authority that radiated from him like cold fire.
He looked tired. Not physically—though his baggy eyes suggested chronic exhaustion—but tired in a way that went deeper than the body. Tired of existence itself.
"Focus," Diaborius said, his voice flat and final. "We're here for a purpose. The Tournament is secondary to It's orders."
"Right, right," Myasimeiyo said, though his tone carried faint amusement. "Still, you've got to admit—participating in the Ras Tournament? That's not exactly a punishment assignment. This happens once every ten years, and we get front-row seats and combat privileges."
"I said focus," Diaborius repeated, and something in his tone made even Syntricario's grin falter fractionally.
They continued walking, weaving through the crowd with practiced efficiency. Myasimeiyo's eyes tracked particularly powerful-looking warrior—and he couldn't resist commenting:
"I feel some real strong ones in here, Diaborius." His tone shifted to something more serious, the playfulness draining away. "And you know how bad this sounds coming from me to you."
Diaborius's dead eyes flicked toward the warrior, assessed, dismissed. "Don't care. You two—Myasimeiyo and Syntricario—your orders here are to just work towards winning. Don't care how."
"Aye aye, oh mighty devil," Syntricario said, his grin returning with vicious enthusiasm. "I'll rip my opponent's guts out. Figuratively. Mostly."
Myasimeiyo scratched his neck, a habitual gesture that suggested underlying tension despite his casual demeanor. "Roger, Diablo." He paused, then couldn't help himself: "Also, why'd It send us specifically? If it was such an important job, wouldn't it be better to send the Overseer along with maybe some Optimization leader or something? Those guys at the Optimization are being a real nuisance, thinking they can climb up the r—"
"You babble too much," Diaborius interrupted, his voice carrying an edge that could cut steel. "Shut up."
Anger flashed in Myasimeiyo's amber eyes—brief but intense—before he forced it down with visible effort. "Sorry. My bad."
The three continued in silence, their dark cloaks flowing behind them as they moved toward one of the million testing facilities scattered across the Tournament grounds.
Shinji was running.
Not fleeing—exploring. His movements carried genuine enthusiasm, the kind of energy that came from being truly, completely free for the first time in months. No crew to protect. No cosmic responsibility weighing on every decision. Just him, a challenge, and the thrilling prospect of testing himself against the best the multiverse had to offer.
His prosthetic hand swung naturally at his side as he wove through the crowd, his Danger Sense providing unconscious navigation that kept him from colliding with anyone despite his speed. The sensations were intoxicating: the press of bodies, the cacophony of languages, the sheer aliveness of it all.
He thought of his Alternate Future Self, locked away in his consciousness, withholding Act 6 like a punishment for choosing "wrong." The absence of that power should have felt limiting, crippling even. Instead, it felt liberating. He wasn't the mechanical god from the Archive's vision. He was Shinji Kazuhiko—one arm, one leg, and more determination than sense—about to throw himself into a cosmic tournament where his only advantages were skill, stubbornness, and the refusal to be optimized into perfection.
"This is going to be amazing," he breathed, his smile wide and unguarded.
A massive holographic display flickered to life overhead, and a voice—synthesized to be comprehensible across all linguistic frameworks—began speaking. The announcement played on loop, cycling through information for the constant stream of arriving participants:
"Welcome to the Ras Tournament, the premier combat competition across incountable galaxies and Nonillions of universes. This decennial event draws the strongest, the boldest, and the most skilled warriors to compete for ultimate glory."
Shinji slowed his pace, tilting his head to listen while still moving through the crowd.
"Tournament structure: All participants will undergo preliminary testing to measure Spiritual Energy output and combat capability. Over one million testing facilities are active across the planetary surface. From an estimated seven trillion applicants, only thirty-two will advance to the main bracket."
Seven trillion applicants. Thirty-two spots.
The odds should have been daunting. Instead, Shinji's smile widened.
"Rules of engagement: Lethal force is PROHIBITED. Participants rendering opponents unable to continue will be declared victors. Violations of the no-killing rule result in immediate disqualification and potential criminal prosecution under Pan-Universal Combat Law."
Shinji nodded. That made sense—with this many participants and this much power concentrated in one place, allowing kills would turn the Tournament into a massacre. The restriction would actually make things harder, requiring precision and control rather than overwhelming force.
Perfect.
"Combat will be monitored by neutral arbiters empowered to intervene if victory conditions are met or rules are violated. Medical facilities capable of regenerating all but the most catastrophic injuries are available. The Tournament Committee assumes no liability for permanent damage resulting from participant negligence."
The announcement continued cycling through logistical information—testing schedules, bracket seeding procedures, prize details—but Shinji had heard enough. His path was clear: get tested, qualify for the thirty-two, and then see exactly how far skill and human stubbornness could take him against opponents who might outpower him but wouldn't outfight him.
He resumed running, his enthusiasm building with each step.
They crossed paths without knowing.
Shinji, running with infectious energy, his prosthetic hand glinting in the light from overhead displays, his eyes bright with anticipation.
Three cloaked figures, walking with measured calm, their hoods raised just enough to shadow their faces, their presence radiating quiet menace.
The moment lasted perhaps two seconds. Shinji's trajectory took him within a meter of Diaborius, close enough that the displaced air from his passage stirred the edge of the dark cloak.
Diaborius's red eyes flicked sideways—barely a glance—registering the enthusiastic runner with the prosthetic limbs. His gaze lingered for perhaps a tenth of a second longer than necessary, some deep instinct recognizing something without being able to name it.
Then he looked away, dismissing the moment as irrelevant.
Shinji, for his part, noticed three cloaked figures and mentally cataloged them as "mysterious and probably strong" before his attention was captured by a nearby vendor selling what appeared to be crystallized temporal paradoxes ("Taste Yesterday's Regrets Today!").
Neither side realized what had just happened.
Neither side understood that they'd just passed their future enemy, that this casual intersection in a crowded plaza would, in retrospect, mark the moment when invisible battle lines were drawn.
Shinji continued toward the testing facilities, his laughter carrying back through the crowd.
The three figures continued toward their own destination, Diaborius's expression never changing from its dead, tired neutrality.
And the cosmic mechanism of fate clicked forward another increment, bringing them all closer to collision.
Meanwhile, On Ochorigaru
The planet didn't announce itself with grandeur. Where Ras was overwhelming spectacle, Ochorigaru was quiet strength—a world of deep forests, ancient stone formations with a yellow sky, and settlements that looked like they'd grown from the landscape rather than being built upon it.
Shirou and Miryoku had been searching for three hours, and their frustration was beginning to show.
"No, I don't know where the Archives are," said an elderly being whose species Miryoku couldn't identify—something vaguely reptilian but with crystalline scales. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell outsiders. The Ocho clan handles all matters related to sacred sites."
It was the seventh variation of the same answer they'd received.
Shirou's jaw was tight as they walked away, his hand resting on Emerald's stock with slightly too much pressure. "This is getting nowhere," he muttered, his voice carrying edges that hadn't been there before the Archive. "Either everyone genuinely doesn't know, or there's some kind of information control protocol we're running into."
"Probably the latter," Miryoku said, her own frustration barely concealed beneath forced calm. Her rose-gold jacket—cleaned and repaired since the Chromatic Veil but still showing faint scorch marks—caught the dappled sunlight filtering through massive trees overhead. "The Ocho clan keeps coming up. If they control access to 'sacred sites,' the Archives probably fall under their jurisdiction."
They walked in silence for several minutes, following a forest path that wound between trees so massive their trunks could have housed entire buildings. The quiet should have been peaceful—bird-like creatures sang overhead, and bioluminescent moss provided gentle illumination—but instead it felt heavy.
Miryoku broke the silence, her voice deliberately lighter: "You know, this reminds me of Luminara. We had forests like this near the outer settlements. Not as big, and the trees were made of solidified light rather than wood, but..." She trailed off, a small smile touching her lips. "They had the same feeling. Like the world was bigger than you, and that was okay."
Shirou glanced at her, his crimson eye assessing before he made a conscious decision to listen rather than deflect. "Tell me about it," he said, his tone softer than usual. "Luminara."
Miryoku's expression shifted—surprised by the genuine interest, then warming with memory. "It was beautiful," she began, her voice taking on a wistful quality. "Everything was made of light and harmony. The buildings weren't constructed—they were grown from resonance patterns. My father could walk up to empty air and sing a house into existence."
She created a small sphere of light—still jagged at the edges, still carrying that wrongness from the Archive, but the core held something of Luminara's gentle glow. "The whole planet pulsed with music. Not sound you heard with your ears, but vibrations you felt in your soul. Every sunrise was a symphony. Every person's presence added to the harmony."
"Sounds overwhelming," Shirou observed, but his tone wasn't critical—just curious.
"It was," Miryoku admitted. "Especially for someone like me, who was naturally sensitive to harmonics. I could hear everything. Every emotion, every thought-pattern, every..." She paused, struggling for words. "Every note in the cosmic song. It was beautiful and exhausting and I loved it and sometimes I wanted to scream for silence."
She dispelled the light-sphere, the jagged shards dissolving into motes. "My father was so protective. He'd built these barriers around our settlements, tuned to keep out discordant frequencies—anything that might disrupt our peace. I thought he was being paranoid, controlling. But after everything..." Her voice tightened. "After the Null-Stone entity, after seeing how easily that thing could have destroyed everything we'd built... I understand now. He wasn't controlling. He was terrified."
"Of losing you," Shirou said quietly.
"Of losing anyone." Miryoku's hands clenched. "He'd already lost my mother to something he never talked about. Some kind of harmonic feedback that burned her out from the inside. He spent my entire childhood making sure the same thing wouldn't happen to me or anyone else."
Shirou processed this, his tactical mind filing away details while his rarely-accessed empathy engaged with the emotional weight. "That why you left? To escape the protection?"
"Partly." Miryoku's laugh was soft and sad. "But also because Merus and Shinji showed me there was a universe beyond our perfect, isolated paradise. Showed me that harmony doesn't just mean peace—it can also mean connection. Fighting alongside others. Protecting things bigger than yourself."
She glanced at Shirou. "Even if that fighting means..." Her voice caught. "Even if it means destroying what you're trying to save."
The weight of the Chromatic Veil—the ambassador dissolving into grateful light, Miryoku's harmony becoming murder—pressed down on both of them. The lightness of the conversation evaporated, replaced by the familiar heaviness they'd been trying to escape.
Shirou should have let the moment pass. Should have deflected with something clinical or changed the subject entirely.
Instead, he smiled.
Not his usual smirk—the one that was half-challenge, half-dismissal. Not the calculated expression he wore like armor. This was something genuine. Small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that came from recognizing shared pain and choosing, against all logic, to find warmth in it anyway.
"Your father sounds like he cared," Shirou said simply. "That's rare. Worth remembering, even when the protection felt like a cage."
Miryoku stopped walking, staring at him with wide eyes.
"Shirou..." she said slowly, a note of teasing creeping into her surprise. "Did you just... smile? An actual, genuine smile?"
The expression vanished instantly, replaced by Shirou's careful neutrality. His face might as well have been carved from stone. "W-What? No way. You definitely imagined that."
But his neck flushed slightly red—barely visible but there—betraying the reaction he was trying to suppress.
"I did NOT imagine that!" Miryoku's teasing intensified, some of her old playfulness breaking through the post-Archive heaviness. "You smiled! Nishizumi Shirou, the man who never misses and never smiles, just—"
"I smiled at nothing," Shirou interrupted, his tone deliberately flat even as the flush spread fractionally. "A facial muscle spasm. Happens to everyone. Means nothing."
"It means you're not as much of a stone-cold mercenary as you pretend," Miryoku countered, her eyes dancing with genuine amusement for the first time in days. "You actually have feelings! Real ones! You—"
The blast came from nowhere—a concussive wave of spiritual energy that slammed into Shirou's side, sending him stumbling sideways.
His reflexes were instantaneous. Even while his body was still processing the impact, his hands moved: left arm shooting out to grab Miryoku and duck her below the follow-up blast he predicted would come, right arm bringing Emerald up in a smooth arc, chambering a round and firing before conscious thought caught up.
The shot was perfect—not lethal (he'd adjusted power mid-draw) but precise, aimed at the source of the attack high on a nearby mountain ridge.
A sharp "Eep!" sound echoed back.
"Contact," Shirou said flatly, his entire demeanor shifting from flustered conversation to combat efficiency in a heartbeat. "Mountain ridge, eleven o'clock, approximately three hundred meters. Single attacker, spiritual energy signature consistent with... juvenile? No, just inexperienced. Power output suggests they're dangerous but untrained."
Miryoku's own transformation was equally immediate. Her jagged light flared around her hands, forming not harmonious patterns but sharp, angular weapons—blades of isolated emotion that looked ready to cut through more than just flesh. "Invader? Territory defense?"
"Let's find out."
They moved as a unit, crossing the forest floor with practiced efficiency. Shirou's rifle tracked potential firing positions while Miryoku's senses swept for additional threats. The comfortable conversation from minutes ago might never have happened—both had dropped seamlessly into combat mode, their bodies remembering training even as their minds still carried Archive-weight.
They found her at the base of the mountain—a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with dark red hair tied back in a practical ponytail and red eyes that blazed with indignant fury. She wore clothes that covered her completely from neck to toe—practical training gear, though the cute designs stitched into the fabric suggested she'd added personal touches. Scratches covered her arms and face, fresh from what looked like solo training exercises.
She'd dropped into a fighting stance the moment they appeared, spiritual energy swirling around her frame in an aura that looked impressive but carried all the hallmarks of self-taught technique—powerful but unrefined, like a river before anyone built channels.
"Who are you?!" she demanded, her voice high with adrenaline and anger. "Identify yourselves immediately or I'll—I'll blast you again! Harder this time!"
Shirou's tactical assessment took perhaps two seconds: *Spiritual energy output... slim-moderate? Combat experience's minimal. Threat level's low. Potential is... actually quite high if properly trained.*
He lowered Emerald fractionally—not holstering it, but signaling he wasn't immediately hostile. "We're travelers," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Looking for the Library Of Ochorigaru. We're not invaders."
"That's exactly what invaders would say!" The girl's spiritual aura flared brighter. "This is Ochorigaru territory! Ocho clan land! You don't just walk onto our planet and demand access to sacred sites!"
"Ocho clan?" Miryoku's jagged light remained active, but her voice carried genuine curiosity rather than threat. "You're part of the clan that controls this area?"
"I'm not just part of it!" The girl drew herself up to her full height—which was perhaps five-foot-three—and crossed her arms with theatrical pride. "You're talking with the Rogue of the grand Ocho clan right here! Ocho Genki! And you better prostrate in my presence, hfff!"
She huffed dramatically, clearly expecting them to be impressed.
Neither Shirou nor Miryoku moved.
Miryoku's lips twitched—the first genuine amusement she'd felt since the Archive. This girl, this child, was so earnest in her pride, so completely unaware of how outmatched she was, that it was almost endearing.
"The... Rogue?" Miryoku asked carefully, trying not to smile.
"That's right!" Genki's chest puffed out. "I'm the strongest of my generation! The clan's finest warrior! I—"
"You're weak," Shirou interrupted flatly.
The effect was instantaneous. Genki's proud posture collapsed into sputtering rage. "HUH?! Who do you think you are, Mister?! You—you can't just—I'll show you weak! I'll—"
She launched another blast of spiritual energy, this one powered by pure indignation.
Shirou didn't even bother dodging. His rifle came up in a lazy arc, and he batted the blast aside with Emerald's barrel like swatting a fly. The deflected energy dissipated harmlessly against a nearby tree.
Genki's eyes went wide. "That's—you can't—that was my best—"
She charged, closing the distance with admirable speed but zero tactical sense. Her attacks were straightforward—punch, kick, spiritual blast—telegraphed so obviously that Shirou parried each one with Emerald's stock, his movements almost playful.
"Spiritual energy control is too sloppy," he observed clinically, blocking another punch. "Footwork's abysmal. You're broadcasting every attack three seconds before you throw it. Against anyone with actual training, you'd last maybe ten seconds."
"SHUT UP!" Genki tried a spinning kick that was actually quite powerful—if it had connected, it might have done real damage.
It didn't connect. Shirou simply stepped back, let her momentum carry her past, and tapped her gently on the head with Emerald's barrel as she stumbled.
"Five seconds," he corrected. "I was being generous."
Genki whirled around, her face red with embarrassment and fury, tears of frustration beginning to form. "You're—you're mean! And rude! And—"
Shirou reached out and patted her head.
The gesture was so unexpected, so completely at odds with his previous clinical dismissal, that Genki froze mid-tirade.
"You've got potential though," Shirou said, and his tone had shifted from mocking to something almost gentle. "Your energy output is actually impressive for someone your age. You just have no idea how to use it properly. Raw power without technique, strategy without experience."
He glanced at Miryoku. "She'll be handy to have around. Don't you think?"
Miryoku, who'd been watching this entire exchange with growing amusement, gave Shirou a thumbs up. "Absolutely. Local guide, clan connection, and apparently she's a 'Rogue,' whatever that means. Seems useful."
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Genki protested, though her indignation was undercut by the fact that Shirou was still patting her head and she hadn't actually moved away. "You just insulted me like fifty times!"
"Accurate assessment isn't insult," Shirou corrected, finally removing his hand. He crouched down to her eye level, his crimson eye meeting her red ones with unexpected seriousness. "I called you weak because you are. Right now. With your current skills. But I also said you have potential, and I meant it. That spiritual energy output? Most trained warriors don't reach that level until their thirties. You're what, Seventeen?"
"Sixteen!" Genki corrected automatically, then seemed to realize she was engaging with the conversation. "And I'm not weak! I train every day! I can beat anyone in my generation!"
"Which is why you're covered in scratches and training alone in the mountains instead of with your clan?" Shirou's question was pointed but not cruel. "Let me guess: they don't take you seriously. Say you're too young, too reckless, not refined enough for 'proper' Ocho techniques."
Genki's expression shifted—surprise that he'd guessed so accurately, then defensive anger. "They just don't understand my style! I'm developing my own techniques! I don't need their stuffy old forms!"
"Maybe," Shirou acknowledged. "Or maybe you're developing bad habits because you have no one to tell you when you're doing something stupid." He stood, slinging Emerald over his shoulder. "Here's a deal: you help us find the Library, give us the local knowledge we need, and in exchange I'll tell you exactly what you're doing wrong and how to fix it. No sugarcoating, no ego-stroking, just honest tactical assessment."
Genki's eyes widened. "You'd... teach me?"
"I'd correct you," Shirou clarified. "Teaching implies patience and structured curriculum. I'd just point out your mistakes and expect you to figure out the solutions. But yeah, I'd give you feedback. Better than training alone and thinking you're improving when you're actually just reinforcing bad form."
For a long moment, Genki stood there, clearly torn between pride (she shouldn't need help!), suspicion (why would he offer?), and desperate hope (someone was finally taking her seriously!).
"And you'll tell me what the Library's Archives are really for?" she asked, her voice smaller now. "Everyone says they're sacred but won't say why. The elders just say outsiders can't understand."
Miryoku stepped forward, her jagged light finally dissipating. "We'll share what we know. We're looking for information about... events. Things happening in the wider multiverse that your planet might have records of. Nothing that would harm Ochorigaru or the Ocho clan."
Genki studied them both—Shirou with his rifle and calculating eye, Miryoku with her scorched jacket and barely-contained power—and seemed to come to a decision.
"Fine!" she declared, her pride reasserting itself. "But I'm not doing this because I need help! I'm doing it because the Archives are sacred and someone should make sure you don't disrespect them! And also because maybe you can answer some questions I have about the wider universe and my training could use some... minor adjustments. Minor!"
"Of course," Shirou said, his tone completely serious despite the faint amusement in his eye. "Purely minor adjustments to your otherwise flawless technique."
"Exactly!"
They began walking, Genki taking the lead with renewed energy, chattering about the best path to the Archives while occasionally throwing suspicious glances back at them.
Miryoku fell into step beside Shirou, her voice pitched low: "That was... surprisingly kind of you."
"Tactical recruitment," Shirou replied, his tone dismissive. "Local guide reduces search time by a lot. Clan connection provides legitimacy and access. Potential combat asset if properly developed. Pure efficiency."
"Mhm." Miryoku's tone made it clear she didn't believe a word of the justification. "Pure efficiency. That's why you patted her head."
"Disarming gesture to reduce hostility."
"And offered to teach her."
"Information exchange. Fair trade."
"You're getting soft, Shirou."
"I'm being practical. Shut up"
But Miryoku noticed—and said nothing about—the way Shirou's hand had been gentle when patting Genki's head. The way his correction had been honest but not cruel. The way he'd recognized himself in her: the self-taught fighter convinced of their own skill, unaware of how many bad habits they were building, desperate for someone to take them seriously.
He was helping her because he'd been her, once. On some world called Pertaci he wouldn't talk about, in a past he'd optimized away into clinical detachment.
The Archive had shown him something that made him furious. But it had also, perhaps, reminded him what it felt like to be weak and proud and alone.
"Hey," Genki called back, her voice bright with restored enthusiasm. "The Archives are about three hours that way, but we'll need to stop by my training spot first. I left my good weapons there, and if we're going to be traveling together, I should probably look more professional than 'girl who just got her butt kicked by a rifle.' No offense!"
"None taken," Shirou replied. "You did get your butt kicked by a rifle."
"I said no offense!"
Their bickering continued as they walked deeper into Ochorigaru's forests, three figures moving toward answers none of them fully understood they needed.
Behind them, the trees whispered in the wind, and somewhere in those whispers, the patient attention of something hunting stirred fractionally before settling back into invisible stillness.
Not today. But soon.
Back on Planet Ras, Shinji stood before Testing Facility #347,291, his prosthetic hand steady and his eyes bright with determination.
The facility was massive—easily the size of 100 sports stadiums—and the line of applicants stretched for what looked like kilometers. Beings of every description waited their turn, some radiating confident power, others visibly nervous, all of them hoping to be among the thirty-two who would advance.
Seven trillion applicants. Thirty-two spots.
Shinji's smile was sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous.
"Let's see what I can do without Act 6 and with only 30% essence," he murmured to himself. "Let's see if skill and human stubbornness really are enough."
He stepped into line, his prosthetic hand humming with stored memories of every lesson learned, every battle survived, every choice that had kept him human instead of perfect.
Somewhere in the crowd, three figures in dark cloaks moved toward their own testing facility, their purposes hidden but their presence undeniable.
Somewhere beyond all of this, in the spaces between universes, ancient forces stirred and took notice of converging pieces.
And above it all, the countdown continued—numbers ticking down across seventy-three different systems, all converging on the same inevitable moment.
Soon, a Tournament grand enough to flip this entire conflict's flow would begin.