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Shiro exploded from the training grounds like a comet, his tattered uniform flapping as he zigzagged through the student crowd. His stomach roared louder than a caged beast-each growl more desperate than the last.
Student 1: Wooo! Did you see that?!
Student 2: See what?
Student 1: Something just-whoosh!
Student 2 (squinting): Bro, lay off the academy mushrooms.
To bystanders, Shiro moved like a ghost-one second there, the next gone in a blur.
Shiro (skidding into the canteen, panting): Made it! Yes! YEEES-
His victory cry died in his throat. The meat bun tray sat empty, grease stains mocking him.
Lunch Lady (wiping hands): Last one sold three minutes ago. Some first-year bought ten don't know why?
Shiro's knees buckled. He crumpled into a chair like a puppet with cut strings, his forehead thudding against the wooden table.
Shiro (muffled): Shiiiiit… My meat bun…
THUD.
All 'cause of that fancy-pants Ashford…
THUD.
Should've kill him moment the fight begin…
Just as he slid toward the floor in defeat, a shadow loomed over him.
Arien (hands on hips): What happened? was so confused when that Primarch Assembly guy took you-wait, are you crying?!
Shiro turned his head slowly. His eyes were the lifeless voids of a soldier who'd seen too much war.
Shiro (whispering): Meat… bun…
Arien: Huh?
Shiro (louder, voice cracking): MY MEAT BUUUUN-
Arien sighed, rummaging through her bag. The sound of crinkling parchment made Shiro's ears twitch.
Arien: Here. I grabbed an extra.
The effect was instantaneous. Shiro shot upright so fast his chair flipped backward, hands SLAMMING the table hard enough to make nearby students yelp.
Shiro (tears pooling): REALLY?! CAN I?! PLEASE?!
Arien (looking away, ears red): I-I already said yes! Gods, why are you crying?!
Shiro (stuffing his face): 'S jus'… muffled sob ...so… tasty…
Arien watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated, as he inhaled the bun in two bites. Crumbs clung to his cheeks like battle scars.
Arien: You're hopeless. So what happened with Senior Ashford?
Shiro-still chewing-turned and speed-walked away.
Arien (grabbing his sleeve): HEY! Aren't you gonna tell your savior?!
Shiro (swallowing): We fought.
Arien (eyeing his new katana): WHAT? And why do you suddenly have that ridiculously long sword?
Shiro (grinning): He said I could keep it!
Arien (disgusted): Why are you proud of that?! Where's your katana?!
Shiro (cheerful): Don't have one!
Arien: That's not normal! How do you not even-
Shiro (clutching his head): Ahhh! Too many questions!
Spotting an exit, Shiro suddenly ducked under a passing servant's tray and bolted.
Shiro: I have some other business to take care of see ya later. Ok!
Arien: Wha- HEY!
He vanished into the crowd, leaving Arien fuming.
Arien: He run again.
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Meanwhile
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Ashford leaned against a marble pillar in the moonlit courtyard, spinning his sword like a toy.
Ashford: So Why'd you make me fight that walking disaster? Professor veylor
Professor Veylor emerged from the shadows, his coat rustling like dry leaves.
Veylor: First, answer me-is he strong?
Ashford's smirk faded. His blade stilled.
Ashford: For a first-year? He's too good. His footwork's sloppy, but his swordplay… He exhaled sharply. He already know how to use a katana better than most of the 3rd year student. But not having an art style and his own katana...….. It seam little … you know
Veylor's cane tapped the stones.
Veylor: well that's the same conclusion I came during his exam bout with Lucien Valehart, he never got serious. Not once.
Ashford's eyebrows shot up.
Ashford: Wait-YOU stopped that fight?! He barked a laugh. Bet the nobles pissed themselves.
Veylor (ignoring him): His pattern's clear. First move: a basic strike to test his opponent. If they dodge-mediocre. If they counter-skilled. If they can't react? His eyes gleamed. Beneath his notice.
Ashford's grip tightened on his sword.
Ashford: That's why he reused that move against Valehart… The second was a feint because Lucien couldn't track it.
Veylor: And when cornered-
Ashford (cutting in): -he snaps. Like when I crippled his sword arm. But not gonna lie. it terrified me when he switch his katana to his left hand. It's more like he's left handed.
A cold wind blew. Somewhere, an owl screeched.
Ashford (voice low): But Professor… that muttering before his attacks…
Veylor stepped closer, his whisper like a grave's echo.
Veylor: An Art Technique. Not a Style. A concept art that created to rival art styles. Ones that don't need mana… or a specific weapon.
Ashford's throat bobbed.
Ashford: But how would a kid-
Veylor (turning away): That… the problem here.
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