"Phew... I don't think I've run this many laps since the marathon back in middle school. Fifteen kilometers? This really isn't a menu for a normal kid."
Several days had passed since I arrived at Grigori. Today, I was once again working through the training menu Barakielhad set for me, pacing my breathing as I ran laps in solitude. I'd been running since elementary school to build up my stamina, so while this was grueling, it wasn't impossible. I'd spent plenty of time running alongside Masaomi back at the Association, after all.
Still, once I hit the ten-kilometer mark, I couldn't help but start muttering to myself. Running the same track alone is a mental drain. If I tried to rush and broke my pace, the strain on my legs would spike instantly. I just had to keep a steady, sure rhythm. Every bit of physical improvement on my part meant less of a burden on my partner and a wider range for my abilities. I had to keep grinding.
I rounded the track again and again, finally completing the long-distance goal. During the repetitive run, I'd found myself talking to my partner in my head; it scolded me to focus, but it stayed with me until the end. As usual, I was drenched in sweat. I sat down on the track, slowing my heaving breath and reaching for my water bottle. The cold water felt like it was soaking directly into my cells.
"Hmph. It seems you've finished the run without incident."
"Ah, Barakiel. Give me a minute to rest... are we doing the usual menu next?"
"Jump rope for vertical movement, then lateral agility drills, followed by the wall climb. Your foundation is solid, so you should be able to clear them quickly."
"Got it."
Barakiel handed me a chilled towel, which I accepted with a tired nod. His training was rock-solid and completely uncompromising, but he was surprisingly attentive. He was always checking my hydration, gauging my physical limits, and offering precise advice without rushing me. He was the ideal instructor—a testament to his experience raising countless subordinates as a leader of the Fallen Angels.
During these early morning sessions, it was usually just the two of us. After a few days, I felt like we'd finally reached an understanding. At first glance, he's a towering, terrifying presence with an aura of pure pressure, but thanks to our... 'unique' first meeting, I'd been able to stay relatively relaxed. In a weird way, seeing him in that "exciting" state during the test had been a blessing for my nerves.
I started the jump rope drills, bouncing rhythmically while Barakiel watched. He'd occasionally offer a correction, which I'd implement immediately. The lateral jumps were harder—I wasn't used to that specific movement, and my footwork was messy, which drained my energy fast. By the time I got to the wall climb, I felt like a platformer game character, focusing entirely on my center of gravity as I navigated the small footholds.
"..."
"Hm? Is something wrong?" I asked, noticing his stare.
"No... my apologies. It has been a long time since I coached a child of your age. I am... aware that I am a man of few words, and I lack the ability to show expression. When training warriors, I do not hesitate, but in the past, that has often led to children being frightened of me."
"Ah." I tilted my head, realizing why he looked so stiff. To an outsider, Barakiel's silent, expressionless face could easily be mistaken for anger. Just standing there, the aura of a powerful being made the air vibrate. Most kids my age would be paralyzed under that sharp gaze.
"I'm fine," I assured him. "I have a friend who's just as tall and intimidating, so I'm used to it. Besides, since I'm surrounded by powerhouses all the time, I've gotten pretty good at using my pseudo-Senjutsu to let that pressure just slide off me."
"I see..."
"Yeah. Your instructions are clear, and I can tell you're looking out for me so I don't overdo it. Thanks for the concern."
I knew it was a favor to Azazel that a high-ranking official like Barakiel was taking the time to train me. I'd worried about being a nuisance, but apparently, he was glad for the change of pace. He'd been on constant outdoor missions lately, so having a scheduled, "desk-side" security detail like this made his schedule much easier to manage.
He seemed particularly happy that he could head home immediately after our sessions. As a combat specialist, he usually handled the "shady" business of the Fallen Angels, which meant irregular hours and long stints away from home. Being my bodyguard—a job with set "office hours"—was essentially a vacation for him. I suspected Azazel had given him this job specifically so he could spend time with his family.
I didn't ask where he lived, but based on what I knew, he was likely heading home to his wife and his young daughter, Akeno. She'd be just starting school around now. Knowing my bodyguard was getting some "family time" made me feel a lot better about the grueling training.
+++
"Hah... that's everything."
"After a brief rest, we will begin our sparring."
"...Time limit and sets?"
"Three minutes. Four sets."
"Ugh..."
Thirty seconds longer than yesterday. It was brutal. I wanted to cry. In the time it takes to cook instant noodles, I was going to be dancing on the edge of death four times. My sparring with Barakiel was essentially a survival game: I had to evade, parry, and run away until the timer hit zero. He mixed close, mid, and long-range attacks seamlessly. If I stopped moving for even a second, I'd be turned into a pincushion.
I could handle the first set, but as the sets piled up, my concentration would waver and my stamina would bottom out. But that was the point. Real combat isn't always fair. Enemies strike when you're tired, sick, or unprepared. They don't wait for you to catch your breath.
"What you need is not the power to defeat, but the power to survive," Barakiel stated. "Leave the killing to your allies. As long as you remain standing, your team has a chance to recover. If you fall first, the damage to your side becomes catastrophic."
"Because the support is the cornerstone of the team," I panted. "And therefore, the first target."
"Exactly."
This was what I needed to polish: not the power to crush my enemies, but the technique to avoid being crushed. Azazel had prioritized my "detection" training for the same reason—to keep me from being sniped at the start of a fight. I have Lin, but she's still a hatchling. For now, my survival was my own responsibility.
I laid spread-eagled on the track, trying to recover my stamina. Resting when you can is its own form of training. Once my heart rate slowed, I sat up and began stretching. If I didn't stay flexible, the muscle aches would be unbearable tomorrow. I could dull the pain with my partner's power, but it was better to take care of it myself.
"Man... okay, to get me motivated for this sparring session... Barakiel, what's for lunch today?"
"Chikuzenni."
"Yes! Alright, I've got to survive this if I want to enjoy that meal."
Lunch was the highlight of my day in Grigori. After being deprived of Japanese food in the Underworld, Shemhaza had been kind enough to arrange meals for me. At first, I'd refused, not wanting to be a burden, but Barakiel had admitted—with a bit of a blush—that he also wanted to eat Japanese food for lunch, and that he had a "reliable source" for it.
The food was incredible. The seasoning was perfect, and I could eat bowls of rice with it. Every time I complimented the food, Barakiel would ask for specifics. It was clearly homemade, and seeing him dig into the meals with such a satisfied look, I could guess exactly who was behind the cooking.
"Could you tell them 'thank you for the meal' again today?"
"I will. And... I am told that if you have a request for tomorrow, it will be prepared."
"Really?! Man, anything they make is going to be good... do you have a recommendation, Barakiel?"
"Everything," he answered with a straight face. The man was clearly devoted to his wife's cooking.
"Then let's go with a classic: Takikomi Gohan (Seasoned Rice)!"
"Hoh. You have good taste. A wise choice."
"It's good even when it's cold, and it's easy to pack," I added.
"This time of year, plum, corn, or ginger would be excellent," he noted.
I'd noticed that while Barakiel was a man of few words, he became quite talkative when the topic turned to food. I made sure to respect the "unspoken lines" between us—I never asked who was making the lunch or where he was going at night. I didn't need my "future knowledge" to know those were private boundaries.
"Kanata... I have been wondering," Barakiel said, breaking the silence. "Japan has many ancient supernatural lineages. Is there any... friction in you becoming a wizard and associating with Fallen Angels? Any family obligations?"
"Eh? No, no. I'm just a normal person. No special bloodline, no ancient grudges. My family are all just regular people living regular lives."
"Family... if they are regular people, are they not worried about you?"
"I told them I was coming here for summer break months ago. My parents both work, and my sister is busy with her school tournaments. We're all just doing our own thing."
I was surprised he'd asked, but I understood his concern. Most Japanese people in the "hidden world" come from prestigious families with strict rules. Someone like me—a total commoner—was an anomaly. Most Japanese organizations are intensely secretive and xenophobic toward "outsiders."
I knew from my past knowledge that the relationship between Grigori and the Japanese supernatural community was incredibly strained. While the Devils and the Church could negotiate, the Fallen were often treated like a plague. Barakiel, having his own complicated history with the Himejima family, was likely worried I'd get caught in the crossfire.
"Besides, my association with the Fallen is kept quiet. I'll be fine."
"I see... When you return, make sure you show your family you are safe. A parent is always worried for their child, no matter the circumstances."
"I will."
It was a bit embarrassing, but I took his words to heart. Coming from a father like him, they carried a weight that made me listen.
+++
While Souma trained, a different kind of struggle was unfolding in the Sitri Territory of the Underworld. Known for its vast nature preserves and world-class medical facilities, it was the destination for those seeking the pinnacle of healing. In one of its most prestigious hospitals, an Ultimate Devil stood in silence as a doctor delivered a grim report.
"We can provide medicine to ease the seizures," the doctor said, his voice heavy. "But the side effects are severe, and long-term administration is dangerous. Furthermore, once a resistance to the drug develops, the effectiveness will vanish."
"Are there no other hospitals specializing in Sacred Gear medicine?" Rudiger Rosenkreutz asked.
"...I am afraid not. Other facilities will offer the same treatment. It pains me to say this as a physician, but Devils have historically lacked interest in Sacred Gear research. Our progress in this field is significantly behind the other factions."
Rudiger, the seventh-ranked player in the Rating Games, had been blessed with the birth of a son. But that joy had been instantly replaced by a despair he could not outrun. His son had been diagnosed with Sacred Gear Resistance—a fatal "allergy" to the divine aura within his own soul.
Rudiger had used every bit of his vast knowledge, wealth, and influence to search for a cure. He had discovered that his son's case was one of the most severe ever recorded. While some cases led to localized disabilities, his son's entire body and soul were being eroded. The mortality rate for such cases was absolute.
He had turned to the Rosicrucians, begged the heads of the Mammon house, and reached out to every ally he had. The answer was always the same. Devils only cared about Sacred Gears when they could be used as tools for war. A "defective" child with a fatal condition was of no value to the pragmatic, meritocratic society of the Underworld.
"Rosenkreutz."
"...Diehauser? Thank you for coming. And thank you for speaking with Leviathan on my behalf."
"It was no trouble. Serafall is looking for leads as well. Sirzechs has even reached out to his subordinates with connections to the Golden Dawn and the Oriental Divine Beasts. Beelzebub is also searching his archives."
Rudiger looked at his friend, Diehauser Belial. The Emperor of the Rating Games had arrived in disguise to avoid a scene, but his concern for his friend was plain. Diehauser had been the most proactive in helping Rudiger, using his status as a pillar of the Underworld to demand answers from every corner of the world.
"And the doctor's final word?" Diehauser asked.
"...There is no path forward. They can only delay the inevitable."
"How is the boy?"
"Stable for now. I've performed a temporary seal, but it won't stop the erosion. It's just a matter of time."
Rudiger had named his son Liebe Rosenkreutz—the German word for Love. He and his wife had vowed to give the boy everything in the short time he had. Because of the boy's fragile state, they were staying in the human world hospital to avoid the environmental stress of the Underworld.
"Diehauser, I'm sorry. You're trying to change the Rating Games, and I'm failing you like this..."
"Don't say that. You saved my family six months ago. Now it's my turn to help save yours."
Diehauser remembered Rudiger's dream: to tell his child with pride that he was a professional player. He wouldn't let that dream die without a fight.
"The Devils may not have the answer," Diehauser mused, "but the Church or the Fallen might. If only there was a way to reach them."
"There is one possibility," Rudiger whispered. "The Grey Wizards. They are the only organization that remains neutral and accepts former Church members. I've heard rumors they maintain back-channel trade with the Church for magical knowledge."
"Is it true?"
"It's a rumor. But their chairman... he might have a different perspective. I'm willing to pay any price."
Rudiger had specifically asked Diehauser not to contact the Grey Wizards yet. He didn't want to involve Mephisto Phelesunless it was a last resort. But more importantly, he knew that if the young boy he'd befriended—Souma—found out, the kid would drop everything to help. Souma was currently training in the territory of the Blaze Meteor Dragon, and wouldn't return until the end of summer.
A father's desperation and a friend's loyalty were now the only things keeping the boy alive. Had the information moved faster—had Azazel or Mephisto known the full extent of Rudiger's crisis—the world might have shifted. But for now, the gears of fate turned slowly, unaware of the collision to come.
***
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