The classroom was so still it felt unnatural — as if even the air had stopped moving.
Not a single whisper dared to break the silence. No creak of wood from shifting feet. Only the steady, almost too-loud rhythm of dozens of heartbeats.
Today was the last trial before graduation.
Eight years at the Usuki Academy had built to this moment: mastery of the Fukashi Technique of Stealth.
The instructors liked to call it "the simplest skill" — a phrase that felt like mockery now. Every student in the room could feel the pressure clinging to their skin like cold sweat.
One by one, names were called. Students stepped forward, made their attempt, and either returned with quiet triumph… or with failure heavy on their shoulders.
Until only one name remained.
"Hatashi Hirakima."
Hatashi rose. His movements were deliberate; his steps almost unnervingly calm for someone of sixteen. His frame was slim but wiry — built for speed rather than brute force. Bright orange hair framed the faint X-shaped scar on his forehead, the mark of the Hirakima lineage. Once, his family had stood among the proudest of the Akira clan. Now, he carried the name alone.
Two voices broke the stillness from the far side of the room.
"You can do it, Hatashi!"
Kaitara and Tiatsuri Hirashima — siblings, partners in training, and troublemakers both. Tiatsuri was broad-shouldered, his pink hair jutting out in unruly spikes, carrying the confident air of a brawler. Kaitara was his opposite in build: slender, graceful, but never hesitant to throw herself into danger. Her red hair caught the dim light when she smiled — and she was smiling now.
Hatashi gave them a small, fleeting grin before stepping forward.
"Begin," the instructor said.
Hatashi closed his eyes. The murmur of breathing, the faint thud of hearts — all of it faded until there was nothing but the rhythm of his own breath.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
He felt his presence blur, as though the world itself was beginning to overlook him. In the blink of an eye, he performed the hand sign and was gone.
Gasps spread through the room. Students craned their necks, searching for any sign of him.
A heartbeat later, Hatashi reappeared behind the instructor, silent as falling ash.
"…Pass," the man said at last, his face betraying the faintest flicker of approval.
Kaitara and Tiatsuri were on him instantly — Tiatsuri's congratulatory slap nearly knocked him forward, and Kaitara hugged him with a grin that dared anyone to ruin the moment.
Earlier that year, it hadn't been like this.
*****
Hatashi had been the weakest in physical combat — a fact the academy's bullies never failed to exploit. But Hatashi had something they didn't: a mind that learned techniques faster than anyone. While others relied on strength, he mastered control and precision.
One rainy afternoon, Hatashi found himself in the quiet, dusty corners of the academy library. He was searching for scrolls on illusion arts when his fingers touched something wedged deep between the shelves — a cracked leather book, its spine faded with age.
The air smelled faintly of damp paper and old ink as he opened it. The text was fragmented, but one section pulled at him like gravity:
The Demon Eyes — relics of crimson glass, said to grant impossible speed, monstrous strength, and the ability to read an opponent's every move. But they held within them the demon Nakimara Shinayaku, whose power could twist even the purest soul.
Any sane person would have shut the book and walked away.
Hatashi read the passage again. And again.
Weeks of quiet investigation led him beyond the academy's walls, to a forest older than the kingdom itself, where moss-covered stones marked the path to a demon's temple.
The temple's black walls were cracked with age, and the eyes of its towering guardian statues seemed to follow him. Armed sentries circled the grounds, but Hatashi's Fukashi Technique let him pass them like wind through leaves.
Inside, darkness ruled — except for the glow of the relic. Two crimson orbs rested atop a cold stone altar.
When Hatashi's fingertips touched them, fire flooded his veins. His pupils burned, reshaping into red circles crossed with black rings and four black slants (one at the top left and top right each and one at the bottom left and bottom right) forming an x shape.
The ground shuddered violently. Dust rained from the ceiling. Guards burst into the chamber — but before they could reach him, the temple itself betrayed them. The walls split apart, and the roof collapsed, burying them in stone.
Hatashi staggered into the night, heart pounding, clutching the relic's power inside him.
That night, the whisper came.
It wasn't a sound. It was a voice inside his head — cold, patient.
Then the dream claimed him.
He stood in a place of endless black smoke.
"I am Lord Nakimara Shinayaku," the voice said, deep and resonant. "And I will take control of your mind and body."
Hatashi turned toward the sound. "Show yourself."
"I'm right behind you."
The kick came like a thunderclap, driving him forward. Nakimara emerged from the smoke — tall, broad-shouldered, his spiked golden hair framing eyes full of ancient malice. The word death burned crimson across his forehead. He looked a little bit like human but appeared a little bit pale.
"You like swords?" the demon smirked, catching Hatashi's blade barehanded. "Then I'll use mine."
The clash shook the smoky void. Steel rang out in bursts of sparks. Hatashi's strikes came quick and desperate, his breath ragged. Nakimara barely seemed to try.
"I can't match his speed," Hatashi thought, dodging a slash that tore the ground open. "But maybe… I can outnumber him."
"Jozan Technique!"
Fifty Hatashi clones surged forward, surrounding Nakimara in a storm of blades. The demon cut them down like reeds, laughing.
Another wave appeared, their mouths opening in unison.
"Dragon Technique: Inferno!"
Flames roared, painting the smoke orange and gold.
When the fire died, Nakimara still stood — brushing ash from his robe.
"Next time, I'll use my full power," he said, smiling faintly. "That boy… is a true Hirakima."
Hatashi's eyes snapped open in the darkness of his room, breath sharp, skin damp with sweat.
It was just a dream, he told himself.
But deep inside, Nakimara's grin lingered.