Victory on Veridia tasted of ozone and freshly processed data. The OSTA evaluation came through the next morning: Team Obsidian - Probationary Status Lifted. Granted Full First-Year Active Duty Clearance. The 700 collective Merit Points were a currency more valuable than credits, granting them access to better training sims, priority requisition for materials, and, most tantalizingly, tiered access to the Primordial Archives.
Ryosuke stood before the Archives not as a visitor, but as a keyholder. The structure was a ziggurat of black stone that seemed to drink the light, built into the bedrock of the Academy grounds, far from the gleaming spires. Its entrance was a single, seamless door of the same material, with no handle, only a faint, swirling pattern that resonated with the unique energy signature of those granted entry.
He placed his palm against the cold stone. The pattern glowed a familiar icy blue—the color of his Cursed Energy, of Kurokaze's essence. The door dissolved into motes of shadow, revealing a corridor that slanted down into profound darkness.
Inside, the air was still, cold, and thick with the weight of epochs. It wasn't a library in any conventional sense. There were no bookshelves. Instead, free-standing stone steles, holographic data-orbs floating in stasis fields, and crystalline "memory-logs" lined the walls. The knowledge here wasn't just recorded; it was imbued, preserved in formats that required specific energy signatures or levels of comprehension to access.
His access was Tier-1, the most basic. He could only enter the first chamber: The Antechamber of Foundations.
The room was circular, lit by a sourceless blue glow. In the center stood a single, waist-high pedestal holding a flat, grey stone slate. As he approached, words began to etch themselves onto its surface, not in any language, but in concepts directly imparted to his mind.
Welcome, Inheritor. You who bear the Kurorin resonance. To wield the edge, you must first understand the forge.
The slate cleared, and new information flowed.
Universal Power-System Taxonomy (Primordial Perspective):
· Mortal-Tier Systems (Terra, Heaven, Sovereign Stages): These are the refined arts of finite realms. Chakra, Ki, Haki, The Force (as commonly understood), Psykana (Sanctioned), Spiritual Pressure. They manipulate existing energies within a defined framework. They are powerful, but they are reactive. They play the game with the universe's pieces.
· Primordial-Tier Systems (Cosmic, Reality-Editing Stages): These are the raw languages of creation and dissolution from which mortal systems are derived. Your Limitless/Cursed Energy is a Primordial-Subtype of the Void/Conceptual-Manipulation branch. The Warp in its uncontrolled state is a Primordial-Subtype of the Emotional/Chaos-Forming branch. The power of a True Divine (like those from certain Shinto or Asgardian continua) is of the Order/Manifestation branch.
· Growth-Type Weapons (Kurokaze and its Kin): Are not tools. They are Symbiotes forged in Primordial conflicts. They lack a fixed form or ability set. They grow, evolve, and manifest powers based on the Comprehension and Will of their wielder. Your Kurokaze is of the Severing/Definition lineage. A Jedi might bond with a 'Seed of Ashla' that grows into a unique starship (a Growth-Type Primordial Vessel). A Marine might awaken a 'Will of D.' that manifests as an evolving, sentient battleship.
The information was staggering. It reframed everything. He wasn't just learning a new technique; he was being shown the underlying grammar of cosmic power.
The slate continued.
Cultivation, in its universal sense, is the process of refining one's existence to better interface with and command a chosen power system. For you, with a Primordial system, standard cultivation arts are inefficient. They are designed for Mortal-Tier energies that require gathering and circulation.
Recommended Path: 'Conceptual Refinement.' Do not cultivate energy. Cultivate understanding. Deepen your comprehension of Infinity, of Severance, of Negative Energy. Your power is a function of your conceptual grasp. Your Growth-Type weapon will be the physical manifestation of that grasp.
It then presented the first of the Universal Battle Arts from a Primordial perspective: 'The Still Point in the Turning World.' It was not a breathing exercise. It was a meditation on absolute zero, on perfect stasis. The goal was not to gather energy, but to achieve a state of mental and spiritual clarity so absolute that the chaotic "noise" of the universe fell away, leaving only the pure, definable concepts he wielded.
He spent three hours in the Antechamber, cycling through the foundational data. When he left, the door reforming behind him, his mind felt both expanded and focused. He had a map now. A terrifying, glorious map.
---
The Academy's main refectory, The Grand Mess, was a cross-cultural battlefield of its own. It was a vast, multi-level hall where students from every branch and universe mingled, clashed, and occasionally tried to eat.
Team Obsidian had claimed a table near a window overlooking the mech-combat yards. Chen was enthusiastically dissecting a "Volcanic Dragon Roll" that occasionally belched a harmless puff of smoke. Sera was savoring a bowl of "Sun-Drop Nectar" that glowed softly. Varg consumed a dense, nutrient-brick with the solemnity of a sacrament. Aris ate a simple, steamed grain.
Their peace was shattered by a tray slamming down on their table.
Three upperclassmen stood over them. They wore the crimson-trimmed uniforms of the Advanced Tactical Corps (ATC), the elite track for those destined for special operations. The leader was a broad-shouldered young man with close-cropped blonde hair and eyes that held the cold, calculating look of a born officer. His nameplate read CADET-CAPTAIN ALISTAIR KANE.
"Obsidian," Kane said, his voice dripping with condescension. "The freshman pets who got lucky on a green-level data-wipe. Cute."
His companions, a sharp-faced girl with neural-interface jacks at her temples and a hulking brute with visible sub-dermal armor, smirked.
"We heard you have a Primordial bond," the girl, Jax, said, her eyes scanning Ryosuke like a piece of hardware. "Must be nice to have the teachers fawning over a freak of nature."
Varg started to rise, his servos whining. Ryosuke placed a hand on his forearm, a subtle gesture that screamed stand down.
"Is there a point to this interruption, upperclassman?" Ryosuke asked, his voice a lazy, bored drawl. He didn't even look up from his tea.
"The point is, this isn't your backwater planet," Kane sneered. "Merit Points aren't earned by cleaning up digital vermin. They're earned in the Crucible Arenas, in the Inter-House Melee. You're sitting at a table usually reserved for ATC squad leaders. Move."
The entire section of the mess had gone quiet. This was a classic power play. Establish dominance, claim resources (the prized table), and crush the reputation of upstarts.
Ryosuke finally looked up, meeting Kane's eyes. His ice-blue gaze was utterly flat, devoid of anger or fear. "No."
The single word hung in the air.
Kane's face tightened. "You have a choice, freshman. You can move your asses now, or I can have my friend Gor here," he jerked a thumb at the brute, "move them for you. He's from a gravity-world. He bench-presses Mark-VII power cores for fun."
Gor cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping trees.
Ryosuke took a slow sip of his tea. Then he set the cup down with a precise click. "You operate on a simple, linear logic. Might makes right. Territory is taken. It's… primitive." He stood up, smooth as flowing mercury. He wasn't as tall as Kane, but his presence seemed to fill the space. "You see a table. I see a coordinate in a social dynamic. You think you're applying force. You're just revealing a vector."
He took a single step forward, into Kane's personal space. His Six Eyes weren't active, but his perception was hyper-sharp. He saw the micro-tension in Kane's shoulders, the shift in his balance as he prepared for a physical confrontation.
"Let me demonstrate a more elegant principle," Ryosuke said, his voice dropping to a conversational tone meant only for Kane. "The principle of inevitability."
He didn't raise a hand. He didn't summon his power. He simply looked at the half-empty cup of thick, synthetic protein shake Gor was holding.
Ryosuke focused on the concept of the cup's stability. The delicate balance of forces holding it together, the intention in Gor's grip.
He applied a femtosecond pulse of Severing—not to the cup, but to the relationship between Gor's conscious motor control and his fingers.
Gor's hand didn't spasm. It just… forgot to hold on. The cup slipped from his grasp as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It fell, splattering thick, brown goo all over Kane's immaculate crimson-trimmed boots.
The mess hall gasped.
Kane looked down in stunned, disgusted horror. Gor stared at his own hand, bewildered.
"What—you clumsy oaf!" Kane hissed at Gor, before whirling back on Ryosuke, his face flushed with fury. "You did that! Some kind of psychic trick—"
"I did nothing," Ryosuke said, his smirk now fully present, beautiful and infuriating. "Gravity simply acted on an object. A very predictable, linear outcome. Much like your attempt here. You applied force. You created a reaction. And now you have a mess." He gestured to the goo-covered boots. "Your logic, executed perfectly."
He leaned in, his voice a silken threat. "The next time you wish to test vectors with me, upperclassman, do it in the Crucible Arena. Where the mess is easier to clean up. Now, you're disrupting my team's meal. You should go. Your boots need attention."
The sheer, arrogant audacity of it left Kane speechless. He was outmaneuvered, humiliated without a single blow being struck, in front of the entire mess hall. He spluttered, but the laughter starting to ripple through the crowd broke his nerve. With a final, venomous glare, he turned and stalked away, his goo-covered footsteps squelching, his lackeys scrambling after him.
Chen let out a low, impressed whistle. "You made him look like an idiot without throwing a punch. That's colder than your eyes, boss."
Sera was grinning. "He'll be gunning for you now."
"Let him," Ryosuke said, sitting back down and picking up his tea. "Linear thinkers are easy to predict. And predictable opponents are already defeated."
The incident cemented their reputation. They weren't just skilled freshmen. They were dangerous, clever, and led by someone with a mind as sharp as a monomolecular blade.
---
Universal Battle Arts - Practical Session
The next day, in the Grand Dojo, Grandmaster Fū announced a practical sparring session. "You have learned the Still Mountain stance for cultivation. Now, you will learn its application in motion: the Flowing Mountain Fist. It is not a set of punches. It is a principle—using your rooted stability to generate irresistible, flowing force. Partner up."
Ryosuke found himself paired with a hulking student from a "Super-Soldier" continuum—a young man named Rorke, who stood a head taller and was twice as broad, his muscles coiled with obvious, enhanced power.
Rorke grinned, cracking his neck. "Heard about you, pretty boy. Let's see if your fancy mind-tricks work when my fist is coming at your face."
The Grandmaster began the demonstration. The Flowing Mountain Fist was deceptively simple: a step that rooted the practitioner to the earth, a hip rotation that channeled the ground's resistance, and a straight punch that carried the sum total of that force in a smooth, unstoppable tide.
"Begin!"
Rorke wasted no time. He was fast for his size, a blur of enhanced muscle launching a textbook Flowing Mountain punch straight at Ryosuke's center of mass. The air whistled.
Ryosuke didn't dodge. He didn't block. He observed.
His Six Eyes saw the kinetic chain: foot plant, leg extension, hip twist, shoulder rotation, fist launch. He saw the flow of Rorke's unique bio-energy—a crude, powerful Mortal-Tier system—fueling the motion.
He didn't have time to match the technique's form. But he understood its principle: channeling ground force into a linear attack.
As the fist came, Ryosuke took a half-step back, not away, but at a precise, oblique angle. At the same moment, he raised his own hand, not to punch, but to guide.
He didn't touch Rorke's fist. He applied a minuscule, perfectly timed Red pulse to the air just beside the incoming knuckles. A repulsive nudge, a spatial slope.
The effect was subtle but devastating. Rorke's perfectly aligned kinetic chain was tweaked by a fraction of a degree. His rooted stance, designed for a straight line, was suddenly asked to handle a lateral force. His own immense power worked against him.
His punch didn't miss. It was deflected. He stumbled forward, his own momentum throwing him off-balance, his foot slipping from its rooted position. He crashed to the mat with a grunt of shock, his flawless technique turned into a pratfall.
The dojo fell silent. Grandmaster Fū's eyes were wide.
Ryosuke stood calmly, his hand still raised in the guiding gesture. "The Flowing Mountain Fist requires perfect alignment," he said, his voice echoing in the quiet. "A mountain, however, can be moved by a well-placed fault line."
Grandmaster Fū walked over, his gaze intense. "You did not use the technique. You used the principle behind the technique against the technique itself. You saw its structural weakness—its reliance on perfect linearity—and you introduced a single, precise asymmetry." He shook his head, a mix of awe and concern. "Your comprehension is… unnatural. For you, learning Battle Arts will not be about memorizing forms. It will be about deconstructing the universal principles they embody so you can create—or dismantle—your own."
He turned to the class. "This, students, is the difference between learning how and understanding why. Tanaka has just demonstrated a master-level tactical insight. Take note."
Rorke got up, scowling but with a grudging respect. "Fine. You're not just a pretty face."
Ryosuke offered a slight, arrogant bow. "I am aware."
---
The announcement came at the end of the week. The Inter-House Freshman Melee was scheduled for the end of the month. Each of the Academy's twelve "Houses"—loose affiliations based on power-type or branch (House of Blades for melee specialists, House of Stars for Star Fleet, House of Ancients for Primordial-bonds, etc.)—would field teams of freshmen in a massive, free-for-all combat exercise within the Simulated City-Scape Arena. The winning House would gain significant Merit Point bonuses and preferential treatment for the rest of the semester.
Team Obsidian, as Primordial-quadrant students, were automatically placed in House Aethelred, the "House of Ancients," a small, elite house known for its strange, powerful, and often unstable members.
Their House Captain, a third-year named Lyra with hair like spun silver and eyes that held miniature supernovae, called a meeting. She was bonded with a Growth-Type weapon that manifested as a living, singing bow of starlight.
"House Aethelred always loses," she said bluntly to the two dozen freshmen assembled in their common room. "We're outnumbered. The House of Blades has fifty sword-prodigies. The House of Stars has coordinated orbital strike sims. We have… us. A collection of brilliant misfits who can't work together. This year, that changes." Her gaze settled on Ryosuke. "Tanaka. Your team has proven cohesion. You will be our spearhead. Your job is to survive the initial chaos, target the coordination nodes of the larger Houses, and break their formations. Use your… unique talents."
It was a suicide mission. And a vote of immense confidence.
Back in their suite, they began to plan. They pored over maps of the simulated city, past battle records, and the known abilities of standout freshmen from other houses.
"We need a strategy that plays to our asymmetry," Ryosuke said, holographic maps floating around him. "We cannot meet force with force. We will be surgical. Chen, you and Sera will be 'The Spark.' Fast, hot disruption. Hit supply caches, communication relays. Varg and Aris will be 'The Anvil.' Hold a defensible position, draw attention, be immovable. I will be 'The Scalpel.' I will move between, severing command chains, isolating key targets."
It was a strategy of fragmentation, of turning a large-scale battle into a series of small, controlled engagements where their superior teamwork and his comprehension could dominate.
As the days counted down, Ryosuke spent every spare moment in the Primordial Archives' Antechamber, deepening his meditation on "The Still Point." He also used his Merit Points to access a single, Tier-1 Combat Art recording.
It was not a technique for his fists. It was a Iaijutsu principle for the mind: 'Folding Space, Drawing the Line.' It taught the mental state for delivering a single, perfect, conceptual cut. The state of absolute focus where the wielder, the intent, and the act of severing become one.
He practiced it in his mind, over and over, imagining the twin hilts of Kurokaze in his hands. The zone he entered during combat grew colder, clearer, more rational. He was not just fighting; he was solving an equation of violence, and the answer was always a cut.
The night before the Melee, he stood on the balcony. The Celestial Spire was a blade of light piercing the tri-sunned sky. He could feel Kurokaze, a silent, hungry presence in the distant, high-security hangar where Primordial weapons were stored. It was not yet time to wield it physically. But its principles were now his bones, its edge now his will.
Tomorrow, he would step into the arena not as a freshman, not as a curious asset, but as a monster who understood the rules of the game better than the game-makers themselves.
House Aethelred might always lose. But Ryosuke Tanaka did not comprehend the concept of loss. Only inefficiency. And tomorrow, he would teach the Academy the cost of inefficiency.