The Frontier Association did not look like a place meant for someone like Lunaria.
It was too loud, too sharp, too heavy with intent.
The building rose from the heart of the city like a scar—steel and reinforced glass layered with enchantments, mana flowing through its walls like blood through veins. Hunters passed through its gates constantly, their footsteps confident, their gazes hard, their bodies bearing the marks of violence survived and violence yet to come.
Lunaria stood just outside the entrance, hands folded neatly in front of his stomach, posture straight but gentle. The morning sun caught in his moonlight-colored hair, making it shimmer faintly as it fell in a straight curtain down to his waist. A soft pink ribbon held it loosely at the nape of his neck, the color subtle but unmistakable against his pale clothes.
He took a slow breath.
[You are stalling.]
"I know," he whispered, voice soft and smooth, more delicate than most women's. "I just… want to look once more."
[There is nothing here that will become less dangerous if observed longer.]
"That's not what I meant," Lunaria murmured, eyes drifting across the people passing by. "I meant myself."
He did not look like a hunter.
Anyone could see that.
His features were too soft, his lashes too long, his lips naturally tinted, his movements careful and graceful in a way that suggested refinement rather than survival. Even standing still, there was something fluid about him, as if his body existed in a constant state of poised motion.
He looked fragile.
And that alone made this place dangerous.
[Enter.]
Lunaria nodded once and stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. Mana pressure washed over him like a wave, pressing against his skin, testing him. He swayed almost imperceptibly before steadying himself, one slender hand brushing the wall for balance.
No one helped him.
Some noticed.
Most didn't care.
He approached the registration counter quietly, waiting his turn with hands clasped, head slightly bowed. When it was finally his turn, the clerk looked up—and froze.
"…Are you here with someone?" the woman asked cautiously.
Lunaria smiled politely. "No."
"…Are you lost?"
"No."
"…Support staff?"
Lunaria shook his head gently. "Hunter registration."
The clerk stared at him for a long moment, eyes flicking over his slender frame, his hair, the soft curve of his features. Her mouth tightened slightly.
"Hand," she said shortly.
He placed his palm against the crystal.
The light that bloomed was faint.
F-Rank.
The clerk's shoulders relaxed, as if reassured. "Late awakening."
"Yes."
She stamped his card and slid it across the counter. "Frontier classification?"
"Yes, please."
This time, she actually looked surprised. "You're sure?"
Lunaria nodded. "I clean dungeons. I'm used to danger."
She studied him again, then sighed. "You'll die quickly."
Lunaria accepted the card with both hands. "I'll try not to."
[That response was insufficient.]
"…I will not die," he corrected softly.
The clerk paused, then waved him away. "Training wing. Don't get in the way."
He bowed and turned, footsteps light as he followed the signs deeper into the building.
The closer he got to the training wing, the heavier the air became.
Mana density spiked sharply, enough that Lunaria felt it curl against his skin, brush against his senses like static. The sound of impact echoed ahead—metal striking metal, mana detonating, laughter threaded with violence.
His steps slowed.
[Multiple S-rank signatures detected.]
His breath caught slightly. "All… here?"
[Yes.]
"…That feels excessive."
[Your feelings are irrelevant.]
He smiled faintly. "You really don't comfort people."
[I keep them alive.]
The corridor opened into the main sparring hall.
It was enormous.
A reinforced arena stretched out below, barriers humming with power, sigils carved deep into the floor to withstand forces that could shatter buildings. Spectators lined the upper levels, technicians monitoring mana spikes with tense focus.
And at the center—
Four men sparred.
Not lightly.
Not casually.
They moved with lethal intent restrained only by mutual understanding and experience. Mana flared violently with every clash, the sheer pressure enough to make weaker hunters instinctively step back.
They were all S-ranked.
It was obvious in the way the world bent around them.
One fought like lightning given human form—every strike sharp, decisive, overwhelming. Another wielded a spear with disciplined grace, movements precise and commanding. A third laughed as he fought, wild and explosive, reveling in chaos.
The fourth barely moved.
Silver hair, sharp eyes, expression cold and bored. He dodged attacks with minimal effort, hands often still in his pockets, as if the others were inconveniences rather than threats.
Lunaria stopped at the edge of the hall.
He stared.
Not in awe.
In quiet fascination.
They were beautiful in a terrifying way—violence refined into art. Power made flesh.
His fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag.
[Do not fixate.]
"I'm just watching," he whispered. "I like… movement."
Before the system could respond, the silver-haired man paused.
Mid-motion.
His head turned.
His gaze locked onto Lunaria.
The effect was immediate.
The lightning fighter faltered. The spear-user's stance shifted. The red-haired man followed the silver-haired one's line of sight—and burst out laughing.
"What's that?" he called out loudly.
All eyes turned.
The hall went quiet.
Lunaria stiffened under the sudden attention, cheeks warming faintly. He bowed instinctively, long hair sliding forward over his shoulders like pale silk.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"…Is that a girl?" someone whispered.
"No," Lunaria replied, voice gentle but clear. "I'm not."
The red-haired man grinned. "Then what are you?"
Lunaria hesitated. "…New."
The silver-haired man stepped closer to the barrier. "Rank."
Lunaria lifted his card.
"F," he said quietly.
Laughter rippled through the spectators.
The lightning fighter scoffed. "You walked into an S-rank sparring hall as an F-rank Frontier?"
"I was told to familiarize myself," Lunaria replied politely.
"You're either fearless," the spear-user said slowly, "or you don't understand danger."
Lunaria thought about that.
"…I understand it," he said. "I just don't run from it."
That drew a different kind of silence.
The silver-haired man studied him intently. "Show us how you fight."
Lunaria froze.
"I don't spar," he said softly. "I don't like hurting people."
The red-haired man laughed loudly. "You couldn't hurt us."
That sentence—so casual, so dismissive—settled into Lunaria's chest.
[They are underestimating you.]
"…They always do," he whispered.
The spear-user softened slightly. "Just your movement. No mana. No attacks."
Lunaria hesitated, then nodded.
"…Alright."
He stepped into the arena.
The moment he crossed the boundary, he reached up and untied the ribbon at his nape.
The action was unhurried. Careful.
He slipped the ribbon free and folded it neatly, tucking it into his pocket before letting his hair fall freely down his back.
The effect was immediate.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Without the ribbon, his hair framed him differently—long, straight, flowing like moonlight unbound. His presence shifted subtly, something quieter yet sharper settling into his posture.
The S-ranks noticed.
"…Interesting," the silver-haired man murmured.
Lunaria exhaled softly.
Then he moved.
Not to attack.
To exist.
His steps were light, precise, flowing from one position to the next as if guided by invisible music. He turned, pivoted, spun—each movement elegant, refined, undeniably feminine. His body curved and aligned with effortless grace, hips shifting, arms lifting and lowering like silk caught in a gentle current.
It was not a martial form anyone recognized.
It was too beautiful.
Too soft.
Too controlled.
And yet—
No movement was wasted.
Every step placed him exactly where an attack would miss. Every turn positioned his body in perfect balance. His long hair followed his motion like a living thing, emphasizing the rhythm of his dance-like combat.
The S-ranks stared.
"This… isn't footwork," the lightning fighter muttered.
"It is," the spear-user replied quietly. "Just… not ours."
Lunaria came to a stop, posture settling naturally, hands folding again.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Was that wrong?"
The silver-haired man smiled.
Sharp. Dangerous.
"No," he said. "That was very right."
High above them, the spectators whispered.
An F-rank Frontier.
Soft-spoken. Feminine. Beautiful.
And somehow—
Standing calmly in the presence of monsters who ruled the battlefield.
They did not yet understand what it meant when Lunaria removed his ribbon.
They would.
Soon.