The silence after violence was always heavier than the violence itself.
Lunaria felt it settle over the training hall like a veil—thick, suffocating, filled with things left unsaid. Hundreds of eyes were on him now. Not curious eyes. Not mocking ones.
Evaluating eyes.
He stood very still, broken ribbon hidden carefully in his palm, fingers curled protectively around the torn pink fabric. His moonlight hair fell freely down his back, unbound and soft, brushing against his waist with every small movement of breath. Without the ribbon, he felt… exposed. Not weaker—never that—but emotionally bare, like standing without shoes on cold marble.
"I'm sorry," he said again, voice gentle and sincere. "I didn't intend for this to escalate."
No one laughed this time.
The red-haired S-rank—still pale, still shaken—cleared his throat awkwardly and took another step back, giving Lunaria space as if instinct demanded it. "You warned me," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's… on me."
The lightning-aspected hunter clicked his tongue quietly. "You could've killed him."
Lunaria blinked and tilted his head slightly. "I wouldn't."
The silver-haired man raised a brow. "You absolutely would have."
Lunaria considered that.
"…Only if I had to," he said softly. "And I didn't."
[Correction: You chose not to.]
"…Yes," Lunaria agreed quietly.
The spear-wielder exhaled slowly and planted the butt of his spear against the floor, posture relaxed but respectful. "Your control is abnormal for a new awakened."
Lunaria lowered his gaze, lashes fluttering. "I clean dungeons. If I panic, I die."
That explanation—simple and sincere—settled something in the air.
The silver-haired man stepped closer again, boots echoing softly against the arena floor. Unlike the others, he did not keep his distance. His gaze lingered on Lunaria's hair, on the absence of the ribbon, on the way Lunaria unconsciously shifted his weight to keep his movements fluid and elegant even when standing still.
"What happens," the man asked calmly, "if someone cuts it again?"
Lunaria's fingers tightened around the ribbon fragment.
"…Then I won't stop myself," he answered truthfully.
The man smiled faintly. "Good to know."
That smile sent a strange shiver down Lunaria's spine—not fear, but awareness. The kind that came from realizing someone was not just observing you, but cataloguing you.
Before anyone else could speak, a sharp chime echoed through the hall.
A system announcement—not Lunaria's.
A loudspeaker crackled to life.
"Unauthorized escalation detected in Training Hall Three. All participants are to disengage immediately."
Technicians rushed about, voices hushed but urgent. The spectators began to disperse, whispers following Lunaria like trailing smoke.
"He's F-rank, right?"
"That pressure wasn't F-rank."
"Did you see how he moved?"
Lunaria instinctively folded his arms slightly inward, posture softening as attention pressed in on him from all sides.
[Do not shrink.]
"…I'm not," he whispered. "I'm just… tired."
[Endure.]
He nodded faintly.
An official approached the arena floor—a stern-looking woman in an Association uniform, her presence commanding without mana flaring. Her eyes swept across the scene, lingering on the S-ranks before finally settling on Lunaria.
"…You," she said. "Name."
"Lunaria Vale," he replied immediately, bowing politely.
She paused, clearly taken aback by his appearance, then masked it with professionalism. "Rank?"
"F."
Her eyes flicked to the four S-ranks behind him.
"…Frontier?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"You're aware this is highly irregular."
"I didn't challenge anyone," Lunaria said gently. "I was asked to move."
The spear-wielder inclined his head. "That's accurate."
The official frowned slightly. "Even so—"
"I apologize," Lunaria said again, bowing deeper this time. "If I caused trouble, I'll accept any penalty."
The room went quiet.
Something about the way he said it—soft, sincere, without resentment—made the official hesitate.
"…No penalty," she said finally. "But you will be reassigned."
Lunaria looked up, eyes wide. "Reassigned?"
"To monitored Frontier status," she continued. "You'll still register as F-rank, but your missions will be… observed."
[They are watching you now.]
"…I see," Lunaria murmured. "Thank you."
The official turned to the S-ranks. "You four—dismissed. And try not to traumatize new hunters."
The red-haired man snorted weakly. "Too late."
As the hall began to clear, Lunaria felt the tension ease slightly. His shoulders relaxed, posture softening again now that the threat—social and physical—had passed.
He turned toward the exit.
"Wait."
The voice came from behind him.
Silver-haired.
Lunaria paused and turned, hands folding neatly in front of him again.
"Yes?"
The man studied him closely. "You don't belong at the bottom."
Lunaria smiled faintly. "I do for now."
"Names," the man said. "You know ours, even if you pretend you don't."
Lunaria blinked. "…I didn't want to assume."
That earned a low chuckle—from the lightning-aspected hunter this time.
The spear-wielder stepped forward first. "I'm Caelum."
The lightning fighter followed. "Riven."
The red-haired man grinned, less feral now. "Ash."
Finally, the silver-haired man inclined his head just enough to count. "Noctis."
Lunaria repeated them softly under his breath, committing them to memory. "I'll remember."
Ash tilted his head. "You don't seem afraid of us anymore."
Lunaria considered that.
"…I was never afraid of people," he said gently. "Just intentions."
Noctis's eyes gleamed. "And ours?"
Lunaria smiled.
"…Unclear," he replied honestly.
That seemed to amuse them.
As Lunaria turned to leave again, Caelum spoke once more. "Your ribbon."
Lunaria looked down at his hand, then nodded. "It broke."
"…Was it important?"
Lunaria's fingers brushed the fabric instinctively. "Yes."
Riven frowned. "Then why wear it into battle?"
Lunaria paused at the doorway, moonlight hair catching the hall's glow one last time.
"…Because it reminds me that I'm gentle," he said softly. "And when it's gone, I remember that I don't have to be."
Silence followed him as he left.
Outside, the city air felt cooler, cleaner. Lunaria leaned lightly against the building's exterior wall, exhaling a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…That was a lot," he murmured.
[You survived.]
"…Barely," he smiled.
[Status.]
"Status," Lunaria whispered.
[Level: 1]
[Experience Required to Level Up: 90 / 100]
"So close," he murmured. "Just a little more."
[There will be plenty.]
He reached into his pocket and unfolded the broken ribbon carefully, smoothing it out despite the tear. After a moment, he tied it loosely around his wrist instead.
Not to bind.
Not to restrain.
But to remember.
As he began walking home, unaware of the eyes following him from the building above, Lunaria felt something settle deep within his chest.
The Frontier had noticed him.
The S-ranks had noticed him.
And the world—so eager to underestimate softness—had taken its first step toward regret.
Pink was not weakness.
Elegance was not mercy.
And Lunaria Vale would bloom—
Even in blood.