The cave that had become Akatsuki Magoro's throne room greeted Jibetsu with icy silence. The water of the Well of Souls was still, like a black mirror, reflecting the triumphant figure of the Tsuchigumo clan head. In his hands, he held the "Phantom Ark"—a dark, multifaceted crystal pulsing with a dull light.
"Great Tenmaou," Jibetsu's voice grated with restrained pride, "as promised. The Ark is yours. The ruling clans have shown their impotence."
He reverently placed the artifact on a stone before Magoro. He did not glance at the crystal. His attention belonged entirely to Jibetsu.
"They were not alone there," continued the spider. "With them was... the Mushiro. The one who cannot be seen." The mask hid his expression, but his voice betrayed tension. "He doesn't just avoid Kokuro. He snuffs it out. With his presence. He destroyed the Colossus, turning it to dust. He is dangerous."
In the corner of the cave, like a sculpture of ice, stood Shiroyama Raidou. His usually impassive face was contorted with profound contempt.
"This worm," Raidou uttered quietly, addressing Magoro but not taking his icy eyes off Jibetsu, "dares to crawl at your feet, bringing tribute and calling you 'master.' He is a spider who thinks he can weave a web around the throne. His insolence is offensive."
Magoro slowly turned his head to Raidou, and a fleeting shadow of interest flickered in his eyes.
"You suggest crushing him now?"
"No, master," Raidou bowed his head slightly. "He may be useful... for now. But after... I beg you. Allow me to erase this insect from the face of the earth. So others do not forget the chasm that lies between your majesty and their wretched existence."
A faint, almost invisible smile touched Magoro's lips beneath his scarf.
"Very well, Raidou. When his usefulness is exhausted, you shall have your amusement."
The icy warrior straightened up with satisfaction, and the cave grew a degree colder. The prospect of future retribution had clearly improved his mood.
Magoro stared at Jibetsu again, and his gaze gained a new, predatory sharpness.
"This boy... Akira. He is not just a danger. He is a question. A riddle. The most interesting thing to appear in this dull world in centuries."
He rose from the stone, and his shadow engulfed Jibetsu.
"You want elevation for your clan? You want power? I will give it to you. More than you can imagine."
He paused, letting the words penetrate the spider's very core.
"But the price has changed. Bring me the boy. Alive and unharmed. Do this—and your clan will receive all it desires. Will become the new aristocracy of the world I will create."
Jibetsu froze. To abduct the Mushiro from the heart of the academy, under Kagetori's watchful eye and heightened security? This task was orders of magnitude more difficult than stealing a soulless artifact. It was an adventure bordering on suicide.
"I... understand, Tenmaou," he forced out.
"Splendid," Magoro concluded indifferently and turned away, making it clear the audience was over.
Jibetsu, clenching his fists in his pockets from impotent rage and fear, retreated into the darkness. He had received the greatest chance and faced an impossible task.
Meanwhile, in "Tenran," the atmosphere had shifted. Akira had transformed from a ghostly outcast into the center of attention.
On a spare training field, under Shiori's observation, he practiced his ability. Sweat streamed down his face—a strange, new sensation for him. He projected his "Zone of Anti-Kokuro," trying to increase its radius. First, it was just a small bubble around his palm. Now he could momentarily envelop an entire training dummy.
"Incredible," Shiori whispered, taking notes. "You're not using energy... you're creating a vacuum for it. A fundamental negation."
Kaede approached. Her crimson training kimono stood out against the gray walls.
"Your ability... it doesn't just protect," she declared, looking at Akira with an intense, analytical gaze. "It can be a key. Imagine: I create a cause-and-effect loop, an unsolvable paradox for an opponent. And you... at the right moment, snuff it out. We could break techniques of any complexity."
She proposed a sparring match. Kaede created the most complex logical traps, trying to "rewrite" reality around Akira. And he, driven by pure reflexes, found the core of the paradox and made it crumble with his "Zone." It was an exhausting dance of mind and instinct.
Ryūnosuke watched them from the other end of the hall, arms crossed. When Akira, dodging another of Kaede's techniques, ended up nearby, he couldn't hold back.
"Hey, Mushiro."
Akira stopped.
"That colossus..." Ryūnosuke struggled for words. "If you directed that... void of yours... at me... my 'Iron Vow' would die before being born." He sighed heavily, acknowledging the obvious. "In a one-on-one fight... you'd defeat me. Damn it."
It was the highest form of recognition from the proud Morohashi heir.
But Akira's true strength was shown not by magic, but by good old-fashioned physics. During group hand-to-hand training, where using Kokuro was forbidden, everyone saw something shocking.
Akira moved with economical, lethal grace. His strikes were fast as a snake's tail-flick and incredibly precise. He read his opponent's movements not by energy Scars, but by micro-contractions of muscles, by the glint in their eyes, by the shift in their center of gravity. When Ryūnosuke, relying on his physical power, tried to break through his defense, Akira used his own inertia, executed a throw that pinned the Morohashi heir to the mats with such ease it took his breath away.
Kaede, with her sophisticated fencing techniques, couldn't even touch him. He anticipated every strike, parrying them with minimal effort. He was like water—elusive and unstoppable.
After that training session, Shiori, Kaede, and Ryūnosuke, each in their own way, acknowledged the obvious. He was not just a "useful tool." He was an equal. In strength. In status. In importance to the academy's survival.
Akira stood under the cold shower streams, looking at his hands. There was no Kokuro strength in them. But there was strength of a different order. And for the first time in his life, he felt not the emptiness of loneliness, but the weight of responsibility and a strange, cold warrior's calm, having found his place on the battlefield. He was a shadow, but a shadow without which the light of his comrades would be helpless.