The air in the main hall of "Tenran" was thick as congealed syrup, but cold. The scent of incense and old wood mixed with a new, sterile aroma—cleanliness taken to the point of obsession. The delegation from the Tokyo Academy of Magical Arts stood at the entrance, their silhouettes sharply contrasting with the warm tones of the ancient hall.
Like statues from another world, thought Shiori, standing in the row of instructors. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of a scroll. The usual anxiety before an inspection mixed with something new, sharp—a feeling of invasion.
Ryūnosuke crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze appraising as it slid over the guests.
"Look at that," he muttered under his breath. "Expensive fabric, perfect cuts... and eyes empty as training dummies. Toys."
Kaede, standing beside him, didn't utter a word. Her violet eyes, cold and clear, methodically scanned each one. She broke them down into parameters: posture, micro-movements of fingers, focus of gaze. The data formed a joyless equation.
Akira simply watched. He wasn't in uniform, just simple gray servant's clothing, in which he blended with the columns. His empty eyes slid over the Tokyoites, not catching. He saw not power, but its absence in two, tense focus in the third, cold interest in the fourth, and... something else in the fifth.
The fifth was him.
Hajime Saime didn't just stand at the front. He was the center, even though he'd taken a step behind Professor Higashi. His almost white, silvery hair fell in soft, careless strands onto a high forehead, slightly covering eyes the color of a winter storm—dark gray, almost black, but with a cold, metallic glint within. His face was refined, pale, features elegant and immobile, as if carved from marble by someone who valued perfect form more than life within it.
He wore a white yukata of weightless, flowing fabric, a pure, soft shade reminiscent of the first frost. Over it, carelessly yet with impeccable precision, was draped a kesa of a delicate, creamy-gold color. This faded golden light didn't burn—it smoldered, like the last rays of sunset on snow. His every movement, even his breathing, made the fabric shimmer with barely perceptible highlights, creating an aura of quiet, indisputable superiority. He seemed not a student, but a young priest of a forgotten, strict cult.
And his gaze, heavy and all-seeing, passed through everyone—past the scowling Ryūnosuke, past the analytical Kaede, past the invisible Akira—and stopped on Seiya.
Seiya, standing slightly behind Akira, felt that gaze like a physical touch. Ice running down his spine. Not aggression. Not hatred. Cold, indifferent curiosity of a scientist examining a rare, potentially dangerous specimen under glass. Seiya involuntarily averted his eyes, feeling his own power, that chaotic swarm under his skin, momentarily quiet, as if suppressed.
"Lovely weather for strengthening inter-academic ties, wouldn't you agree, Director Fujibayashi?" Professor Higashi's voice was smooth as polished stone and just as cold.
The director, his face an impenetrable mask of politeness, nodded.
"Welcome to 'Tenran,' Professor. We look forward to the exchange of experience. Allow me to introduce our students who will participate in the exercises."
The introductions were brief. When it was Ryūnosuke's turn, he merely gave a sharp nod, his gaze already competing with that of Tenshiō Hakurō—a tall youth with ashen hair and steel eyes, whose impeccable gray uniform seemed like a second carapace. A silent spark flashed between them: roaring might versus measured, icy discipline.
Kaede, upon introducing herself, met the gaze of Miyuki Fujiwara. The girl with neat bobbed hair and large eyes behind glasses inclined her head slightly. Her gaze wasn't challenging but scanning—it slid over Kaede as if reading invisible data.
"Your work on paradoxical Kokurō circuits is of great interest, Himeji-san," Miyuki said quietly, her voice sounding like an electronic assistant's. "I look forward to a productive analysis."
Kaede raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.
"Analysis is always a mutual process, Fujiwara-san."
It was then, like a spark in electrified air, that Kagetori's voice sounded. He didn't enter the hall through the main doors, but from a side entrance, with the air of someone who'd wandered into the wrong place. He wasn't wearing instructor's robes, but a worn black jacket over training hakama. The gold lightning-bolt hairpin gleamed in his hair.
"Oh, guests!" he exclaimed with an overly broad, carefree smile. "Sorry I'm late, was stretching. So, kids from Tokyo, ready for a ride on our rollercoaster? We've got this old apple tree in the garden—an absolute monster, needs regular smacks."
Higashi barely suppressed a grimace of distaste. Saime, however, slowly turned his head towards Kagetori. His dark gray eyes met the golden ones. Not a trace of surprise or irritation. Just a slight reassessment, as if he'd seen a noisy, incomprehensible mechanism.
"Kagetori-sensei," Saime pronounced. His voice was quiet, even, devoid of any overtones, like falling snow. "We've heard of you. 'The Strongest of the Modern Era.' Expected a more... formal appearance."
"Appearance is for framed portraits," Reiden parried, approaching and looking over the Tokyoites without ceremony. His gaze slid over the nervously fidgeting Kota Ikeda and the silently frozen Yume Sato, lingering on them a bit longer with a faint, unkind smirk. "For studying, you know, comfort is more important. Or do you wear tuxedos to lectures in Tokyo? Don't answer, I can see you do."
He clapped his hands, addressing everyone.
"Alright, ceremonies are over! Time for the playground. Rules are simple as a punch to the head."
The "Garden of Sleeping Stones"
The format of the "joint exercises" was announced right there in the hall. A series of trials in the "Garden of Sleeping Stones"—an artificial training ground of "Tenran," a labyrinth of menhirs and obelisks saturated with ancient but stable trap-Scars. Tasks: pass checkpoints, neutralize training threats, score points. Teams move in parallel, in different sectors, but their paths may intersect. Officially—a test of adaptability and tactics. Unofficially—the icy smiles of the professors made everything clear.
First Clashes
The first clashes in the labyrinth were swift and ruthless.
In a narrow corridor between stone blocks covered in shimmering runes, Akira's team was blocked by three training golems of condensed earth. Ryūnosuke, still wound up after the meeting, lunged forward with a roar.
"My turn!"
His fist, wrapped in the leaden glow of the "Iron Oath," came down on the first golem. The stone cracked but didn't crumble. The second golem was already swinging a stone limb. Ryūnosuke, relying on strength, tried to take the blow to counter immediately.
"Ryūnosuke, fall back!" Kaede commanded sharply, her fingers already forming a mudra.
But it was too late. The stone limb came down. And at that moment, a chain of dull metal shot from the shadows behind Ryūnosuke. Not at the golem—at his arm, at the very tendon. The strike wasn't strong, but incredibly precise. Ryūnosuke's arm went numb for a split second, his technique stumbled. The golem's blow, which he intended to take, now landed at full force. He was thrown against the wall with a dull thud.
From around the corner, stepping soundlessly on stones, emerged Tenshiō Hakurō. In his hands shimmered two thin metal plates.
"Emotional impulse, predictable attack vector," he stated in an even, reproachless tone, as if reading a report. "Inefficient." His plates folded with a light chime into two short blades. "Your anger is your weakness, Morohashi-san."
Ryūnosuke's roar was the answer. He got up, fury blazing in his eyes. But while he was gathering his strength, Akira was already acting. He didn't attack Tenshiō. He moved towards the golems, which, lacking a target, stood indecisively. His movements were quick, precise strikes at the energy nodes—points where the Scars held the earth together. The golems didn't explode—they crumbled into piles of rubble.
Tenshiō, expression unchanged, observed. His cold analytical gaze memorized Akira's every movement. "Absence of standard Kokurō. Compensation with physical mastery and perception. Uncertainty factor," his mind recorded.
Meanwhile, in another part of the labyrinth, Kaede clashed with Miyuki. Their battle was silent and invisible. Kaede tried to create a logical trap: "The air before Fujiwara becomes absolutely impermeable to sound commands." But just as the paradox-web began to weave, Miyuki clicked a switch on her glasses a moment before its completion. An emitter on her belt emitted a quiet beep. Kaede's trap didn't shatter—it didn't arise. Interference introduced at the very moment of Scar generation.
"Interesting technique," Miyuki noted, making a note on her tablet. "But the coefficient of dependency on purity of mental command is too high. Vulnerable to directed noise."
Kaede gritted her teeth. This girl wasn't fighting—she was conducting field tests.
It was at that moment that a muffled scream and the sound of collapsing stones echoed. Shiori, maintaining connection with a map-scroll, paled.
"That's... the weak Tokyoites' sector! They activated the 'Falling Pillars' trap! That's a third-level trap, they shouldn't have gone there!"
Kaede instantly assessed the situation. Her eyes narrowed.
"They were set up. Or they went in themselves to delay us. Tenshiō distracted Ryūnosuke and Akira, Miyuki distracted me. Banking on our 'humanism.'"
Akira, hearing this, had already turned and rushed towards the scream, overtaking Ryūnosuke, who cursed and charged after him. They had to save those possibly sent into danger deliberately.
Tenshiō Hakurō didn't pursue them. He calmly gathered his plates.
"Objective complete," he said into a comm device. "Enemy time wasted. Their moral duty used as a tactical resource. Proceeding to point 'Beta.'"
He vanished into the labyrinth, leaving behind a defeated but living golem, a mangled trap, and a growing realization in the "Tenran" team's chest: these "exercises" were a game. But they weren't writing the rules. And some players were deliberately sacrificial pawns on a board already arranged by the cold, ruthless mind of their leader—Hajime Saime, who was likely observing all this from some control point, with a face as impassive as the stone lord of ancient menhirs.